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.

30
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, And with old woes new wail my dear times' waste:Then can I drown an eye, unus'd to flow, For precious friends hid in death's dateless night, And weep afresh love's long since cancell'd woe, And moan the expense of many a vanish'd sight:Then can I grieve at grievances foregone, And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan, Which I new pay as if not paid before. But if the while I think on thee, dear friend, All losses are restor'd and sorrows end.
31
Thy bosom is endeared with all hearts, Which I by lacking have supposed dead;And there reigns Love, and all Love's loving parts, And all those friends which I thought buried. 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 remov'd 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 lov'd I view in thee, And thou—all they—hast all the all of me.
32
If thou survive my well-contented day, When that churl Death my bones with dust shallcover,And shalt by fortune once more re-survey These poor rude lines of thy deceased lover, Compare them with the bettering of the time, And though they be outstripp'd by every pen, Reserve them for my love, not for their rime, Exceeded by the height of happier men.O! then vouchsafe me but this loving thought:'Had my friend's Muse grown with this growingage,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 hislove.'
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 alchymy;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 menow. 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 bravery in their rotten smoke? 'Tis not enough that through the cloud thoubreak,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:The offender's sorrow lends but weak reliefTo 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 griev'd 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, Authorising 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 accessary 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 bewailed 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 crowned sit, I make my love engrafted to this store:So then I am not lame, poor, nor despis'd, Whilst that this shadow doth such substancegiveThat I in thy abundance am suffic'd 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 myverseThine 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 outhve long date. If my slight Muse do please these curiousdays,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 selfbring?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 hadstbefore?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 blam'd, if thou thyself deceivest By wilful taste of what thyself refusest. I do forgive thy robbery, 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.
41
Those pretty wrongs that liberty commits, When I am sometimes absent from thy heart, Thy beauty and thy years full well befits, For still temptation follows where thou art. Gentle thou art, and therefore to be won, Beauteous thou art, therefore to be assail'd; And when a woman woos, what woman's son Will sourly leave her till she have prevail'd? Ay me! but yet thou mightst my seat forbear, And chide thy beauty and thy straying youth, Who lead thee in their riot even there Where thou art forc'd to break a twofold truth;— Hers, by thy beauty tempting her to thee, Thine, by thy beauty being false to me.
42
That thou hast her, it is not all my grief, And yet it may be said I lov'd her dearly;That she hath thee, is of my wailing chief, A loss in love that touches me more nearly. Loving offenders, thus I will excuse ye:Thou dost love her, because thou know'st I loveher; And for my sake even so doth she abuse me, Suffering my friend for my sake to approve her. If I lose thee, my loss is my love's gain, And losing her, my friend hath found that loss;Both find each other, and I lose both twain, And both for my sake lay on me this cross: But here's the joy; my friend and I are one;Sweet flattery! then she loves but me alone.
43
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, And darkly bright, are bright in dark directed. Then thou, whose shadow shadows doth makebright, How would thy shadow's form form happy show To the clear day with thy much clearer light, When to unseeing eyes thy shade shines so! How would, I say, mine eyes be blessed made By looking on thee in the living day, When in dead night thy fair imperfect shade Through heavy sleep on sightless eyes doth stay! All days are nights to see till I see thee, And nights bright days when dreams do show thee me.
44
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, From limits far remote, where thou dost stay. No matter then although my foot did stand Upon the furthest earth remov'd from thee; For nimble thought can jump both sea and land. As soon as think the place where he would be. But, ah! thought kills me that I am not thought, To leap large lengths of miles when thou artgone,But that, so much of earth and water wrought, I must attend time's leisure with my moan; Receiving nought by elements so slow But heavy tears, badges of either's woe.
45
The other two, slight air and purging fire, Are both with thee, wherever I abide;The first my thought, the other my desire,These present-absent with swift motion slide.For when these quicker elements are goneIn tender embassy of love to thee, My life, being made of four, with two aloneSinks down to death, oppress'd with melancholy;Until life's composition be recur'd By those sweet messengers return'd from thee, Who even but now come back again, assur'd Of thy fair health, recounting it to me: This told, I joy; but then no longer glad, I send them back again, and straight grow sad.
46
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 wouldbar,My heart mine eye the freedom of that right. My heart doth plead that thou in him dostlie,-A closet never pierc'd with crystal eyes,— But the defendant doth that plea deny, And says in him thy fair appearance lies. To 'cide this title is impannelled A quest of thoughts, all tenants to the heart;And by their verdict is determined The clear eye's moiety and the dear heart'spart: As thus; mine eye's due is thine outward part, And my heart's right thine inward love of heart.
47
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, Or heart in love with sighs himself doth smo- ther,With my love's picture then my eye doth feast, And to the painted banquet bids my heart; Another time mine eye is my heart's guest, And in his thoughts of love doth share a part:So, either by thy picture or my love, Thyself away art present still with me;For thou not further than my thoughts canstmove, And I am still with them and they with thee;Or, if they sleep, thy picture in my sight Awakes my heart to heart's and eye's delight.
48
How careful was I when I took my way,Each trifle under truest bars to thrust,That to my use it might unused stayFrom 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 andpart; And even thence thou wilt be stol'n, I fear, For truth proves thievish for a prize so dear.
49
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, Call'd to that audit by advis'd respects;Against that time when thou shalt strangelypass, And scarcely greet me with that sun, thine eye, When love, converted from the thing it was, Shall reasons find of settled gravity;Against that time do I ensconce me here Within the knowledge of mine own desert, And this my hand against myself uprear, To guard the lawful reasons on thy part: To leave poor me thou hast the strength of laws,Since why to love I can allege no cause.
50
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 thyfriend!'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.

51
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 methence?Till I return, of posting is no need.O! what excuse will my poor beast then find, When swift extremity can seem but slow? Then should I spur, though mounted on the wind, In winged speed no motion shall I know:Then can no horse with my desire keep pace;Therefore desire, of perfect'st love being made, Shall neigh—no dull flesh—in his fiery race; But love, for love, thus shall excuse my jade,— 'Since from thee going he went wilful-slow, Towards thee I'll run and give him leave to go.'
52
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, For blunting the fine point of seldom pleasure. Therefore are feasts so solemn and so rare, Since, seldom coming, in the long year set, Like stones of worth they thinly placed are, Or captain jewels in the carconet.So is the time that keeps you as my chest, Or as the wardrobe which the robe doth hide, To make some special instant special blest By new unfolding his imprison'd pride. Blessed are you, whose worthiness gives scope, Being had, to triumph; being lack'd, to hope.
53
What is your substance, whereof are you made, That millions of strange shadows on you tend? Since every one hath, every one, one shade, And you, but one, can every shadow lend. Describe Adonis, and the counterfeit Is poorly imitated after you; On Helen's cheek all art of beauty set, And you in Grecian tires are painted new:Speak of the spring and foison of the year, The one doth shadow of your beauty show, The other as your bounty doth appear;And you in every blessed shape we know. In all external grace you have some part, But you like none, none you, for constant heart.
54
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 For that sweet odour which doth in it live. The canker-blooms have full as deep a dye As the perfumed tincture of the roses, Hang on such thorns, and play as wantonly When summer's breath their masked buds dis- closes;But, for their virtue only is their show, They live unwoo'd, and unrespected fade;Die to themselves. Sweet roses do not so; Of their sweet deaths are sweetest odours made:And so of you, beauteous and lovely youth, When that shall vade, my verse distils your truth.

55
Not marble, nor the gilded monuments Of princes, shall outhve this powerful rime;But you shall shine more bright in these con- tents Than unswept stone, besmear'd with sluttishtime.When wasteful war shall statues overturn, And broils root out the work of masonry, Nor Mars his sword nor war's quick fire shallburnThe living record of your memory. 'Gainst death and all-oblivious enmity Shall you pace forth; your praise shall still findroomEven in the eyes of all posterity That wear this world out to the ending doom. So, till the judgment that yourself arise, You live in this, and dwell in lovers' eyes.
56
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, To-morrow sharpen'd in his former might:So, love, be thou; although to-day thou fill Thy hungry eyes, even till they wink with fulness, To-morrrow see again, and do not kill The spirit of love with a perpetual dulness. Let this sad interim like the ocean be Which parts the shore, where two contractednewCome daily to the banks, that, when they see Return of love, more bless'd may be the view; Or call it winter, which, being full of care, Makes summer's welcome thrice more wish'd, more rare.
57
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, Nor services to do, till you require. Nor dare I chide the world-without-end hour Whilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for you, Nor think the bitterness of absence sour When you have bid your servant once adieu;Nor dare I question with my jealous thought Where you may be, or your affairs suppose, But, like a sad slave, stay and think of nought, Save, where you are how happy you make those. So true a fool is love that in your will, Though you do anything, he thinks no ill.
58
That god forbid that made me first your slave, I should in thought control your times of plea- sure,Or at your hand the account of hours to crave, Being your vassal, bound to stay your leisure!O! let me suffer, being at your beck, The imprison'd absence of your liberty; And patience, tame to sufferance, bide eachcheck,Without accusing you of injury. Be where you list, your charter is so strong That you yourself may privilege your time To what you will; to you it doth belong Yourself to pardon of self-doing crime. I am to wait, though waiting so be hell, Not blame your pleasure, be it ill or well.
59
If there be nothing new, but that which is Hath been before, how are our brains beguil'd, Which, labouring for invention, bear amiss The second burden of a former child!O! that record could with a backward look, Even of five hundred courses of the sun, Show me your image in some antique book, Since mind at first in character was done!That I might see what the old world couldsay To this composed wonder of your frame;Whe'r we are mended, or whe'r better they, Or whether revolution be the same. O! sure I am, the wits of former days To subjects worse have given admiring praise.
60
Like as the waves make towards the pebbledshore, So do our minutes hasten to their end;Each changing place with that which goes be- fore,In sequent toil all forwards do contend. Nativity, once in the main of light, Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crown'd, Crooked eclipses 'gainst his glory fight, And Time that gave doth now his gift confound. Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth And delves the parallels in beauty's brow, Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth, And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow:And yet to times in hope my verse shallstand, Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand.
61
Is it thy will thy image should keep open My heavy eyelids to the weary night? Dost thou desire my slumbers should be bro- ken, While shadows, like to thee, do mock mysight?Is it thy spirit that thou send'st from thee So far from home, into my deeds to pry, To find out shames and idle hours in me, The scope and tenour of thy jealousy? O, no! thy love, though much, is not so great:It is my love that keeps mine eye awake;Mine own true love that doth my rest defeat, To play the watchman ever for thy sake: For thee watch I whilst thou dost wake else- where, From me far off, with others all too near.
62
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, It is so grounded inward in my heart. Methinks no face so gracious is as mine, No shape so true, no truth of such account; And for myself mine own worth do define, As I all other in all worths surmount. But when my glass shows me myself indeed, Beated and chopp'd with tann'd antiquity, Mine own self-love quite contrary I read;Self so self-loving were iniquity. 'Tis thee, myself,—that for myself I praise, Painting my age with beauty of thy days

63
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 hisbrow With lines and wrinkles; when his youthfulmorn Hath travell'd on to age's steepy night;And all those beauties whereof now he's king Are vanishing or vanish'd out of sight, Stealing away the treasure of his spring;For such a time do I now fortify Against confounding age's cruel knife, That he shall never cut from memory My sweet love's beauty, though my lover's life:His beauty shall in these black lines be seen, And they shall live, and he in them still green.
64
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, And brass eternal slave to mortal rage;When I have seen the hungry ocean gain Advantage on the kingdom of the shore, And the firm soil win of the watery main, Increasing store with loss, and loss with store;When I have seen such interchange of state, Or state itself confounded to decay;Ruin hath taught me thus to ruminate— That Time will come and take my love away. This thought is as a death, which cannot choose But weep to have that which it fears to lose.
65
Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundlesssea,But sad mortality o'ersways their power, How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea, Whose action is no stronger than a flower?O! how shall summer's honey breath hold out Against the wrackful siege of battering days, When rocks impregnable are not so stout, Nor gates of steel so strong, but Time decays? O fearful meditation! where, alack, Shall Time's best jewel from Time's chest lie hid? Or what strong hand can hold his swift footback?Or who his spoil of beauty can forbid? O! none, unless this miracle have might, That in black ink my love may still shine bright.
66
Tir'd with all these, for restful death I cry As to behold desert a beggar born, And needy nothing trimm'd in jollity, And purest faith unhappily forsworn, And gilded honour shamefully misplac'd, And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted, And right perfection wrongfully disgrac'd, And strength by limping sway disabled,And art made tongue-tied by authority,And folly—doctor-like—controlling skill,And simple truth miscall'd simplicity,And captive good attending captain ill: Tir'd with all these, from these would I bo gone,Save that, to die, I leave my love alone.
67
Ah! wherefore with infection should he live, And with his presence grace impiety, That sin by him advantage should achieve, And lace itself with his society? Why should false painting imitate his cheek, And steal dead seeing of his living hue? Why should poor beauty indirectly seek Roses of shadow, since his rose is true? Why should he live, now Nature bankrupt is, Beggar'd of blood to blush through lively veins? For she hath no exchequer now but his, And, proud of many, lives upon his gains. O! him she stores, to show what wealth she had In days long since, before these last so bad.
68
Thus is his cheek the map of days outworn, When beauty liv'd and died as flowers do now, Before these bastard signs of fair were born, Or durst inhabit on a living brow;Before the golden tresses of the dead, The right of sepulchres, were shorn away, To live a second life on second head;Ere beauty's dead fleece made another gay:In him those holy antique hours are seen, Without all ornament, itself and true, Making no summer of another's green, Robbing no old to dress his beauty new; And him as for a map doth Nature store, To show false Art what beauty was of yore.
69
Those parts of thee that the world's eye dothview Want nothing that the thought of hearts canmend;All tongues—the voice of souls—give thee thatdue,Uttering bare truth, even so as foes commend. Thy outward thus with outward praise iscrown'd;But those same tongues, that give thee so thineown, In other accents do this praise confound By seeing farther than the eye hath shown. They look into the beauty of thy mind, And that, in guess, they measure by thy deeds;Then,—churls,—their thoughts, although theireyes were kind, To thy fair flower add the rank smell of weeds:But why thy odour matcheth not thy show, The soil is this, that thou dost common grow.
70
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, A crow that flies in heaven's sweetest air. So thou be good, slander doth but approve Thy worth the greater, being woo'd of time; For canker vice the sweetest buds doth love, And thou present'st a pure unstained prime. Thou hast pass'd by the ambush of young days, Either not assail'd, or victor being charg'd;Yet this thy praise cannot be so thy praise, To tie up envy evermore enlarg'd: If some suspect of ill mask'd not thy show, Then thou alone kingdoms of hearts shouldst owe.
71
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 From this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell:Nay, if you read this line, remember notThe hand that writ it; for I love you so, That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot,If thinking on me then should make you woe.O! if,—I say, you look upon this verse,When I perhaps compounded am with clay,Do not so much as my poor name rehearse,But let your love even with my life decay; Lest the wise world should look into your moan,And mock you with me after I am gone.
72
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, For you in me can nothing worthy prove;Unless you would devise some virtuous lie, To do more for me than mine own desert, And hang more praise upon deceased I Than niggard truth would willingly impart:O! lest your true love may seem false in this, That you for love speak well of me untrue, My name be buried where my body is, And live no more to shame nor me nor you. For I am sham'd by that which I bring forth, And so should you, to love things nothing worth.
73
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, Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birdssang.In me thou see'st the twilight of such day As after sunset fadeth in the west; Which by and by black night doth take away, Death's second self, that seals up all in restIn me thou see'st the glowing of such fire, That on the ashes of his youth doth lie, As the death-bed whereon it must expire Consum'd with that which it was nourish'd by. This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy lovemore strong,To love that well which thou must leave ere long.
74
But be contented: when that fell arrest Without all bail shall carry me away, My life hath in this line some interest, Which for memorial still with thee shall stay. When thou reviewest this, thou dost review The very part was consecrate to thee: The earth can have but earth, which is his due;My spirit is thine, the better part of me:So then thou hast but lost the dregs of life, The prey of worms, my body being dead;The coward conquest of a wretch's knife, Too base of thee to be remembered. The worth of that is that which it contains, And that is this, and this with thee remains.
75
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 As 'twixt a miser and his wealth is found;Now proud as an enjoyer, and anon Doubting the filching age will steal his trea- sure; Now counting best to be with you alone, Then better'd that the world may see my plea- sure:Sometime, all full with feasting on your sight, And by and by clean starved for a look;Possessing or pursuing no delight, Save what is had or must from you be took. Thus do I pine and surfeit day by day,Or gluttoning on all, or all away.

76
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 To new-found methods and to compoundsstrange?Why write I still all one, ever the same, And keep invention in a noted weed, That every word doth almost tell my name, Showing their birth, and where they did pro- ceed?O! know, sweet love, I always write of you, And you and love are still my argument;So all my best is dressing old words new, Spending again what is already spent: For as the sun is daily new and old, So is my love still telling what is told.
77
Thy glass will show thee how thy beauties wear, Thy dial how thy precious minutes waste;The vacant leaves thy mind's imprint will bear, And of this book this learning mayst thou taste. The wrinkles which thy glass will truly show Of mouthed graves will give thee memory; Thou by thy dial's shady stealth mayst know Time's thievish progress to eternity. Look! what thy memory cannot contain, Commit to these waste blanks, and thou shaltfindThose children nursed, deliver'd from thy brain, To take a new acquaintance of thy mind. These offices, so oft as thou wilt look, Shall profit thee and much enrich thy book.
78
So oft have I invok'd thee for my Muse And found such fair assistance in my verse As every alien pen hath got my use And under thee their poesy disperse. Thine eyes, that taught the dumb on high tosingAnd heavy ignorance aloft to fly, Have added feathers to the learned's wing And given grace a double majesty. Yet be most proud of that which I compile, Whose influence is thine, and born of thee:In others' works thou dost but mend the style, And arts with thy sweet graces graced be; But thou art all my art, and dost advance As high as learning my rude ignorance

79
Whilst I alone did call upon thy aid, My verse alone had all thy gentle grace;But now my gracious numbers are decay'd, And my sick muse doth give another place. I grant, sweet love, thy lovely argument Deserves the travail of a worthier pen; Yet what of thee thy poet doth invent He robs thee of, and pays it thee again. He lends thee virtue, and be stole that word From thy behaviour; beauty doth he give, And found it in thy cheek; he can afford No praise to thee but what in thee doth live. Then thank him not for that which he dothsay, Since what he owes thee thou thyself dostpay.
80
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, To make me tongue-tied, speaking of your fame! But since your worth—wide as the ocean is,— The humble as the proudest sail doth bear, My saucy bark, inferior far to his, On your broad main doth wilfully appear.Your shallowest help will hold me up afloat, Whilst he upon your soundless deep doth ride;Or, being wrack'd, I am a worthless boat, He of tall building and of goodly pride: Then if he thrive and I be cast away, The worst was this;—my lover was my decay.
81
Or I shall live your epitaph to make, Or you. survive when I in earth am rotten;From hence your memory death cannot take, Although in me each part will be forgotten. Your name from hence immortal life shallhave, Though I, once gone, to all the world mustdie: The earth can yield me but a common grave, When you entombed in men's eyes shall lie. Your monument shall be my gentle verse, Which eyes not yet created shall o'er-read;And tongues to be your being shall rehearse, When all the breathers of this world are dead;You still shall live,—such virtue hath mypen,—Where breath most breathes,—even in the mouths of men.
82
I grant thou wert not married to my Muse, And therefore mayst without attaint o'erlook The dedicated words which writers use Of their fair subject, blessing every book. Thou art as fair in knowledge as in hue, Finding thy worth a limit past my praise; And therefore art enforc'd to seek anew Some fresher stamp of the time-bettering days. And do so, love; yet when they have de-vis'd What strained touches rhetoric can lend, Thou truly fair wert truly sympathized In true plain words by thy true-telling friend;And their gross painting might be better used Where cheeks need blood; in thee it is abus'd.
83
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 The barren tender of a poet's debt:And therefore have I slept in your report, That you yourself, being extant, well might show How far a modern quill doth come too short, Speaking of worth, what worth in you dothgrow.This silence for my sin you did impute, Which shall be most my glory, being dumb;For I impair not beauty being mute, When others would give life, and bring a tomb. There lives more life in one of your fair eyes Than both your poets can in praise devise.
84
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 Which should example where your equal grew. Lean penury within that pen doth dwell That to his subject lends not some small glory;But he that writes of you, if he can tell That you are you, so dignifies his story, Let him but copy what in you is writ, Not making worse what nature made so clear, And such a counterpart shall fame his wit, Making his style admired every where. You to your beauteous blessings add a curse, Being fond on praise, which makes your praises worse.
85
My tongue-tied Muse in manners holds her still, Whilst comments of your praise, richly compiled, Deserve their character with golden quill, And precious phrase by all the Muses filed. I think good thoughts, while others write goodwords,And, like unletter'd clerk, still cry 'Amen' To every hymn that able spirit affords, In polish'd form of well-refined pen. Hearing you prais'd, I say, ' 'Tis so, 'tis true,' And to the most of praise add something more;But that is in my thought, whose love to you, Though words come hindmost, holds his rankbefore. Then others for the breath of words respect, Me for my dumb thoughts, speaking in effect.

86
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, Making their tomb the womb wherein they grew? Was it his spirit, by spirits taught to write Above a mortal pitch, that struck me dead? No, neither he, nor his compeers by night Giving him aid, my verse astonished. He, nor that affable familiar ghost Which nightly gulls him with intelligence, As victors of my silence cannot boast;I was not sick of any fear from thence: But when your countenance fill'd up his line, Then lack'd I matter; that enfeebled mine.
87
Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing, And like enough thou know'st thy estimate:The charter of thy worth gives thee releasing;My bonds in thee are all determinate. For how do I hold thee but by thy granting? And for that riches where is my deserving? The cause of this fair gift in me is wanting, And so my patent back again is swerving.Thyself thou gav'st, thy own worth then notknowing, Or me, to whom thou gav'st it, else mistaking;So thy great gift, upon misprision growing, Comes home again, on better judgment mak- ing. Thus have I had thee, as a dream doth flat- ter, In sleep a king, but, waking, no such matter.
88
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, And prove thee virtuous, though thou art for- sworn.With mine own weakness, being best acquainted, Upon thy part I can set down a story Of faults conceal'd, wherein I am attainted;That thou in losing me shalt win much glory:And I by this will be a gainer too;For bending all my loving thoughts on thee, The injuries that to myself I do, Doing thee vantage, double-vantage me. Such is my love, to thee I so belong, That for thy right myself will bear all wrong.
89
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, Against thy reasons making no defence. Thou canst not, love, disgrace me half so ill, To set a form upon desired change, As I'll myself disgrace; knowing thy will, I will acquaintance strangle, and look strange;Be absent from thy walks; and in my tongue Thy sweet beloved name no more shall dwell, Lest I, too much profane, should do it wrong, And haply of our old acquaintance tell. For thee, against myself I'll vow debate, For I must ne'er love him whom thou dost hate.
90
Then hate me when thou wilt; if ever, now;Now, while the world is bent my deeds tocross,Join with the spite of fortune, make me bow, And do not drop in for an after-loss:Ah! do not, when my heart hath 'scap'd this sorrow,Come in the rearward of a conquer'd woe; Give not a windy night a rainy morrow,To linger out a purpos'd overthrow.If thou wilt leave me, do not leave me last,When other petty griefs have done their spite,But in the onset come: so shall I tasteAt first the very worst of fortune's might; And other strains of woe, which now seem woe,Compar'd with loss of thee will not seem so.

91
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-fangledill;Some in their hawks and hounds, some in theirhorse;And every humour hath his adjunct pleasure, Wherein it finds a joy above the rest: But these particulars are not my measure;All these I better in one general best.Thy love is better than high birth to me,Richer than wealth, prouder than garments'cost, Of more delight than hawks or horses be;And having thee, of all men's pride I boast: Wretched in this alone, that thou maysttake All this away, and me most wretched make.
92
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, For it depends upon that love of thine. Then need I not to fear the worst of wrongs, When in the least of them my life hath end. I see a better state to me belongs Than that which on thy humour doth depend:Thou canst not vex me with inconstant mind, Since that my life on thy revolt doth lie.O! what a happy title do I find, Happy to have thy love, happy to die: But what's so blessed-fair that fears no blot? Thou mayst be false, and yet I know it not.
93
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;Thy looks with me, thy heart in other place:For there can live no hatred in thine eye, Therefore in that I cannot know thy change. In many's looks the false heart's history Is writ in moods, and frowns, and wrinklesstrange,But heaven in thy creation did decree That in thy face sweet love should ever dwell;Whate'er thy thoughts or thy heart's workingsbe, Thy looks should nothing thence but sweetnesstell. How like Eve's apple doth thy beauty grow, If thy sweet virtue answer not thy show!
94
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, Unmoved, cold, and to temptation slow;They rightly do inherit heaven's graces, And husband nature's riches from expense; They are the lords and owners of their faces, Others but stewards of their excellence. The summer's flower is to the summer sweet, Though to itself it only live and die, But if that flower with base infection meet, The basest weed outbraves his dignity: For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds;Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds.
95
How sweet and lovely dost thou make theshameWhich, 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-us'd doth lose his edge.
96
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:Thou makest faults graces that to thee resort. As on the finger of a throned queen The basest jewel will be well esteem'd, So are those errors that in thee are seen To truths translated and for true things deem'd. How many lambs might the stern wolf betray, If like a lamb he could his looks translate! How many gazers mightst thou lead away, If thou wouldst use the strength of all thystate! But do not so; I love thee in such sort, As, thou being mine, mine is thy good report.
97
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.
98
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.
99
The forward violet thus did I chide:Sweet thief, whence didst thou steal thy sweetthat smells,If not from my love's breath? The purple pride Which on thy soft cheek for complexion dwells In my love's veins thou hast too grossly dyed. The lily I condemned for thy hand, And buds of marjoram had stol'n thy hair;The roses fearfully on thorns did stand, One blushing shame, another white despair;A third, nor red nor white, had stol'n of both, And to his robbery had annex'd thy breath;But, for his theft, in pride of all his growth A vengeful canker eat him up to death. More flowers I noted, yet I none could see But sweet or colour it had stol'n from thee.
100
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, Darkening thy power to lend base subjects light? Return, forgetful Muse, and straight redeem In gentle numbers time so idly spent; Sing to the car that doth thy lays esteem And gives thy pen both skill and argument. Rise, resty Muse, my love's sweet face survey, If Time have any wrinkle graven there;If any, be a satire to decay, And make Time's spoils despised every where. Give my love fame faster than Time wastes life;So thou prevent'st his scythe and crooked knife.