I
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, Thy self 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. 一
对天生的尤物我们要求蕃盛，以便美的玫瑰永远不会枯死，但开透的花朵既要及时雕零，就应把记忆交给娇嫩的后嗣；但你，只和你自己的明眸定情，把自己当燃料喂养眼中的火焰，和自己作对，待自己未免太狠，把一片丰沃的土地变成荒田。 你现在是大地的清新的点缀，又是锦绣阳春的
唯一的前锋，为什么把富源葬送在嫩蕊里，温柔的鄙夫，要吝啬，反而浪用？
可怜这个世界吧，要不然，贪夫，就吞噬世界的份，由你和坟墓。 II
When forty winters shall besiege thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery so gazed on now, Will be a totter'd weed of small worth held: Then being asked, where all thy beauty lies, Where all the treasure of thy lusty days; To say, within thine own deep sunken eyes, Were an all-eating shame, and thriftless praise. How much more praise deserv'd thy beauty's use, If thou couldst answer 'This fair child of mine Shall sum my count, and make my old excuse,' Proving his beauty by succession thine! This were to be new made when thou art old, And see thy blood warm when thou feel'st it cold. 二
当四十个冬天围攻你的朱颜，在你美的园地挖下深的战壕，你青春的华服，那么被人艳羡，将成
褴褛的败絮，谁也不要瞧：那时人若问起你的美在何处，哪里是你那少壮年华的宝藏，你说，“在我这双深陷的眼眶里，是贪婪的羞耻，和无益的颂扬。”
你的美的用途会更值得赞美，如果你能够说，“我这宁馨小童将总结我的账，宽恕我的老迈，” 证实他的美在继承你的血统！
这将使你在衰老的暮年更生，并使你垂冷的血液感到重温。 III
Look in thy glass and tell the face thou viewest Now is the time that face should form another; Whose fresh repair if now thou not renewest, Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother. For where is she so fair whose unear'd womb Disdains the tillage of thy husbandry? Or who is he so fond will be the tomb Of his self-love, to stop posterity? Thou art thy mother's glass and she in thee Calls back the lovely April of her prime; So thou through windows of thine age shalt see,
Despite of wrinkles this thy golden time. But if thou live, remember'd not to be, Die single and thine image dies with thee. 三
照照镜子，告诉你那镜中的脸庞，说现在这庞儿应该另造一副；如果你不赶快为它重修殿堂，就欺骗世界，剥掉母亲的幸福。
因为哪里会有女人那么淑贞她那处女的胎不愿被你耕种？
哪里有男人那么蠢，他竟甘心做自己的坟墓，绝自己的血统？
你是你母亲的镜子，在你里面她唤回她的盛年的芳菲四月：同样，从你暮年的窗你将眺见——纵皱纹满脸——你这黄金的岁月。
但是你活着若不愿被人惦记，就独自死去，你的肖像和你一起。 IV
Unthrifty loveliness, why dost thou spend Upon thy self thy beauty's legacy?
Nature's bequest gives nothing, but doth lend, And being frank she lends to those are free:
Then, beauteous niggard, why dost thou abuse The bounteous largess given thee to give? Profitless usurer, why dost thou use So great a sum of sums, yet canst not live? For having traffic with thy self alone, Thou of thy self thy sweet self dost deceive: Then how when nature calls thee to be gone, What acceptable audit canst thou leave? Thy unused beauty must be tombed with thee, Which, used, lives th' executor to be. 四
俊俏的浪子，为什么把你那份美的遗产在你自己身上耗尽？
造化的馈赠非赐予，她只出赁；她慷慨，只赁给宽宏大量的人。
那么，美丽的鄙夫，为什么滥用那交给你转交给别人的厚礼？
赔本的高利贷者，为什么浪用那么一笔大款，还不能过日子？
因为你既然只和自己做买卖，就等于欺骗你那妩媚的自我。
这样，你将拿什么账目去交代，当造化唤你回
到她怀里长卧？
你未用过的美将同你进坟墓；用呢，就活着去执行你的遗嘱。 V
Those hours, that with gentle work did frame The lovely gaze where every eye doth dwell, Will play the tyrants to the very same And that unfair which fairly doth excel; For never-resting time leads summer on To hideous winter, and confounds him there; Sap checked with frost, and lusty leaves quite gone, Beauty o'er-snowed and bareness every where: Then were not summer's distillation left, A liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass, Beauty's effect with beauty were bereft, Nor it, nor no remembrance what it was:
But flowers distill'd, though they with winter meet, Leese but their show; their substance still lives sweet. 五
那些时辰曾经用轻盈的细工织就这众目共注的可爱明眸，终有天对它摆出魔王的面孔，把绝代
佳丽剁成龙锺的老丑：因为不舍昼夜的时光把盛夏带到狰狞的冬天去把它结果；生机被严霜窒息，绿叶又全下，白雪掩埋了美，满目是赤裸裸：那时候如果夏天尚未经提炼，让它凝成香露锁在玻璃瓶里，美和美的流泽将一起被截断，美，和美的记忆都无人再提起：但提炼过的花，纵和冬天抗衡，只失掉颜色，却永远吐着清芬。 VI
Then let not winter's ragged hand deface, In thee thy summer, ere thou be distilled: Make sweet some vial; treasure thou some place With beauty's treasure ere it be self-killed. That use is not forbidden usury,
Which happies those that pay the willing loan; That's for thy self to breed another thee, Or ten times happier, be it ten for one; Ten times thy self were happier than thou art, If ten of thine ten times refigured thee:
Then what could death do if thou shouldst depart, Leaving thee living in posterity?
Be not self-willed, for thou art much too fair To be death's conquest and make worms thine
heir. 六
那么，别让冬天嶙峋的手抹掉你的夏天，在你未经提炼之前：熏香一些瓶子；把你美的财宝藏在宝库里，趁它还未及消散。
这样的借贷并不是违禁取利，既然它使那乐意纳息的高兴；这是说你该为你另生一个你，或者，一个生十，就十倍地幸运；十倍你自己比你现在更快乐，如果你有十个儿子来重现你：这样，即使你长辞，死将奈你何，既然你继续活在你的后裔里？ 别任性：你那么标致，何必甘心做死的胜利品，让蛆虫做子孙。 VII
Lo! in the orient when the gracious light Lifts up his burning head, each under eye Doth homage to his new-appearing sight, Serving with looks his sacred majesty; And having climbed the steep-up heavenly hill, Resembling strong youth in his middle age, Yet mortal looks adore his beauty still, Attending on his golden pilgrimage:
But when from highmost pitch, with weary car, Like feeble age, he reeleth from the day, The eyes, 'fore duteous, now converted are From his low tract, and look another way: So thou, thyself outgoing in thy noon Unlooked on diest unless thou get a son. 七
看，当普照万物的太阳从东方抬起了火红的头，下界的眼睛都对他初升的景象表示敬仰，用目光来恭候他神圣的驾临；然后他既登上了苍穹的极峰，像精力饱满的壮年，雄姿英发，万民的眼睛依旧膜拜他的峥嵘，紧紧追随着他那疾驰的金驾。 但当他，像耄年拖着尘倦的车轮，从绝顶颤巍巍地离开了白天，众目便一齐从他下沉的足印移开它们那原来恭顺的视线。
同样，你的灿烂的日中一消逝，你就会悄悄死去，如果没后嗣。 VIII
Music to hear, why hear'st thou music sadly? Sweets with sweets war not, joy delights in joy: Why lov'st thou that which thou receiv'st not gladly, Or else receiv'st with pleasure thine annoy?
If the true concord of well-tuned sounds, By unions married, do offend thine ear, They do but sweetly chide thee, who confounds In singleness the parts that thou shouldst bear. Mark how one string, sweet husband to another, Strikes each in each by mutual ordering; Resembling sire and child and happy mother, Who, all in one, one pleasing note do sing: Whose speechless song being many, seeming one, Sings this to thee: 'Thou single wilt prove none.' IX
Is it for fear to wet a widow's eye, That thou consum'st thy self in single life? Ah! if thou issueless shalt hap to die, The world will wail thee like a makeless wife; The world will be thy widow and still weep That thou no form of thee hast left behind, When every private widow well may keep By children's eyes, her husband's shape in mind: Look what an unthrift in the world doth spend Shifts but his place, for still the world enjoys it; But beauty's waste hath in the world an end,
And kept unused the user so destroys it. No love toward others in that bosom sits That on himself such murd'rous shame commits. X
For shame deny that thou bear'st love to any, Who for thy self art so unprovident. Grant, if thou wilt, thou art beloved of many, But that thou none lov'st is most evident: For thou art so possessed with murderous hate, That 'gainst thy self 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 lodged 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.
XI
As fast as thou shalt wane, so fast thou grow'st In one of thine, from that which thou departest; And that fresh blood which youngly thou bestow'st,
Thou mayst call thine when thou from youth convertest. Herein lives wisdom, beauty, and increase; Without this folly, age, and cold decay: If all were minded so, the times should cease And threescore year would make the world away. Let those whom nature hath not made for store, Harsh, featureless, and rude, barrenly perish: Look whom she best endow'd, she gave the more; Which bounteous gift thou shouldst in bounty cherish: She carv'd thee for her seal, and meant thereby, Thou shouldst print more, not let that copy die.
XII
When I do count the clock that tells the time, And see the brave day sunk in hideous night; When I behold the violet past prime, And sable curls, all silvered o'er with white; When lofty trees I see barren of leaves, Which erst from heat did canopy the herd, And summer's green all girded up in sheaves, Borne on the bier with white and bristly beard, Then of thy beauty do I question make, That thou among the wastes of time must go,
Since sweets and beauties do themselves forsake And die as fast as they see others grow;
And nothing 'gainst Time's scythe can make defence Save breed, to brave him when he takes thee hence. XIII
O! that you were your self; but, love, you are No longer yours, than you your self here live: Against this coming end you should prepare, And your sweet semblance to some other give: So should that beauty which you hold in lease Find no determination; then you were Yourself again, after yourself's decease,
When your sweet issue your sweet form should bear. Who lets so fair a house fall to decay, Which husbandry in honour might uphold, Against the stormy gusts of winter's day And barren rage of death's eternal cold? O! none but unthrifts. Dear my love, you know, You had a father: let your son say so. XIV
Not from the stars do I my judgement pluck;
And yet methinks I have Astronomy, But not to tell of good or evil luck, Of plagues, of dearths, or seasons' quality; Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell, Pointing to each his thunder, rain and wind, Or say with princes if it shall go well By oft predict that I in heaven find: But from thine eyes my knowledge I derive, And, constant stars, in them I read such art As truth and beauty shall together thrive, If from thyself, to store thou wouldst convert; Or else of thee this I prognosticate:
Thy end is truth's and beauty's doom and date. XV
When I consider every thing that grows Holds in perfection but a little moment, That this huge stage presenteth nought but shows Whereon the stars in secret influence comment; When I perceive that men as plants increase, Cheered and checked even by the self-same sky, Vaunt in their youthful sap, at height decrease, And wear their brave state out of memory;
Then the conceit of this inconstant stay Sets you most rich in youth before my sight, Where wasteful Time debateth with decay To change your day of youth to sullied night, And all in war with Time for love of you, As he takes from you, I engraft you new. XVI
But wherefore do not you a mightier way Make war upon this bloody tyrant, Time? And fortify your self in your decay
With means more blessed than my barren rhyme? Now stand you on the top of happy hours, And many maiden gardens, yet unset,
With virtuous wish would bear you living flowers, Much liker than your painted counterfeit: So should the lines of life that life repair, Which this, Time's pencil, or my pupil pen, Neither in inward worth nor outward fair, Can make you live your self in eyes of men. To give away yourself, keeps yourself still, And you must live, drawn by your own sweet skill.
XVII
Who will believe my verse in time to come, If it were fill'd with your most high deserts? Though yet heaven knows it is but as a tomb Which hides your life, and shows not half your parts. If I could write the beauty of your eyes, And in fresh numbers number all your graces, The age to come would say 'This poet lies; Such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces.' So should my papers, yellow'd with their age, Be scorn'd, like old men of less truth than tongue, And your true rights be term'd a poet's rage And stretched metre of an antique song: But were some child of yours alive that time, You should live twice, in it, and in my rhyme. XVIII
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate: Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, And summer's lease hath all too short a date: Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, And often is his gold complexion dimmed,
And every fair from fair sometime declines, By chance, or nature's changing course untrimmed: But thy eternal summer shall not fade, Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st, Nor shall death brag thou wander'st in his shade, When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st, So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee. XIX
Devouring Time, blunt thou the lion's paws, And make the earth devour her own sweet brood; Pluck the keen teeth from the fierce tiger's jaws, And burn the long-liv'd phoenix, in her blood; Make glad and sorry seasons as thou fleet'st, And do whate'er thou wilt, swift-footed Time, To the wide world and all her fading sweets; But I forbid thee one most heinous crime: O! carve not with thy hours my love's fair brow, Nor draw no lines there with thine antique pen; Him in thy course untainted do allow For beauty's pattern to succeeding men. Yet, do thy worst old Time: despite thy wrong,
My love shall in my verse ever live young. XX
A woman's face with nature's own hand painted, Hast thou, the master mistress of my passion; A woman's gentle heart, but not acquainted With shifting change, as is false women's fashion: An eye more bright than theirs, less false in rolling, Gilding the object whereupon it gazeth; A man in hue all hues in his controlling,
Which steals men's eyes and women's souls amazeth. And for a woman wert thou first created; Till Nature, as she wrought thee, fell a-doting, And by addition me of thee defeated, By adding one thing to my purpose nothing. But since she prick'd thee out for women's pleasure, Mine be thy love and thy love's use their treasure. XXI
So is it not with me as with that Muse, Stirred by a painted beauty to his verse, Who heaven itself for ornament doth use And every fair with his fair doth rehearse,
Making a couplement of proud compare
With sun and moon, with earth and sea's rich gems, 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 fixed in heaven's air: Let them say more that like of hearsay well; I will not praise that purpose not to sell. XXII
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. XXIII
As an unperfect actor on the stage, Who with his fear is put beside his part, Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage, Whose strength's abundance weakens his own heart; 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 burthen of mine own love's might. O! let my looks 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 more express'd.
O! learn to read what silent love hath writ: To hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit. XXIV
Mine eye hath play'd the painter and hath steel'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 have done: Mine eyes have drawn thy shape, and thine for me Are windows to my breast, where-through the sun Delights to peep, to gaze therein on thee; Yet eyes this cunning want to grace their art, They draw but what they see, know not the heart.
XXV
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 foiled, Is from the book of honour razed quite, And all the rest forgot for which he toiled: Then happy I, that love and am beloved, Where I may not remove nor be removed. XXVI
Lord of my love, to whom in vassalage Thy merit hath my duty strongly knit, To thee I send this written embassage, 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 show it, 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 tottered 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. XXVII
Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed, The dear repose for limbs with travel tired; But then begins a journey in my head
To work my mind, when body's work's expired: 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 face new. Lo! thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind, For thee, and for myself, no quiet find. XXVIII
How can I then return in happy plight, That am debarred 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 farther off from thee. I tell 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 length seem stronger. XXIX
When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes I 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 possessed, Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope, With what I most enjoy contented least; Yet in these thoughts my self 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 remembered such wealth brings
That then I scorn to change my state with kings. XXX
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 time's waste: Then can I drown an eye, unused 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. XXXI
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. XXXII
If thou survive my well-contented day, When that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover
And shalt by fortune once more re-survey These poor rude lines of thy deceased 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'. XXXIII
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. XXXIV
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 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: The 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. XXXV
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 accessary needs must be,
To that sweet thief which sourly robs from me. XXXVI
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. XXXVII
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 substance give That 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! XXXVIII
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 thy self the thanks, if aught in me Worthy perusal stand against thy sight; For who's so dumb that cannot write to thee, When thou thy self 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. XXXIX
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. XL
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 blam'd, if thou thy self 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. XLI
Those pretty wrongs that liberty commits, When I am sometime 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 he have prevail'd? Ay me! but yet thou might'st my seat forbear, And chide thy beauty and thy straying youth, Who lead thee in their riot even there
Where thou art forced to break a twofold truth:-- Hers by thy beauty tempting her to thee, Thine by thy beauty being false to me. XLII
That thou hast her it is not all my grief, And yet it may be said I loved 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 love her; 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.
XLIII
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 make bright, 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. XLIV
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 farthest 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 art gone, 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. XLV
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 gone In tender embassy of love to thee,
My life, being made of four, with two alone Sinks down to death, oppress'd with melancholy; Until life's composition be recured
By those swift messengers return'd from thee, Who even but now come back again, assured 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. XLVI
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 would bar, My heart mine eye the freedom of that right. My heart doth plead that thou in him dost lie, 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's part: As thus: mine eye's due is thine outward part, And my heart's right, thine inward love of heart. XLVII
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 smother,
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, Thy self away, art present still with me;
For thou not farther than my thoughts canst move, 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 eyes' delight. XLVIII
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. XLIX
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, Called to that audit by advis'd respects; Against that time when thou shalt strangely pass, 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 my self 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. L
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 measured 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.
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