21
So is it not with me as with that MuseStirr'd by a painted beauty to his verse,Who heaven itself for ornament doth useAnd every fair with his fair doth rehearse,Making a couplement of proud compare,With sun and moon, with earth and sea's richgems, With April's first-born flowers, and all things rare That heaven's air in this huge rondure hems.O! let me, true in love, but truly write, And then believe me, my love is as fair As any mother's child, though not so bright As those gold candles fix'd in heaven's air: Let them say more that like of hear-say well;I will not praise that purpose not to sell.
22
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, Then look I death my days should expiate. For all that beauty that doth cover thee Is but the seemly raiment of my heart, Which in thy breast doth live, as thine in me:How can I then, be elder than thou art?O! therefore, love, be of thyself so wary As I, not for myself, but for thee will;Bearing thy heart, which I will keep so chary As tender nurse her babe from faring ill. Presume not on thy heart when mine is slain;Thou gav'st me thine, not to give back again.
23
As an unperfect actor on the stage,Who with his fear is put besides his part,Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage,Whose strength's abundance weakens his ownheart;So I, for fear of trust, forget to say The perfect ceremony of love's rite, And in mine own love's strength seem to decay, O'ercharg'd with burden of mine own love'smight.O! let my books be then the eloquence And dumb presagers of my speaking breast, Who plead for love, and look for recompense, More than that tongue that more hath moreexpress'd. O! learn to read what silent love hath writ:To hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit.
24
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,And perspective it is best painter's art.For through the painter must you see his skill,To find where your true image pictur'd lies, Which in my bosom's shop is hanging still,That hath his windows glazed with thine eyes.Now see what good turns eyes for eyes havedone:Mine eyes have drawn thy shape, and thine forme Are windows to my breast, where-through thesunDelights to peep, to gaze therein on thee; Yet eyes this cunning want to grace their art, They draw but what they see, know not theheart.
25
Let those who are in favour with their stars Of public honour and proud titles boast, Whilst I, whom fortune of such triumph bars, Unlook'd for joy in that I honour most. Great princes' favourites their fair leaves spread But as the marigold at the sun's eye, And in themselves their pride lies buried, For at a frown they in their glory die. The painful warrior famoused for fight, After a thousand victories once foil'd, Is from the book of honour razed quite, And all the rest forgot for which he toil'd: Then happy I, that love and am belov'd, Where I may not remove nor be removed.
26
Lord of my love, to whom in vassalage Thy merit hath my duty strongly knit, To thee I send this written ambassage, To witness duty, not to show my wit:Duty so great, which wit so poor as mine May make seem bare, in wanting words to showit, But that I hope some good conceit of thine In thy soul's thought, all naked, will bestow it;Till whatsoever star that guides my moving Points on me graciously with fair aspect, And puts apparel on my tatter'd loving, To show me worthy of thy sweet respect: Then may I dare to boast how I do love thee;Till then not show my head where thou mayst prove me.
27
Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed, The dear repose for limbs with travel tir'd;But then begins a journey in my head To work my mind, when body's work's expir'd:For then my thoughts—from far where I abide— Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee, And keep my drooping eyelids open wide, Looking on darkness which the blind do see:Save that my soul's imaginary sight Presents thy shadow to my sightless view, Which, like a jewel hung in ghastly night, Makes black night beauteous and her old facenew. Lo! thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind, For thee, and for myself no quiet find.
28
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. I tell the day, to please him thou art bright And dost him grace when clouds do blot theheaven:So flatter I the swart-complexion'd night;When sparkling stars twire not thou gild'st theeven. But day doth daily draw my sorrows longer, And night doth nightly make griefs strengthseem stronger.
29
When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyesI all alone beweep my outcast state,And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,And look upon myself, and curse my fate,Wishing me like to one more rich in hope, Featured like him, like him with friends possess'd,Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope,With what I most enjoy contented least;Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising, Haply I think on thee,—and then my state, Like to the lark at break of day arising From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate;For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth bringsThat then I scorn to change my state with kings.