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Sonnet |
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A woman’s face with Nature’s own hand painted |
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Accuse me thus: that I have scanted all |
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Against my love shall be, as I am now |
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Against that time, if ever that time come |
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Ah, wherefore with infection should he live |
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Alack, what poverty my muse brings forth |
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Alas, ’tis true, I have gone here and there |
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As a decrepit father takes delight |
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As an unperfect actor on the stage |
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As fast as thou shalt wane, so fast thou grow’st |
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Be wise as thou art cruel; do not press |
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Being your slave, what should I do but tend |
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Beshrew that heart that makes my heart to groan |
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Betwixt mine eye and heart a league is took |
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But be contented when that fell arrest |
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But do thy worst to steal thyself away |
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But wherefore do not you a mightier way |
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Canst thou, O cruel, say I love thee not |
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Cupid laid by his brand and fell asleep |
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Devouring Time, blunt thou the lion’s paws |
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Farewell, thou art too dear for my possessing |
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For shame deny that thou bear’st love to any |
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From fairest creatures we desire increase |
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From you have I been absent in the spring |
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Full many a glorious morning have I seen |
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How can I then return in happy plight |
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How can my muse want subject to invent |
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How careful was I, when I took my way |
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How heavy do I journey on the way |
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How like a winter hath my absence been |
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How oft, when thou, my music, music play’st |
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How sweet and lovely dost thou make the shame |
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I grant thou wert not married to my muse |
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I never saw that you did painting need |
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If my dear love were but the child of state |
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If the dull substance of my flesh were thought |
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If there be nothing new, but that which is |
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If thou survive my well-contented day |
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If thy soul check thee that I come so near |
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In faith, I do not love thee with mine eyes |
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In loving thee thou know’st I am forsworn |
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In the old age, black was not counted fair |
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Is it for fear to wet a widow’s eye |
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Is it thy will thy image should keep open |
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Let me confess that we two must be twain |
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Let me not to the marriage of true minds |
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Let not my love be called idolatry |
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Let those who are in favor with their stars |
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Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore |
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Like as to make our appetites more keen |
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Lo, as a careful huswife runs to catch |
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Lo, in the orient when the gracious light |
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Look in thy glass and tell the face thou viewest |
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Lord of my love, to whom in vassalage |
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Love is my sin, and thy dear virtue hate |
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Love is too young to know what conscience is |
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Mine eye and heart are at a mortal war |
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Mine eye hath played the painter and hath stelled |
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Music to hear, why hear’st thou music sadly |
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My glass shall not persuade me I am old |
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My love is as a fever, longing still |
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My love is strengthened, though more weak in seeming |
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My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun |
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My tongue-tied muse in manners holds her still |
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No longer mourn for me when I am dead |
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No more be grieved at that which thou hast done |
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No, Time, thou shalt not boast that I do change |
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Not from the stars do I my judgment pluck |
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Not marble nor the gilded monuments |
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Not mine own fears nor the prophetic soul |
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O, call not me to justify the wrong |
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O, for my sake do you with Fortune chide |
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O, from what power hast thou this powerful might |
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O, how I faint when I of you do write |
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O, how much more doth beauty beauteous seem |
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O, how thy worth with manners may I sing |
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O, lest the world should task you to recite |
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O me, what eyes hath love put in my head |
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O, never say that I was false of heart |
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O, that you were your self! But, love, you are |
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O thou, my lovely boy, who in thy power |
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O truant muse, what shall be thy amends |
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Or I shall live your epitaph to make |
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Or whether doth my mind, being crowned with you |
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Poor soul, the center of my sinful earth |
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Say that thou didst forsake me for some fault |
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Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day |
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Sin of self-love possesseth all mine eye |
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Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea |
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Since I left you, mine eye is in my mind |
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So am I as the rich whose blessèd key |
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So are you to my thoughts as food to life |
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So is it not with me as with that muse |
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So, now I have confessed that he is thine |
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So oft have I invoked thee for my muse |
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So shall I live, supposing thou art true |
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Some glory in their birth, some in their skill |
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Some say thy fault is youth, some wantonness |
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Sweet love, renew thy force. Be it not said |
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Take all my loves, my love, yea, take them all |
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That god forbid, that made me first your slave |
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That thou art blamed shall not be thy defect |
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That thou hast her, it is not all my grief |
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That time of year thou mayst in me behold |
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That you were once unkind befriends me now |
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Th’ expense of spirit in a waste of shame |
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The forward violet thus did I chide |
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The little love-god, lying once asleep |
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The other two, slight air and purging fire |
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Then hate me when thou wilt, if ever, now |
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Then let not winter’s ragged hand deface |
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They that have power to hurt and will do none |
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Thine eyes I love, and they, as pitying me |
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Those hours that with gentle work did frame |
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Those lines that I before have writ do lie |
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Those lips that Love’s own hand did make |
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Those parts of thee that the world’s eye doth view |
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Those pretty wrongs that liberty commits |
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Thou art as tyrannous, so as thou art |
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Thou blind fool, Love, what dost thou to mine eyes |
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Thus can my love excuse the slow offense |
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Thus is his cheek the map of days outworn |
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Thy bosom is endearèd with all hearts |
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Thy gift, thy tables, are within my brain |
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Thy glass will show thee how thy beauties wear |
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Tired with all these, for restful death I cry |
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’Tis better to be vile than vile esteemed |
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To me, fair friend, you never can be old |
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Two loves I have, of comfort and despair |
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Unthrifty loveliness, why dost thou spend |
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Was it the proud full sail of his great verse |
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Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed |
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Were ’t aught to me I bore the canopy |
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What is your substance, whereof are you made |
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What potions have I drunk of siren tears |
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What’s in the brain that ink may character |
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When forty winters shall besiege thy brow |
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When I consider everything that grows |
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When I do count the clock that tells the time |
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When I have seen by Time’s fell hand defaced |
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When in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes |
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When in the chronicle of wasted time |
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When most I wink, then do mine eyes best see |
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When my love swears that she is made of truth |
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When thou shalt be disposed to set me light |
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When to the sessions of sweet silent thought |
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Where art thou, muse, that thou forget’st so long |
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Whilst I alone did call upon thy aid |
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Who is it that says most, which can say more |
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Who will believe my verse in time to come |
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Whoever hath her wish, thou hast thy will |
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Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day |
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Why is my verse so barren of new pride |
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Your love and pity doth th’ impression fill |