Sonnets - The Original Classic Edition. Shakespeare William

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,

       3

       Harsh, featureless, and rude, barrenly perish:

       Look, whom she best endow'd, she gave thee 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

       4

       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 dimm'd,

       And every fair from fair sometime declines,

       By chance, or nature's changing course untrimm'd: 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,

       5

       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 fleets,

       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, Stirr'd 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 fix'd in heaven's air: