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WHERE art thou, Muse, that thou forget'st so long
O TRUANT Muse, what shall be thy amends,
O blame me not if I no more can write!
That over-goes my blunt invention quite,
Than of your graces and your gifts to tell;
And more, much more, than in my verse can sit, But sweet or colour it had stolen from thee, Your own glass shows you, when you look in it.
SONNET CVIII. To me, fair friend, you never can be old,
What's in the brain that ink may character, For as you were, when first your eye l ey'd, Which hath not figurd to thee my true spirit ? Such seems your beauty still. Three winters cold What 's new to speak, what new to register, Have from the forests shook three summers' pride; That may express my love, or thy dear merit? Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn turn'd, Nothing, sweet boy; but yet, like prayers divine, In process of the seasons have I seen,
I must each day say o'er the very same; Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burn'd, Counting no old thing old, thou mine, I thine, Since first I saw you fresh wbich yet are green. Even as when first I hallow'd thy fair name. Ah! yet doth beauty, like a dial hand,
So that eternal love in love's fresh case Steal from his figure, and no pace perceiv'd, Weighs not the dust and injury of age, So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand, Nor gives to necessary wrinkles place, Hath motion, and mine eye may be deceiv'd. But makes antiquity for aye his page; For fear of which, hear this, thou age unbred, Finding the first conceit of love there bred, Ere you were born was beauty's summer dead. Where time and outward form would show it dead.
SONNET CIX. LET not my love be call'd idolatry,
O NEVER say that I was false of heart, Nor my beloved as an idle show,
Though absence seem'd my flame to qualify, Since all alike my songs and praises be,
As easy might I from myself depart, To one, of one, still such, and ever so.
As from my soul which in thy breast doth lie: Kind is my love to day, to morrow kind,
That is my home of love: if I have rangd, Still constant in a wondrous excellence;
Like him that travels, I return again; Therefore my verse to constancy confin'd, Just to the time, not with the time exchang'd, One thing expressing, leaves out difference. So that myself bring water for my stain. Fair, kind, and true, is all my argument,
Never believe, though in my nature reign'd Fair, kind, and true, varying to other words ; All frailties that besiege all kinds of blood, And in this change is my invention spent,
That it could so preposterously be stain d, Three themes in one, which wondrous scope affords. To leave for nothing all thy sum of good; Fair, kind, and true, have often liv'd alone, For nothing this wide universe I call, Which three, till now, never kept seat in one. Save thou, my rose; in it thou art my all.
That did not better for my life provide,
Which alters when it alteration finds,
It is the star to every wandering bark, (taken. That my steel'd sense or changes, right or wrong. Whose worth's unknown, although his height be In so profound abysm I throw all care
Love 's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks. Of others' voices, that my adder's sense
Within his bending sickle's compass come; To crític and to flatterer stopped are.
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, Mark bow with my neglect I do dispense:
But bears it out even to the edge of doom. You are so strongly in my purpose bred,
If this be errour, and upon me prov'd, That all the world besides methinks are dead. I never writ, nor no man ever lov'd.
SONNET CXVII. Srecz I left you, mine eye is in my mind,
Accuse me thus; that I have scanted all And that which governs me to go about,
Wherein I should your great deserts repay; Doth part his function, and is partly blind, Forgot upon your dearest love to call, Seems seeing, but effectually is out;
Whereto all bonds do tje me day by day; For it no form delivers to the heart
That I have frequent been with unknown minds,
Book both my wilfulness and errours down,
Bring me within the level of your frown,
Since my appeal says, I did strive to prove My most true mind thus maketh mine untrue.
The coustancy and virtue of your love.
We sicken to sh'ın sickness, when we purge;
Even so, being full of your ne'er-cloying sweetness, Such eherubins as your sweet self resemble, To bitter sauces did I frame my feeding, Creating every bad a perfect best,
And, sick of welfare, found a kind of meetness As fast as objects to his beams assemble?
To be diseas'd, ere that there was true needing. O’t is the first; 't is Aattery in my seeing, Thus policy in love, to anticipate And my great mind most kingly drinks it up: The ills that were not, grew to faults assured, Mine eye well knows what with his gust is 'greeing, And brought to medicine a healthful state, And to his palate doth prepare the cup:
Which, rank of goodness, would by ill be cured. If it be poison'd, 't is the lesser sin
But thence I learn, and find the lesson true, That mine eye loves it, and doth first begin. Drugs poison him that so fell sick of you.
SONNET CXIX. Those lipes that I before have writ, do lie,
What potions have I drunk of Syren tears, Even those that said I could not love you dearer; Distil'd from limbecks foul as Hell within, Yet theo my judgment knew no reason why Applying fears to hopes, and hopes to fears, My most full flame should afterwards burn clearer. Still losing when I saw myself to win! Bat reckoning time, whose million'd accidents What wretched errours hath my heart committed, Creep in 'twixt vows, and change decrees of kings, Whilst it hath thought itself so blessed never! Tan sacred beauty, blunt the sharp'st intents, How have mine eyes out of their spbercs been fitted, Divert strong minds to the course of altering things; In the distraction of this madding fever! Alas! why, fearing of time's tyranny,
O benefit of ill! now I find true Might I not then say, now I love you best,
That better is by evil still made better; Wbep I was certain o'er incertainty,
And ruin'd love, when it is built anew, Crowding the present, doubting of the rest ? Grows fairer than at first, more strong, far greater. Love is a babe; then might I not say so,
So I return rebukd to my content, To give full growth to that which still doth grow? And gain by ill thrice more than I have spent.
WERE it aught to me I bore the canopy,
With my extern thy outward honouring,
Or lay'd great bases for eternity,
Which prove more short than waste or ruining?
Have I not seen dwellers on form and favour
Lose all, and more, by paying too much rent, Which in their wills count bad what I think good? | Pitiful thrivers, in their gazing spent?
For compound sweet foregoing simple favour, No,-I am that I am; and they that level At my abuses, reckon up their own:
No;-let me be obsequious in thy heart, I may be straight, though they themselves be bevel;
And take thou my oblation, poor but free,
Which is not mix'd with seconds, knows no art, By their rank thoughts my deeds must not be shown; Unless this general evil they maintain,
But mutual render, only me for thee.
Hence, thou suborn'd informer! a true soul,
Or if it were, it bore not beauty's name;
But now is black beauty's successive heir, They are but dressings of a former sight.
And beauty slander'd with a bastard shame. Our dates are brief, and therefore we admire For since each hand hath put on nature's power, What thou dost foist upon us that is old,
Fairing the foul with art's false-borrow'd face, And rather make them born to our desire, Sweet beauty hath no name, no holy hour, Than think that we before have heard them told. But is profan'd, if not lives in disgrace. Thy registers and thee I both defy,
Therefore my mistress' eyes are raven black, Not wondering at the present nor the past; Her eyes so suited ; and they mourners seem For thy records and what we see doth lie,
At such, who not born fair, no beauty lack, Made more or less by thy continual haste: Slandering creation with a false esteem: This I do vow, and this shall ever be,
Yet so they mourn, becoming of their woe, I will be true, despite thy scythe and thee, That every tongue says, beauty should look so.
SONNET CXXXII. How oft, when thou, my music, music play'st, Thine eyes. I love, and they, as pitying me, Upon that blessed wood whose motion sounds Knowing thy heart, torment me with disdain; With thy sweet fingers, when thou gently sway'st Have put on black, and loving mourners be, The wiry concord that mine ear confounds, Looking with pretty ruth upon my pain. Do I envy those jacks, that nimble leap
And truly not the morning Sun of Heaven To kiss the tender inward of thy hand,
Better becomes the grey cheeks of the east, Whilst my poor lips, which should that harvest reap, Nor that foll star that ushers in the even, At the wood's boldness by thee blushing stand! Doth half that glory to the sober west, To be so tickled, they would change their state As those two mourning eyes become thy face: And situation with those dancing chips,
O let it then as well beseem thy heart O'er whom thy fingers walk with gentle gait,
To mourn for me, since mourning doth thee grace, Making dead wood more bless'd than living lips.
And suit thy pity like in every part. Since saucy jacks so happy are in this,
Then will I swear beauty herself is black, Give them thy fingers, me thy lips to kiss. And all they foul that thy complexion lack.
SONNET CXXXIII. The expense of spirit in a waste of shame
BEShrew that heart that makes my heart to groan Is lust in action; and till action, lust
For that deep wound it gives my friend and me! Is perjurd, murderous, bloody, full of blame, Is 't not enough to torture me alone, Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust;
But slave to slavery my sweet'st friend must be? Enjoy'd no sooner, but despised straight; Me from myself thy cruel eye hath taken, Past reason hunted ; and no sooner had,
And my next self thou harder hast engrossid ; Past reason hated, as a swallow'd bait,
Of him, myself, and thee, I am forsaken; On purpose laid to make the taker mad :
A torment thrice three-fold thus to be cross'd. Mad in pursuit, and in possession so;
Prison my heart in thy steel bosom's ward, Had, baving, and in quest to have, extreme; But then my friend's heart let my poor heart bail; A bliss in proof,—and prov'd, a very woe; Whoe'er keeps me, let my heart be his guard; Before, a joy propos'd; behind, a dream : Thou canst not then use rigour in my jail : All this the world well knows; yet none knows well And yet thou wilt; for I, being pent in thee, To shun the Heaven that leads men to this Hell. Perforce am thine, and all that is in me.
And I myself am mortgag'd to thy will;
But thou wilt not, nor he will not be free,
For thoù art covetous, and he is kind;
And sue a friend, came debtor for my sake;
He pays the whole, and yet am I not free.
SONNET CXXXV. Thou art as tyrannous, so as thou art,
WHOEVER hath her wish, thou hast thy will, As those whose beauties proudly make them cruel; And will to boot, and will in over-plus; For well thoa know'st to my dear doting heart More than enough am I that vex thee still, Thou art the fairest and most precious jewel. To thy sweet will making addition thus, Yet, in good faith, some say that thee bebold, Wilt thou, whose will is large and spacious, Thy face bath not the pow'r to make love groan: Not once vouchsafe to hide my will in thine? To say they err, I dare not be so bold,
Shall will in others seem right gracious, Although I swear it to myself alone.
And in my will no fair acceptance shine? And, to be sure that is not false I swear,
The sea, all water, yet receives rain still, A thonsand groans, but thinking on thy face,
And in abundance addeth to his store; One on another's neck, do witness bear
So thou, being rich in will, add to thy will Thy black is fairest in my judgment's place.
One will of mine, to make thy large will more. Io nothing art thou black, save in thy deeds, Let no unkind, no fair beseechers kill; And thence this slander, as I think, proceeds.
Think all but one, and me in that one Will.