William Shakespeare
From off a hill whose concave womb reworded A plaintful story from a sistering vale, My spirits to attend this double voice accorded,
When my love swears that she is made of truth, I do believe her, though I know she lies, That she might think me some untutor'd youth,
Let the bird of loudest lay, On the sole Arabian tree, Herald sad and trumpet be,
Dedication TO THE RIGHT HONORABLE HENRY WRIOTHESLY,
Where art thou Muse that thou forget'st so long, To speak of that which gives thee all thy might? Spend'st thou thy fury on some worthless song,
O truant Muse what shall be thy amends For thy neglect of truth in beauty dy'd? Both truth and beauty on my love depends;
My love is strengthen'd, though more weak in seeming; I love not less, though less the show appear; That love is merchandiz'd, whose rich esteeming,
Alack! what poverty my Muse brings forth, That having such a scope to show her pride, The argument, all bare, is of more worth
To me, fair friend, you never can be old, For as you were when first your eye I ey'd, Such seems your beauty still. Three winters cold,
O! never say that I was false of heart, Though absence seem'd my flame to qualify, As easy might I from my self depart
O! from what power hast thou this powerful might, With insufficiency my heart to sway? To make me give the lie to my true sight,
Love is too young to know what conscience is, Yet who knows not conscience is born of love? Then, gentle cheater, urge not my amiss,
In loving thee thou know'st I am forsworn, But thou art twice forsworn, to me love swearing; In act thy bed-vow broke, and new faith torn,
Cupid laid by his brand and fell asleep: A maid of Dian's this advantage found, And his love-kindling fire did quickly steep
The little Love-god lying once asleep, Laid by his side his heart-inflaming brand, Whilst many nymphs that vow'd chaste life to keep
Let not my love be call'd idolatry, Nor my beloved as an idol show, Since all alike my songs and praises be
When in the chronicle of wasted time I see descriptions of the fairest wights, And beauty making beautiful old rime,
Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul Of the wide world dreaming on things to come, Can yet the lease of my true love control,
What's in the brain, that ink may character, Which hath not figur'd to thee my true spirit? What's new to speak, what now to register,
Alas! 'tis true, I have gone here and there, And made my self a motley to the view, Gor'd mine own thoughts, sold cheap what is most dear,
O! for my sake do you with Fortune chide, The guilty goddess of my harmful deeds, That did not better for my life provide
Your love and pity doth the impression fill, Which vulgar scandal stamp'd upon my brow; For what care I who calls me well or ill,
Since I left you, mine eye is in my mind; And that which governs me to go about Doth part his function and is partly blind,
Or whether doth my mind, being crown'd with you, Drink up the monarch's plague, this flattery? Or whether shall I say, mine eye saith true,
What potions have I drunk of Siren tears, Distill'd from limbecks foul as hell within, Applying fears to hopes, and hopes to fears,
Be wise as thou art cruel; do not press My tongue-tied patience with too much disdain; Lest sorrow lend me words, and words express
In faith I do not love thee with mine eyes, For they in thee a thousand errors note; But 'tis my heart that loves what they despise,
Love is my sin, and thy dear virtue hate, Hate of my sin, grounded on sinful loving: O! but with mine compare thou thine own state,
Lo, as a careful housewife runs to catch One of her feather'd creatures broke away, Sets down her babe, and makes all swift dispatch
Two loves I have of comfort and despair, Which like two spirits do suggest me still: The better angel is a man right fair,
Canst thou, O cruel! say I love thee not, When I against myself with thee partake? Do I not think on thee, when I forgot
Those lips that Love's own hand did make, Breathed forth the sound that said 'I hate', To me that languish'd for her sake:
Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth, My sinful earth these rebel powers array, Why dost thou pine within and suffer dearth,
My love is as a fever longing still, For that which longer nurseth the disease; Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill,
O me! what eyes hath Love put in my head, Which have no correspondence with true sight; Or, if they have, where is my judgment fled,
Those lines that I before have writ do lie, Even those that said I could not love you dearer: Yet then my judgment knew no reason why
Let me not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediments. Love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds,
Accuse me thus: that I have scanted all, Wherein I should your great deserts repay, Forgot upon your dearest love to call,
Like as, to make our appetite more keen, With eager compounds we our palate urge; As, to prevent our maladies unseen,
That you were once unkind befriends me now, And for that sorrow, which I then did feel, Needs must I under my transgression bow,
'Tis better to be vile than vile esteem'd, When not to be receives reproach of being; And the just pleasure lost, which is so deem'd
Thy gift, thy tables, are within my brain Full character'd with lasting memory, Which shall above that idle rank remain,
No, Time, thou shalt not boast that I do change: Thy pyramids built up with newer might To me are nothing novel, nothing strange;
If my dear love were but the child of state, It might for Fortune's bastard be unfather'd, As subject to Time's love or to Time's hate,
The expense of spirit in a waste of shame Is lust in action: and till action, lust Is perjur'd, murderous, bloody, full of blame,
Were't aught to me I bore the canopy, With my extern the outward honouring, Or laid great bases for eternity,
O thou, my lovely boy, who in thy power Dost hold Time's fickle glass, his fickle hour; Who hast by waning grown, and therein show'st
In the old age black was not counted fair, Or if it were, it bore not beauty's name; But now is black beauty's successive heir,
How oft when thou, my music, music play'st, Upon that blessed wood whose motion sounds With thy sweet fingers when thou gently sway'st
My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun; Coral is far more red, than her lips red: If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
Thou art as tyrannous, so as thou art, As those whose beauties proudly make them cruel; For well thou know'st to my dear doting heart
Thine eyes I love, and they, as pitying me, Knowing thy heart torment me with disdain, Have put on black and loving mourners be,
Beshrew that heart that makes my heart to groan For that deep wound it gives my friend and me! Is't not enough to torture me alone,
So, now I have confess'd that he is thine, And I my self am mortgag'd to thy will, Myself I'll forfeit, so that other mine
O! call not me to justify the wrong That thy unkindness lays upon my heart; Wound me not with thine eye, but with thy tongue:
Whoever hath her wish, thou hast thy 'Will,' And 'Will' to boot, and 'Will' in over-plus; More than enough am I that vex'd thee still,
If thy soul check thee that I come so near, Swear to thy blind soul that I was thy 'Will', And will, thy soul knows, is admitted there;
Thou blind fool, Love, what dost thou to mine eyes, That they behold, and see not what they see? They know what beauty is, see where it lies,
When my love swears that she is made of truth, I do believe her though I know she lies, That she might think me some untutor'd youth,
From fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease,
When forty winters shall besiege thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery so gazed on now,
Look in thy glass and tell the face thou viewest Now is the time that face should form another; Whose fresh repair if now thou not renewest,
Unthrifty loveliness, why dost thou spend Upon thy self thy beauty's legacy? Nature's bequest gives nothing, but doth lend,
Is it for fear to wet a widow's eye, That thou consum'st thy self in single life? Ah! if thou issueless shalt hap to die,
How heavy do I journey on the way, When what I seek, my weary travel's end, Doth teach that ease and that repose to say,
Thus can my love excuse the slow offence Of my dull bearer when from thee I speed: From where thou art why should I haste me thence?
So am I as the rich, whose blessed key, Can bring him to his sweet up-locked treasure, The which he will not every hour survey,
What is your substance, whereof are you made, That millions of strange shadows on you tend? Since every one, hath every one, one shade,
O! how much more doth beauty beauteous seem By that sweet ornament which truth doth give. The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem
If there be nothing new, but that which is Hath been before, how are our brains beguil'd, Which labouring for invention bear amiss
Not marble, nor the gilded monuments Of princes, shall outlive this powerful rhyme; But you shall shine more bright in these contents
Sweet love, renew thy force; be it not said Thy edge should blunter be than appetite, Which but to-day by feeding is allay'd,
Being your slave what should I do but tend, Upon the hours, and times of your desire? I have no precious time at all to spend;
That god forbid, that made me first your slave, I should in thought control your times of pleasure, Or at your hand the account of hours to crave,
Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore, So do our minutes hasten to their end; Each changing place with that which goes before,
Is it thy will, thy image should keep open My heavy eyelids to the weary night? Dost thou desire my slumbers should be broken,
Sin of self-love possesseth all mine eye And all my soul, and all my every part; And for this sin there is no remedy,
Against my love shall be as I am now, With Time's injurious hand crush'd and o'erworn; When hours have drain'd his blood and fill'd his brow
When I have seen by Time's fell hand defac'd The rich-proud cost of outworn buried age; When sometime lofty towers I see down-raz'd,
Those parts of thee that the world's eye doth view Want nothing that the thought of hearts can mend; All tongues, the voice of souls, give thee that due,
Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea, But sad mortality o'ersways their power, How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea,
Tired with all these, for restful death I cry, As to behold desert a beggar born, And needy nothing trimm'd in jollity,
Ah! wherefore with infection should he live, And with his presence grace impiety, That sin by him advantage should achieve,
Thus is his cheek the map of days outworn, When beauty lived and died as flowers do now, Before these bastard signs of fair were born,
That thou art blam'd shall not be thy defect, For slander's mark was ever yet the fair; The ornament of beauty is suspect,
No longer mourn for me when I am dead Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell Give warning to the world that I am fled
O! lest the world should task you to recite What merit lived in me, that you should love After my death, dear love, forget me quite,
That time of year thou mayst in me behold When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
But be contented: when that fell arrest Without all bail shall carry me away, My life hath in this line some interest,
Whilst I alone did call upon thy aid, My verse alone had all thy gentle grace; But now my gracious numbers are decay'd,
So are you to my thoughts as food to life, Or as sweet-season'd showers are to the ground; And for the peace of you I hold such strife
Why is my verse so barren of new pride, So far from variation or quick change? Why with the time do I not glance aside
Thy glass will show thee how thy beauties wear, Thy dial how thy precious minutes waste; These vacant leaves thy mind's imprint will bear,
So oft have I invoked thee for my Muse, And found such fair assistance in my verse As every alien pen hath got my use
O! how I faint when I of you do write, Knowing a better spirit doth use your name, And in the praise thereof spends all his might,
Or I shall live your epitaph to make, Or you survive when I in earth am rotten; From hence your memory death cannot take,
I grant thou wert not married to my Muse, And therefore mayst without attaint o'erlook The dedicated words which writers use
I never saw that you did painting need, And therefore to your fair no painting set; I found, or thought I found, you did exceed
Who is it that says most, which can say more, Than this rich praise, that you alone, are you? In whose confine immured is the store
Say that thou didst forsake me for some fault, And I will comment upon that offence: Speak of my lameness, and I straight will halt,
My tongue-tied Muse in manners holds her still, While comments of your praise richly compil'd, Reserve their character with golden quill,
Was it the proud full sail of his great verse, Bound for the prize of all too precious you, That did my ripe thoughts in my brain inhearse,
Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing, And like enough thou know'st thy estimate, The charter of thy worth gives thee releasing;
When thou shalt be dispos'd to set me light, And place my merit in the eye of scorn, Upon thy side, against myself I'll fight,
Those hours, that with gentle work did frame The lovely gaze where every eye doth dwell, Will play the tyrants to the very same
Then let not winter's ragged hand deface, In thee thy summer, ere thou be distill'd: Make sweet some vial; treasure thou some place
Lo! in the orient when the gracious light Lifts up his burning head, each under eye Doth homage to his new-appearing sight,
Music to hear, why hear'st thou music sadly? Sweets with sweets war not, joy delights in joy: Why lov'st thou that which thou receiv'st not gladly,
For shame! deny that thou bear'st love to any, Who for thy self art so unprovident. Grant, if thou wilt, thou art belov'd of many,
Then hate me when thou wilt; if ever, now; Now, while the world is bent my deeds to cross, Join with the spite of fortune, make me bow,
Some glory in their birth, some in their skill, Some in their wealth, some in their body's force, Some in their garments though new-fangled ill;
But do thy worst to steal thyself away, For term of life thou art assured mine; And life no longer than thy love will stay,
So shall I live, supposing thou art true, Like a deceived husband; so love's face May still seem love to me, though alter'd new;
They that have power to hurt, and will do none, That do not do the thing they most do show, Who, moving others, are themselves as stone,
The forward violet thus did I chide: Sweet thief, whence didst thou steal thy sweet that smells, If not from my love's breath? The purple pride
How sweet and lovely dost thou make the shame Which, like a canker in the fragrant rose, Doth spot the beauty of thy budding name!
Some say thy fault is youth, some wantonness; Some say thy grace is youth and gentle sport; Both grace and faults are lov'd of more and less:
How like a winter hath my absence been From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year! What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen!
From you have I been absent in the spring, When proud-pied April, dress'd in all his trim, Hath put a spirit of youth in every thing,
As fast as thou shalt wane, so fast thou grow'st, In one of thine, from that which thou departest; And that fresh blood which youngly thou bestow'st,
When I do count the clock that tells the time, And see the brave day sunk in hideous night; When I behold the violet past prime,
O! that you were your self; but, love you are No longer yours, than you your self here live: Against this coming end you should prepare,
Not from the stars do I my judgement pluck; And yet methinks I have astronomy, But not to tell of good or evil luck,
Devouring time, blunt thou the lion's paws, And make the earth devour her own sweet brood; Pluck the keen teeth from the fierce tiger's jaws,
Take all my loves, my love, yea take them all; What hast thou then more than thou hadst before? No love, my love, that thou mayst true love call;
Those pretty wrongs that liberty commits, When I am sometime absent from thy heart, Thy beauty, and thy years full well befits,
That thou hast her it is not all my grief, And yet it may be said I loved her dearly; That she hath thee is of my wailing chief,
When most I wink, then do mine eyes best see, For all the day they view things unrespected; But when I sleep, in dreams they look on thee,
If the dull substance of my flesh were thought, Injurious distance should not stop my way; For then despite of space I would be brought,
Against that time, if ever that time come, When I shall see thee frown on my defects, When as thy love hath cast his utmost sum,
The other two, slight air, and purging fire Are both with thee, wherever I abide; The first my thought, the other my desire,
Mine eye and heart are at a mortal war, How to divide the conquest of thy sight; Mine eye my heart thy picture's sight would bar,
Betwixt mine eye and heart a league is took, And each doth good turns now unto the other: When that mine eye is famish'd for a look,
How careful was I when I took my way, Each trifle under truest bars to thrust, That to my use it might unused stay
When I consider every thing that grows Holds in perfection but a little moment, That this huge stage presenteth nought but shows
But wherefore do not you a mightier way Make war upon this bloody tyrant, Time? And fortify your self in your decay
Who will believe my verse in time to come, If it were fill'd with your most high deserts? Though yet heaven knows it is but as a tomb
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate: Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
A woman's face with nature's own hand painted, Hast thou, the master mistress of my passion; A woman's gentle heart, but not acquainted
So is it not with me as with that Muse, Stirr'd by a painted beauty to his verse, Who heaven itself for ornament doth use
My glass shall not persuade me I am old, So long as youth and thou are of one date; But when in thee time's furrows I behold,
As an unperfect actor on the stage, Who with his fear is put beside his part, Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage,
Mine eye hath play'd the painter and hath stell'd, Thy beauty's form in table of my heart; My body is the frame wherein 'tis held,
When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes I all alone beweep my outcast state, And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,
Let those who are in favour with their stars Of public honour and proud titles boast, Whilst I, whom fortune of such triumph bars
Lord of my love, to whom in vassalage Thy merit hath my duty strongly knit, To thee I send this written embassage,
Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed, The dear respose for limbs with travel tir'd; But then begins a journey in my head
How can I then return in happy plight, That am debarre'd the benefit of rest? When day's oppression is not eas'd by night,
When to the sessions of sweet silent thought I summon up remembrance of things past, I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,
Thy bosom is endeared with all hearts, Which I by lacking have supposed dead; And there reigns Love, and all Love's loving parts,
If thou survive my well-contented day, When that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover And shalt by fortune once more re-survey
Full many a glorious morning have I seen Flatter the mountain tops with sovereign eye, Kissing with golden face the meadows green,
Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day, And make me travel forth without my cloak, To let base clouds o'ertake me in my way,
O! how thy worth with manners may I sing, When thou art all the better part of me? What can mine own praise to mine own self bring?
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,
Let me confess that we two must be twain, Although our undivided loves are one: So shall those blots that do with me remain,
As a decrepit father takes delight To see his active child do deeds of youth, So I, made lame by Fortune's dearest spite,
How can my muse want subject to invent, While thou dost breathe, that pour'st into my verse Thine own sweet argument, too excellent
Dedication. 'Vilia miretur vulgus; mihi flavus Apollo Pocula Castalia plena ministret aqua.'