The sonnets. William Shakespeare

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’.

      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 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 masked him from me now.

      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 brav’ry 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,

      Th’ 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.

      35

      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,

      My self 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 my self 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 despised,

      Whilst that this shadow doth such substance give,

      That I in thy abundance am sufficed,

      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 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,