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