61 Shakespeare - Sonnets

'Tis better to be vile than vile esteem'd
A woman's face with Nature's own hand painted
Accuse me thus: that I have scanted all
Against my love shall be as I am now
Against that time, if ever that time come
Ah! wherefore with infection should he live
Alack! what poverty my Muse brings forth
Alas! 'tis true I have gone here and there
As a decrepit father takes delight
As an unperfect actor on the stage
As fast as thou shalt wane, so fast thou grow'st
Be wise as thou art cruel; do not press
Being your slave, what should I do but tend
Beshrew that heart that makes my heart to groan
Betwixt mine eye and heart a league is took
But be contented: when that fell arrest
But do thy worst to steal thyself away
But wherefore do not you a mightier way
Canst thou, O cruel! say I love thee not
Cupid laid by his brand and fell asleep
Devouring Time, blunt thou the lion's paws
Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing
For shame! deny that thou bear'st love to any
From fairest creatures we desire increase
From you have I been absent in the spring
Full many a glorious morning have I seen
How can I then return in happy plight
How can my Muse want subject to invent
How careful was I when I took my way
How heavy do I journey on the way
How like a winter hath my absence been
How oft when thou, my music, music play'st
How sweet and lovely dost thou make the shame
If my dear love were but the child of state
If the dull substance of my flesh were thought
If there be nothing new, but that which is
If thou survive my well-contented day
If thy soul check thee that I come so near
In faith I do not love thee with mine eyes
In loving thee thou know'st I am forsworn
In the old age black was not counted fair
Is it for fear to wet a widow's eye
Is it thy will, thy image should keep open
Let me confess that we two must be twain
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Let not my love be call'd idolatry
Let those who are in favour with their stars
Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore
Like as, to make our appetites more keen
Lo! in the orient when the gracious light
Lo, as a careful housewife runs to catch
Look in thy glass, and tell the face thou viewest
Lord of my love, to whom in vassalage
Love is my sin, and thy dear virtue hate
Love is too young to know what conscience is
Mine eye and heart are at a mortal war
Mine eye hath play'd the painter and hath stell'd
Music to hear, why hear'st thou music sadly?
My glass shall not persuade me I am old
My love is as a fever, longing still
My love is strengthen'd, though more weak in seeming
........
For shame! deny that thou bear'st love to any
  _
FOR shame! deny that thou bear'st love to any
Who for thyself art so unprovident.
Grant, if thou wilt, thou art belov'd of many,   _
But that thou none lov'st is most evident;
For thou art so possess'd with murderous hate
That 'gainst thyself thou stick'st not to conspire,   _
Seeking that beauteous roof to ruinate
Which to repair should be thy chief desire.
O! change thy thought, that I may change my mind:   _
Shall hate be fairer lodg'd than gentle love?
Be, as thy presence is, gracious and kind,
Or to thyself at least kind-hearted prove   _

Make thee another self, for love of me,
That beauty still may live in thine or thee.
........
From fairest creatures we desire increase
  _
FROM fairest creatures we desire increase
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,   _
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light's flame with self-substantial fuel,   _
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament   _
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content,
And, tender churl, mak'st waste in niggarding.   _

Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
........
From you have I been absent in the spring
  _
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,   _
That heavy Saturn laugh'd and leap'd with him.
Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell
Of different flowers in odour and in hue,   _
Could make me any summer's story tell,
Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew:
Nor did I wonder at the lily's white,   _
Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose;
They were but sweet, but figures of delight,
Drawn after you, you pattern of all those.   _

Yet seem'd it winter still, and you away,
As with your shadow I with these did play.
........
Full many a glorious morning have I seen
  _
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! alack! he was but one hour mine,
The region cloud hath mask'd him from me now.   _

Yet him for this my love no whit disdaineth
Suns of the world may stain when heaven's sun staineth.
........
How can I then return in happy plight
  _
HOW can I then return in happy plight
That am debarr'd the benefit of rest?
When day's oppression is not eas'd by night,   _
But day by night, and night by day oppress'd,
And each, though enemies to either's reign,
Do in consent shake hands to torture me,   _
The one by toil, the other to complain
How far I toil, still further off from thee.
  _
Itell the day, to please him thou art bright
And dost him grace when clouds do blot the heaven:
So flatter I the swart-complexion'd night;   _
When sparkling stars twire not thou gild'st the even.
But day doth daily draw my sorrows longer,
And night doth nightly make grief's strength seem stronger.
........
How can my Muse want subject to invent
  _
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 rimers 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.
........
How careful was I when I took my way
  _
HOW careful was I when I took my way
Each trifle under truest bars to thrust,
That to my use it might unused stay   _
From hands of falsehood, in sure wards of trust!
But thou, to whom my jewels trifles are,
Most worthy comfort, now my greatest grief,   _
Thou, best of dearest and mine only care,
Art left the prey of every vulgar thief.
Thee have I not lock'd up in any chest,   _
Save where thou art not, though I feel thou art,
Within the gentle closure of my breast,
From whence at pleasure thou mayst come and part   _

And even thence thou wilt be stol'n, I fear,
For truth proves thievish for a prize so dear.
........
How heavy do I journey on the way
  _
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 far the miles are measur'd from thy friend!
The beast that bears me, tired with my woe,
Plods dully on, to bear that weight in me,   _
As if by some instinct the wretch did know
His rider lov'd not speed, being made from thee:
The bloody spur cannot provoke him on   _
That sometimes anger thrusts into his hide,
Which heavily he answers with a groan
More sharp to me than spurring to his side   _

For that same groan doth put this in my mind
My grief lies onward, and my joy behind.
........
How like a winter hath my absence been
  _
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!   _
What old December's bareness every where!
And yet this time remov'd was summer's time;
The teeming autumn, big with rich increase,   _
Bearing the wanton burden of the prime,
Like widow'd wombs after their lords' decease:
Yet this abundant issue seem'd to me   _
But hope of orphans and unfather'd fruit;
For summer and his pleasures wait on thee,
And, thou away, the very birds are mute   _

Or, if they sing, 'tis with so dull a cheer,
That leaves look pale, dreading the winter's near.
........
How oft when thou, my music, music play'st
  _
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   _
The wiry concord that mine ear confounds,
Do I envy those jacks that nimble leap
To kiss the tender inward of thy hand,   _
Whilst my poor lips, which should that harvest reap,
At the wood's boldness by thee blushing stand!
To be so tickl'd, they would change their state   _
And situation with those dancing chips,
O'er whom thy fingers walk with gentle gait,
Making dead wood more bless'd than living lips.   _

Since saucy jacks so happy are in this,
Give them thy fingers, me thy lips to kiss.
........
How sweet and lovely dost thou make the shame
  _
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!   _
O! in what sweets dost thou thy sins enclose.
That tongue that tells the story of thy days,
Making lascivious comments on thy sport,   _
Cannot dispraise but in a kind of praise;
Naming thy name blesses an ill report.
O! what a mansion have those vices got   _
Which for their habitation chose out thee,
Where beauty's veil doth cover every blot
And all things turn to fair that eyes can see!   _

Take heed, dear heart, of this large privilege
The hardest knife ill-used doth lose his edge.