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But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Who plead for love, and look for recompence,
Mine eye hath play'd the painter, and hath steeld
And perspective it is best painter's art. And burn the long-liv'd phenix in her blood;
For through the painter must you see his skill, Make glad and sorry seasons as thou feet'si,
To find where your true image pictur'd lies; And do whate'er thou wilt, swifi-footed Time,
Which in my bosom's shop is hanging still, To the wide world, and all her fading sweets;
That hath his windows glazed with thine eyes. But I forbid thee one most heinous crime:
Now see what good turns eyes for eyes have done; 0, carve not with thy hours my love's fair brow,
have drawn thy shape, and thine for me Nor draw no lines there with ihine antique pen;
Are windows to my breast, where-through the sun Him in thy course untainted do allow,
Delights to peep, to gaze therein on thee; For beauty's pattern to succeeding men.
Yet eyes this cunning want to grace their art, Yet, do thy worst, old Time : despite thy wrong,
They draw but what they see, know not the heart. My love shall in my verse ever live young.
Let those who are in favour with their stars,
of public honour and proud titles boast, Hast thou, the master-mistress of my passion;
Whilst I, whom fortune of such triumph bars, A woman's gentle heart, but not acquainted
Uplook'd for joy in that I honour most.
But as the marigold at the sun's eye ;
For at a frown they in their glory die.
After a thousand victories once foil'd; Till nature, as she wrought thee, fell a-doting,
Is from the book of honour razed quite, And by addition me of thee defeated,
And all the rest forgot for which he toil'd. By adding one thing to my purpose nothing,
Then happy I, that love and am belov'd, But since she prick'd thee out for women's pleasure,
Where I may not remove, nor be remov'd.
Lord of my love, to whom in vassalage
Thy merit' hath my duty strongly knit;
To thee I send this written embassage,
To witness duty, not to show my wit :
Duty so great, which wit so poor as mine
May make seem bare, in wanting words to show it, With sun and moon, with earth and sea's rich gems, In thy soul's thought, all naked, will bestow it:
But that I hope some good conceit of thine
Points on me graciously with fair aspect,
And puts apparel on my tatter'd loving,
To show me worthy of thy sweet respect :
I dare to boast how do love thee; (me.
Till then, not show my head where thou may’si prove I will not praise, that purpose not to sell.
Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed,
The dear repose for limbs with travel tir'd; My glass shall not persuade me I am old,
But then begins a journey in my head, So long as youth and thou are of one date;
To work my mind, when body's work's expir'd: But when in thee time's furrows I behold,
For then my thoughts (from far where I abide) Then look I death my days should expiate. For all that beauty that doth cover thee,
Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee,
And keep my drooping eye-lids open wide,
Looking on darkness which the blind do sce:
Save that my soul's imaginary sight
Presents thy shadow to my sightless view, O therefore, love, be of thyself so wary,
Which like a jewel hung in ghastly night, As I not for myself but for thee will;
Makes black night beauteous, and her old face new. Bearing thy heart, which I will keep so chary
Lo thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind, As tender nurse her babe from faring ill.
For thee, and for myself, no quiel find.
How can I then return in happy plight,
That am debarr'd the benefit of rest? As an unperfect actor on the stage,
When day's oppression is not eas'd by night, Who with his fear is put besides his part,
But day by night, and night by day, oppress'd ? Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage, And each, though enemies to either's reign, Whose strength's abundance weakens his own Do in consent shake hands to torture me
ne; So I, for fear of trust, forget to say [heart; | The one hv toil, the other to complain The perfect ceremony of love's riie,
How far I toil, still farther off from thee. And in mine own love's strength seem to decay, I tell the day, to please him, thou art bright, O'er-charg'd with burthen of nine own love's might. And dost him grace when clouds do blot the heaven, 0, let my books be then the eloquence
So fatter I the swart-complexion'd night And dumb presagers of my speaking breast; When sparkling stars twire not, thou gild'st the even
But day doth daily draw my sorrows longer, Yet him for this my love no whit disdaineth ;
And make me travel forth without my cloak,
To let base clouds o'ertake me in my way,
Hiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke ?
That heals the wound, and cures not the disgrace:
The offender's sorrow lends but weak relief
No more be griev'd at that which thou hast done :
Roses have thorns, and silver fountains mud;
Clouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun,
And loathsome canker lives in sweetest bud.
Authorizing thy trespass with compare ;
Excusing thy sins more than thy sins are :
And 'gainst myself a lawful plea commence ;
Such civil war is in my love and hate,
That I an accessary needs must be
To that sweet thiet, which sourly robs from me.
Let me confess that we two must be twain,
Although our undivided loves are one :
So shall those blots that do with me remain,
In our two loves there is but one respect,
Though in our lives a separable spite,
Which though it alter noi love's sole effect,
Yet doth it steal sweet hours from love's delight.
Nor thou with public kindness honour me,
Unless thou take that honour from thy name :
But do not so; I love thee in such sort,
As thou being mine, mine is thy good report.
As a decrepit father takes delight
To see his active child do deeds of youth,
So I, made lame by fortune's dearest spite,
For whether beauty, birth, or wealth, or wit,
Or any of these all, or all, or more,
Entitled in thy parts do crowned sit,
I make my love engrafted to this store:
So then I'am not lame, poor, nor despis’d,
Whilst that this shadow doth such substance give,
That I in thy abundance am sufficed,
And by a part of all thy glory live.
Look whai is best, that best I wish in thee;
This wish I have; then ten times happy me.
How can my muse want subject to invent,
While thou dost breathe, that pour'st into my verse
For who's so dumb that cannot write to theo,
When thou thyself dost give invention light? And from the forlorn world his visage hide,
Be thou the tenth muse, ten times more in worth
And he that calls on thee, let him bring forth
XLIV. O, how thy worth with manners may I sing, If the dull substance of my flesh were thought, When thou art all the better part of me? Injurious distance should not stop my way; What can mine own praise to mine own self bring? For then, despite of space, I would be brought And what is't but mine own, when I praise thee? From limits far remote, where thou dost stay. Even for this let us divided live,
No matter, then, although my foot did stand And our dear love lose name of single one ; Upon the farthest earth remov'd from thee, That by this separation I may give
For nimble thought can jump both sea and land,
Sinks down to death, oppress'd with melancholy; I do forgive thy robbery, gentle thies,
Until life's composition be recur'd Although thou steal thee all my poverty;
By those swift messengers return'd from thee, And yet love knows, it is a greater grief
Who even but now come back again, assur'd
Mine eye my heart thy picture's sight would bar,
And by their verdict is determined Where thou art forc'd to break a two-fold truth : The clear eye's moiety, and the dear heart's part: Hers, by thy beauty tempting her to thee,
As thus; mine eye's due is thine outward part, Thine, by thy beauty being false to me.
And my heart's right thine inward love of heart. XLII.
XLVII. That thou hast her, it is not all my grief,
Betwixt mine eye and heart a league is took, And yet it may be said I lov'd her dearly; And each doth good turns now unto the other;
That she hath thee, is of my wailing chief, When that mine eye is famish'd for a look,
With my love's picture then my eye doth feast, Thou dost love her, because thou knew'st I love her; and to the painted banquet bids my heart : And for my sake even so doth she abuse me, Another time mine eye is my heart's guest, Suffering my friend for my sake to approve her; And in his thoughts of love doth share a part: If I lose thee, my loss is my love's gain,
So, either by thy picture or my love, And, losing her, my friend hath found that loss; Thyself away, art present still with me; Both find each other, and I lose both twain, For thou not farther than my thoughts canst moro, And both for my sake lay on me this cross : And I am still with them, and they with thee; But here's the joy; my friend and
Or, if they sleep, thy picture in my sight Sweet flattery!--then she lovos but me alone. Awakes my heart to heart's and eye's delight. XLIII.
bright, But thou, to whom my jewels trifles are,
Save where thou art not, though I feel thou art,
For that sweet odour which doth in it live,
When summer's breach their masked buds discioses;
Bul, for their virtue only is their show,
They live unwoo'd, and unrespected fade ;
Die to themselves; Sweet roses do not so;
of their sweet deaths are sweetest odours made;
When thai shall fade, my verse distils your truth.
Not marble, nor the gilded monuments
When wasteful war shall statues overturn,
And broils root out the work of masonry,
The living record of your memory.
'Gainst death and all-oblivious enmity
(room That sometimes anger thrusts into his bide; Shall you pace forth; your praise shall still find Which heavily he answers with a groan,
Even in the eyes of all posterity,
You live in this, and dwell in lovers' eyes.
To-morrow sharpen'd in his former might:
Being your slave, what should I do but tend
I have no precious time at all to spend
When you have bid your servant once adieu;
Save, where you are, how happy you make those ;
Being your vassal, bound to stay your leisure ! Describe Adonis, and the counterfeit
0, let me suffer (being at your beck)
The imprisun'd absence of your liberty
And patience, tame to sufferance, bide each check,
Be where you list; your charter is so strong,
Do what you will, to you it doth belong
I am to wait, though waiting so be hell;
LXIV. If there be nothing new, but that, which is,
When I have seen by Time's fell hand defac'd Hath been before, how are our brains beguild,
The rich-proud cost of out-worn bury'd age; Which, labouring for invention, bear amiss
When sometime lofty towers I see down-raz’d, The second burthen of a former child ?
nd brass eternal slave to mortal rage : O, that record could with a backward look,
When I have seen the hungry ocean gain Even of five hundred courses of the sun,
Advantage on the kingdom of the shore, Show me your image in some antique book,'
And the firm soil win of the watery main, Since mind at first in character was done! Increasing store with loss, and loss with store; That I might see what the old world could say
When I have seen such interchange of state, To this composed wonder of your frame;
Or state itself confounded to decay ; Whether we are mended, or whe'r better they,
Ruin hath taught me thus to ruminate Or whether revolution be the same.
That time will come, and take my love away. 0! sure I am, the wits of former days
This thought is as a death, which cannot choose To subjects worse have given admiring praise. But weep to have that which it fears to lose. LX.
Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea,
How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea, In sequent toil all forwards do contend.
O, how shall summer's boney breath hold out Nativity once in the main of light,
Against the wreckful siege of battering days, Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crown'd,
When rocks impregnable are not so stout, Crooked eclipses 'gainst his glory fight,
Nor gates of steel so strong, but time decays? And time that gave, doth now his gift confound.
O, fearful meditation ! where, alack,
Shall times's best jewel from time's' chest lie hid ?
Or what strong hand can hold his swift foot back? Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth,
Or who his spoil of beauty can forbid ? And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow:
O none, unless this miracle have might, And yet, tv times in hope, my verse shall stand,
That in black ink my love may still shine bright. Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand.
Tir’d with all these, for restful death I cry,—
And needy nothing trimm'd in jollity,
And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted, So far from home, into my deeds to pry ;
And right perfection wrongfully disgrac'd, To find out shames and idle hours in me,
And strength by limping sway disabled, The scope and tenor of thy jealousy?
And art made tongue-ty'd by authority,
Ah! wherefore with infection should ho live,
And with his presence grace impiety, And all my soul, and all my every part;
That sin by him advantage should achieve, And for this sin there is no remedy,
And lace itself with his society ? It is so grounded inward in my heart,
Why should false painting imitate his cheek. Methinks no face so gracious is as mine,
And steal dead seeing of his living hue ? No shape so true, no truth of such account; Why should poor beauty indirectly seek And for myself mine own worth do define, Roses of shadow, since his rose is true ? As I all other in all worths surmount.
Why should he live, now nature bankrupt is, But when my glass shows me myself indeed, Beggar'd of blood to blush through lively veins ? Beated and chopp'd with tann'd antiquity,
For she hath no exchequer now but his, Mine own self-love quite contrary I read, And, proud of many, lives upon his gains. Self so self-loving were iniquity.
O, him she stores, to show what wealth she had. 'Tis thee (myself that for myself I praise, In days long since, before these last so bad. Painting my age with beauty of thy days.
Thus is his cheek the map of days out-worn,
When beauty liv'd and died, as flowers do now, Against my love shall be, as I am now,
Before these bastard signs of fair were born,
To live a second life on second head ;'
Ere beauty's dead fleece made another gay: Are vanishing or vanish'd out of sight,
In him those holy antique hours are seen, Stealing away the treasure of his spring;
Without all ornament, itsell, and true, For such a time do I now fortify
Making no summer of another's green, Against confounding age's cruel knife,
Robbing no old to dress his beauty new ; That he shall never cut from memory
And him as for a map doth nature store,
To show false art what beauty was of yore.
ī Before the golden tresses of the dead,
The right of sepulchres, were shorn away, I Show me your image in some antique book.'-- To live a second life on second head." It was an ancient custom to insert real portraits among In our author's time, the false hair, usually worn the ornaments of illuminated manuscripts, with inscrip- perhaps in coinpliment to the queen, was of a sandy tions under them.-Steedens.
colour. Hence the epithel, golden.-- Malone,