Lines from the sonnets

Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. And dig deep trenches in thy beauty’s field, Thou art thy mother’s glass, and she in thee Nature’s bequest gives nothing, but doth lend For never-resting time leads summer on Beauty o’ersnowed, and bareness everywhere: 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. Make sweet some phial; treasure thou some place And having climb’d the steep-up heavenly hill Music to hear, why hear’st thou music sadly? Whose speechless song, being many,…

Lines from the sonnets

Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. And dig deep trenches in thy beauty’s field, Thou art thy mother’s glass, and she in thee Nature’s bequest gives nothing, but doth lend For never-resting time leads summer on Beauty o’ersnowed, and bareness everywhere: 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. Make sweet some phial; treasure thou some place And having climb’d the steep-up heavenly hill Music to hear, why hear’st thou music sadly? Whose speechless song, being many,…