Bulchevy's Book of English Verse Part 29

William Shakespeare. 1564-1616

150. Sonnets vi

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 discloses: 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.

William Shakespeare. 1564-1616

151. Sonnets vii

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 any thing, he thinks no ill.

William Shakespeare. 1564-1616

152. Sonnets viii

THAT time of year thou may'st 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 birds sang, 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 rest.

In 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, Consumed with that which it was nourish'd by.

This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong To love that well which thou must leave ere long.

William Shakespeare. 1564-1616

153. Sonnets ix

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 not knowing, Or me, to whom thou gav'st it, else mistaking; So thy great gift, upon misprision growing, Comes home again, on better judgment making.

Thus have I had thee, as a dream doth flatter In sleep a King; but waking, no such matter.

William Shakespeare. 1564-1616

154. Sonnets x

THEN hate me when thou wilt; if ever, now; Now, while the world is bent my deeds to cross, 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 'scaped this sorrow, Come in the rearward of a conquer'd woe; Give not a windy night a rainy morrow, To linger out a purposed 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 taste At first the very worst of fortune's might; And other strains of woe, which now seem woe, Compared with loss of thee will not seem so!

William Shakespeare. 1564-1616

155. Sonnets xi

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.

William Shakespeare. 1564-1616

156. Sonnets xii

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 everywhere!

And yet this time removed was summer's time; The teeming Autumn, big with rich increase, Bearing the wanton burden of the prime Like widow'd wombs after their Lord's 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.

William Shakespeare. 1564-1616

157. Sonnets xiii

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 everything, 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.

William Shakespeare. 1564-1616

158. Sonnets xiv

MY love is strengthen'd, though more weak in seeming; I love not less, though less the show appear: That love is merchandised whose rich esteeming The owner's tongue doth publish everywhere.

Our love was new, and then but in the spring, When I was wont to greet it with my lays; As Philomel in summer's front doth sing And stops her pipe in growth of riper days: Not that the summer is less pleasant now Than when her mournful hymns did hush the night, But that wild music burthens every bough, And sweets grown common lose their dear delight.

Therefore, like her, I sometime hold my tongue, Because I would not dull you with my song.

William Shakespeare. 1564-1616

159. Sonnets xv

TO me, fair friend, you never can be old; For as you were when first your eye I eyed, Such seems your beauty still. Three Winters cold Have from the forests shook three Summers' pride; Three beauteous springs to yellow Autumn turn'd In process of the seasons have I seen, Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burn'd, Since first I saw you fresh, which yet are green.

Ah! yet doth beauty, like a dial-hand, Steal from his figure, and no pace perceived; So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand, Hath motion, and mine eye may be deceived: For fear of which, hear this, thou age unbred: Ere you were born was beauty's summer dead.

William Shakespeare. 1564-1616

160. Sonnets xvi

WHEN in the chronicle of wasted time I see descriptions of the fairest wights, And beauty making beautiful old rime In praise of Ladies dead and lovely Knights; Then, in the blazon of sweet beauty's best, Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow, I see their antique pen would have exprest Even such a beauty as you master now.

So all their praises are but prophecies Of this our time, all you prefiguring; And for they look'd but with divining eyes, They had not skill enough your worth to sing: For we, which now behold these present days, Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise.