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31 |
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Thy bosom is endearèd with all hearts |
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Which I by lacking have supposèd dead, |
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And there reigns love, and all love's loving parts, |
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And all those friends which I thought burièd. |
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How many a holy and obsequious tear |
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Hath dear religious love stol'n from mine eye |
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As interest of the dead, which now appear |
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But things removed that hidden in thee lie ! |
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Thou art the grave where buried love doth live, |
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Hung with the trophies of my lovers gone, |
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Who all their parts of me to thee did give : |
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That due of many now is thine alone. |
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Their images I loved I view in thee, |
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And thou, all they, hast all the all of me.
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32 |
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If thou survive my well-contended day |
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When that churl death my bones with dust shall cover, |
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And shalt by fortune once more resurvey |
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These poor rude lines of thy deceasèd lover, |
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Compare them with the bett'ring of the time, |
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And though they be outstripped by every pen, |
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Reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme |
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Exceeded by the height of happier men. |
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O then vouchsafe me but this loving thought : |
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'Had my friend's muse grown with this growing age, |
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A dearer birth than this his love had brought |
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To march in ranks of better equipage ; |
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But since he died, and poets better prove, |
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Theirs for their style I'll read, his for his love.'
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33 |
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Full many a glorious morning have I seen |
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Flatter the mountain tops with sovereign eye, |
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Kissing with golden face the meadows green, |
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Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy ; |
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Anon permit the basest clouds to ride |
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With ugly rack on his celestial face, |
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And from the forlorn world his visage hide, |
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Stealing unseen to west with this disgrace. |
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Even so my sun one early morn did shine |
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With all triumphant splendour on my brow ; |
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But out, alas, he was but one hour mine ; |
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The region cloud hath masked him from me now. |
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Yet him for this my love no whit disdaineth : |
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Suns of the world may stain when heaven's sun staineth.
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34 |
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Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day |
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And make me travel forth without my cloak, |
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To let base clouds o'ertake me in my way, |
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Hiding thy brav'ry in their rotten smoke ? |
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'Tis not enough that through the cloud thou break |
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To dry the rain on my storm-beaten face, |
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For no man well of such a salve can speak |
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That heals the wound and cures not the disgrace. |
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Nor can thy shame give physic to my grief ; |
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Though thou repent, yet I have still the loss. |
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Th'offender's sorrow lends but weak relief |
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To him that bears the strong offence's cross. |
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Ah, but those tears are pearl which thy love sheds, |
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And they are rich, and ransom all ill deeds.
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35 |
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No more be grieved at that which thou hast done : |
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Roses have thorns, and silver fountains mud. |
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Clouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun, |
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And loathsome canker lives in sweetest bud. |
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All men make faults, and even I in this, |
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Authorizing thy trespass with compare, |
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Myself corrupting salving thy amiss, |
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Excusing thy sins more than thy sins are ; |
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For to thy sensual fault I bring in sense - |
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Thy adverse party is thy advocate - |
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And 'gainst myself a lawful plea commence. |
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Such civil war is in my love and hate |
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That I an accessory needs must be |
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To that sweet thief which sourly robs from me.
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36 |
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Let me confess that we two must be twain |
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Although our undivided loves are one ; |
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So shall those blots that do with me remain |
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Without thy help by me be borne alone. |
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In our two loves there is but one respect, |
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Though in our lives a separable spite |
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Which, though it alter not love's sole effect, |
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Yet doth it steal sweet hours from love's delight. |
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I may not evermore acknowledge thee |
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Lest my bewailèd guilt should do thee shame, |
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Nor thou with public kindness honour me |
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Unless thou take that honour from thy name. |
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But do not so. I love thee in such sort |
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As, thou being mine, mine is thy good report.
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37 |
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As a decrepit father takes delight |
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To see his active child do deeds of youth, |
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So I, made lame by fortune's dearest spite, |
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Take all my comfort of thy worth and truth ; |
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For whether beauty, birth, or wealth, or wit, |
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Or any of these all, or all, or more, |
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Entitled in thy parts do crownèd sit, |
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I make my love engrafted to this store. |
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So then I am not lame, poor, nor despised, |
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Whilst that this shadow doth such substance give |
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That I in thy abundance am sufficed |
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And by a part of all thy glory live. |
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Look what is best, that best I wish in thee ; |
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This wish I have, then ten times happy me.
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38 |
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How can my muse want subject to invent |
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While thou dost breathe, that pour'st into my verse |
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Thine own sweet argument, too excellent |
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For every vulgar paper to rehearse ? |
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O, give thyself the thanks if aught in me |
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Worthy perusal stand against thy sight ; |
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For who's so dumb that cannot write to thee, |
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When thou thyself dost give invention light ? |
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Be thou the tenth muse, ten times more in worth |
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Than those old nine which rhymers invocate, |
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And he that calls on thee, let him bring forth |
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Eternal numbers to outlive long date. |
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If my slight muse do please these curious days, |
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The pain be mine, but thine shall be the praise.
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39 |
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O, how thy worth with manners may I sing |
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When thou art all the better part of me ? |
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What can mine own praise to mine own self bring, |
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And what is't but mine own when I praise thee ? |
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Even for this let us divided live, |
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And our dear love lose name of single one, |
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That by this separation I may give |
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That due to thee which thou deserv'st alone. |
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O absence, what a torment wouldst thou prove |
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Were it not thy sour leisure gave sweet leave |
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To entertain the time with thoughts of love, |
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Which time and thoughts so sweetly doth deceive, |
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And that thou teachest how to make one twain |
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By praising him here who doth hence remain !
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40 |
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Take all my loves, my love, yea, take them all : |
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What hast thou then more than thou hadst before ? |
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No love, my love, that thou mayst true love call - |
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All mine was thine before thou hadst this more. |
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Then if for my love thou my love receivest, |
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I cannot blame thee for my love thou usest ; |
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But yet be blamed if thou this self deceivest |
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By wilful taste of what thyself refusest. |
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I do forgive thy robb'ry gentle thief, |
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Although thou steal thee all my poverty ; |
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And yet love knows it is a greater grief |
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To bear love's wrong than hate's known injury. |
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Lascivious grace, in whom all ill well shows, |
Kill me with spites, yet we must not be foes.
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William Shakespeare |
Classic Poems |
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Ariel's Songs |
