Since sweets and beauties11 do themselves forsake
And die as fast as they see others grow,
And nothing gainst Time's scythe13 can make defence
Save breed14, to brave him when he takes thee hence.
Sonnet 13
O, that you1 were yourself! But, love, you are
No longer yours than you yourself here2 live.
Against3 this coming end you should prepare
And your sweet semblance4 to some other give.
So should that beauty which you hold in lease5
Find no determination6: then you were
Yourself again after yourself's decease,
When your sweet issue8 your sweet form should bear.
Who lets so fair a house9 fall to decay,
Which husbandry10 in honour might uphold
Against the stormy gusts of winter's day
And barren rage of death's eternal cold?
O, none but unthrifts13! Dear my love, you know
You had a father: let your son say so.
Sonnet 14
Not from the stars do I my judgement pluck1
And yet methinks I have2 astronomy,
But not to tell of good or evil luck,
Of plagues, of dearths4, or seasons' quality,
Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell5,
Pointing to each his thunder, rain and wind,
Or say with princes if it shall go well,
By oft predict8 that I in heaven find.
But from thine eyes my knowledge I derive,
And, constant stars, in them I read such art10
As11 truth and beauty shall together thrive,
If from thyself to store12 thou wouldst convert:
Or else of thee this I prognosticate13,
Thy end is truth's and beauty's doom and14 date.
Sonnet 15
When I consider1 everything that grows
Holds in perfection2 but a little moment,
That this huge stage3 presenteth nought but shows
Whereon the stars in secret4 influence comment:
When I perceive that men as5 plants increase,
Cheered and checked6 ev'n by the selfsame sky,
Vaunt7 in their youthful sap, at height decrease,
And wear their brave state out of memory8:
Then the conceit9 of this inconstant stay
Sets you most rich in youth before my sight,
Where wasteful11 time debateth with decay
To change your day of youth to sullied12 night,
And all in war13 with Time for love of you,
As he takes from you, I engraft you new14.
Sonnet 16
But wherefore1 do not you a mightier way
Make war upon this bloody2 tyrant, Time?
And fortify3 yourself in your decay
With means more blessed than my barren rhyme?
Now stand you on the top of happy hours5,
And many maiden6 gardens, yet unset,
With virtuous wish would bear your living flowers,
Much liker8 than your painted counterfeit:
So should the lines of life9 that life repair,
Which this10, Time's pencil, or my pupil pen,
Neither in inward worth nor outward fair11,
Can make you live yourself12 in eyes of men.
To give away yourself13 keeps yourself still,
And you must live, drawn by your own sweet skill14.
Sonnet 17
Who will believe my verse in time to come
If it were filled with your most high deserts2?
Though yet, heaven knows, it is but as a tomb
Which hides your life and shows not half your parts4.
If I could write the beauty of your eyes
And in fresh number6s number all your graces,
The age to come would say, 'This poet lies:
Such heavenly touches8 ne'er touched earthly faces.'
So should my papers, yellowed with their age,
Be scorned like old men of less truth than tongue10,
And your true11 rights be termed a poet's rage
And stretched12 metre of an antique song.
But were some child of yours alive that time,
You should live twice -- in it and in my rhyme.
Sonnet 18
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate2.
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease4 hath all too short a date.
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven5 shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimmed,
And every fair from fair sometime declines7,
By chance or nature's changing course untrimmed8:
But thy eternal summer shall not fade
Nor lose possession10 of that fair thou ow'st,
Nor shall death brag thou wand'rest in his shade,
When in eternal lines12 to time thou grow'st.
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this14 and this gives life to thee.
Sonnet 19
Devouring Time, blunt thou the lion's paws,
And make the earth devour her own sweet brood2,
Pluck the keen3 teeth from the fierce tiger's jaws
And burn the long-lived phoenix4 in her blood,
Make glad and sorry seasons as thou fleet'st5
And do whate'er thou wilt, swift-footed Time,
To the wide world and all her fading sweets7.
But I forbid thee one most heinous crime:
O, carve9 not with thy hours my love's fair brow,
Nor draw no lines there with thine antique10 pen.
Him in thy course untainted11 do allow
For beauty's pattern12 to succeeding men.
Yet do thy worst, old Time: despite thy wrong,
My love14 shall in my verse ever live young.
Sonnet 20
A woman's face with Nature's own hand painted1
Hast thou, the master-mistress2 of my passion,
A woman's gentle heart, but not acquainted3
With shifting change as is false4 women's fashion,
An eye more bright than theirs, less false in rolling5,
Gilding6 the object whereupon it gazeth:
A man in7 hue, all hues in his controlling,
Which steals men's eyes and women's souls amazeth.
And for9 a woman wert thou first created,
Till Nature as she wrought10 thee fell a-doting,
And by addition me of thee defeated11
By adding one thing12 to my purpose nothing.
But since she pricked thee out13 for women's pleasure,
Mine be thy love and thy love's14 use their treasure.
Sonnet 21
So is it not with me as with that Muse1,
Stirred2 by a painted beauty to his verse,
Who heaven itself for ornament doth use3
And every fair with his fair doth rehearse4,
Making a couplement of proud compare5
With sun and moon, with earth and sea's rich gems,
With April's first-born flowers and all things rare7
That heaven's air in this huge rondure8 hems.
O let me, true in love, but truly write,
And then believe me, my love is as fair
As any mother's child11, though not so bright
As those gold candles12 fixed in heaven's air.
Let them say more that like of hearsay13 well:
I will not praise that purpose14 not to sell.
Sonnet 22
My glass1 shall not persuade me I am old,
So long as youth and thou are of one date2,
But when in thee time's furrows3 I behold,
Then look I4 death my days should expiate.
For all that beauty that doth cover thee
Is but the seemly raiment6 of my hea
rt,
Which in thy breast doth live, as thine in me7:
How can I then be elder than thou art?
O, therefore, love, be of thyself so wary9
As I, not for myself, but for thee will,
Bearing thy heart, which I will keep so chary11
As tender nurse her babe from faring ill.
Presume not on thy heart13 when mine is slain:
Thou gav'st me thine, not to give back again.
Sonnet 23
As an unperfect1 actor on the stage,
Who with his fear is put besides his part2,
Or some fierce thing replete3 with too much rage,
Whose strength's abundance weakens his own heart,
So I, for fear of trust5, forget to say
The perfect ceremony of love's rite6,
And in mine own love's strength seem to decay,
O'ercharged8 with burden of mine own love's might.
O, let my books9 be then the eloquence
And dumb presagers10 of my speaking breast,
Who11 plead for love and look for recompense,
More than that tongue12 that more hath more expressed.
O, learn to read what silent love hath writ:
To hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit14.
Sonnet 24
Mine eye hath played the painter and hath stelled1
Thy beauty's form in table2 of my heart,
My body is the frame3 wherein 'tis held
And perspective4 it is best painter's art.
For through5 the painter must you see his skill
To find where your true image pictured lies,
Which in my bosom's shop7 is hanging still,
That hath his windows glazed with thine eyes8.
Now see what good turns eyes for eyes have done:
Mine eyes have drawn thy shape and thine for me
Are windows to my breast, wherethrough the sun
Delights to peep, to gaze therein on thee.
Yet eyes this cunning want13 to grace their art:
They draw but what they see, know14 not the heart.
Sonnet 25
Let those who are in favour with their stars
Of2 public honour and proud titles boast,
Whilst I, whom fortune of such triumph3 bars,
Unlooked for4 joy in that I honour most.
Great princes' favourites their fair leaves5 spread
But as the marigold6 at the sun's eye,
And in themselves their pride lies buried7,
For at a frown they in their glory8 die.
The painful9 warrior famoused for might,
After a thousand victories once foiled10,
Is from the book of honour razed11 quite
And all the rest forgot for which he toiled.
Then happy I, that love and am beloved
Where I may not remove14 nor be removed.
Sonnet 26
Lord of my love, to whom in vassalage1
Thy merit hath my duty strongly knit2,
To thee I send this written ambassage3
To witness4 duty, not to show my wit.
Duty so great, which wit so poor as mine
May make seem bare, in wanting6 words to show it,
But that I hope some good conceit of thine
In thy soul's thought, all naked, will bestow it7,
Till whatsoever star that guides my moving9
Points on me graciously with fair aspect10
And puts apparel on my tattered loving
To show me worthy of thy sweet respect.
Then may I dare to boast how I do love thee:
Till then not show my head where thou mayst prove me14.
Sonnet 27
Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed,
The dear2 repose for limbs with travel tired,
But then begins a journey in my head,
To work my mind, when body's work's expired:
For then my thoughts, from far5 where I abide,
Intend6 a zealous pilgrimage to thee,
And keep my drooping eyelids open wide,
Looking on darkness which the blind do see,
Save that my soul's imaginary sight
Presents thy shadow10 to my sightless view,
Which11, like a jewel hung in ghastly night,
Makes black night beauteous and her old face new.
Lo, thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind,
For14 thee and for myself no quiet find.
Sonnet 28
How can I then1 return in happy plight
That am debarred the benefit of rest,
When day's oppression3 is not eased by night,
But day by night and night by day oppressed?
And each, though enemies to either's reign,
Do in consent shake hands6 to torture me,
The one by toil, the other to complain7
How far I toil, still further off from thee.
I tell the day, to please him thou art bright
And dost him grace10 when clouds do blot the heaven:
So flatter I the swart-complexioned11 night,
When sparkling stars twire12 not thou gild'st the even.
But day doth daily draw my sorrows longer,
And night doth nightly make grief's length seem stronger.
Sonnet 29
When in disgrace1 with Fortune and men's eyes,
I all alone beweep2 my outcast state
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless3 cries
And look upon myself and curse my fate,
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featured like him, like him with friends possessed6,
Desiring this man's art7 and that man's scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least8:
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
Haply10 I think on thee and then my state,
Like to the lark at break of day arising,
From sullen12 earth sings hymns at heaven's gate,
For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings
That then I scorn to change14 my state with kings.
Sonnet 30
When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
I summon1 up remembrance of things past,
I sigh3 the lack of many a thing I sought
And with old woes new wail4 my dear time's waste.
Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow5,
For precious friends hid in death's dateless6 night,
And weep afresh love's long since cancelled7 woe,
And moan th'expense8 of many a vanished sight.
Then can I grieve at grievances foregone9,
And heavily10 from woe to woe tell o'er
The sad account11 of fore-bemoaned moan,
Which I new pay as if not paid before.
But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,
All losses are restored and sorrows end.
Sonnet 31
Thy1 bosom is endeared with all hearts,
Which I by lacking2 have supposed dead,
And there reigns love and all love's loving parts3
And all those friends which I thought buried.
How many a holy and obsequious5 tear
Hath dear6 religious love stol'n from mine eye
As interest7 of the dead, which now appear
But things removed8 that hidden in there lie.
Thou art the grave where buried love doth live,
Hung with the trophies10 of my lovers gone,
Who all their parts of me to thee did give11:
That due of12 many now is thine alone.
Their images I loved13 I view in thee,
And thou, all they, hast all the all of me14.
Sonnet 32
If thou survive my well-contented day1,
When that churl2 death my bones with dust shall cover,
And shalt by fortune3 once more resurvey
These poor rude4 lines of thy deceased lover,
Compare them with the bett'ring of the time5,
And though they be outstripped by every pen,
Reserve7 them for my love, not for their rhyme,
Exceeded by the height8 of happier men.
O, then vouchsafe9 me but this loving thought:
'Had my friend's Muse10 grown with this growing age,
A dearer birth11 than this his love had brought
To march in ranks of better equipage12,
But since he died and poets better prove,
Theirs for their style I'll read, his for his love.'
Sonnet 33
Full many a glorious morning have I seen
Flatter the mountain tops with sovereign eye,
Kissing with golden face the meadows green,
Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy4,
Anon5 permit the basest clouds to ride
With ugly rack6 on his celestial face,
And from the forlorn world his visage7 hide,
Stealing unseen to west with this disgrace:
Even so my sun one early morn did shine
With all-triumphant10 splendour on my brow:
But out, alack11, he was but one hour mine,
The region cloud12 hath masked him from me now.
Yet him for this my love no whit13 disdaineth:
Suns of the world14 may stain when heaven's sun staineth.
Sonnet 34
Why didst thou1 promise such a beauteous day
And make me travel forth without my cloak,
To let base clouds o'ertake me in my way,
Hiding thy brav'ry4 in their rotten smoke?
'Tis not enough that through the cloud thou break
To dry the rain on my storm-beaten face,
For no man well of such a salve7 can speak
That heals the wound and cures not the disgrace8.
Nor can thy shame give physic9 to my grief:
Though thou repent, yet I have still the loss.
Th'offender's sorrow lends but weak relief
To him that bears the strong offence's cross12.
Ah, but those tears are pearl, which thy love sheds,
And they are rich and ransom14 all ill deeds.
Sonnet 35
No more be grieved at that which thou hast done:
Roses have thorns and silver fountains mud,
Clouds and eclipses stain3 both moon and sun,
And loathsome canker4 lives in sweetest bud.
All men make faults and even I in this,
Authorizing thy trespass with compare6,
Myself corrupting7, salving thy amiss,
Excusing thy sins more than thy sins are8:
For to thy sensual fault I bring in sense9 --
Thy adverse party is thy advocate10 --
And gainst myself a lawful plea commence11.