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, seeming one
The world will be thy window, and still weep
No love toward others in that bosom sits,
That on himself such murderous shame commits.
O change thy thought, that I may change my mind!
Make thee another self, for love of me
Herein lives wisdom, beauty and increase:
That thou among the wastes of time must go,
O that you were yourself: but love, you are
You had a father; let your love say so.
But from thine eyes my knowledge I derive,
And (constant stars) in them I read such art
As truth and beauty shall together thrive
Holds in perfection but a little moment
And, all in war with Time, for love of you,
And in fresh numbers number all your graces
And every fair from fair sometime declines
But thy eternal summer shall not fade
And burn the long-liv’d phoenix in her blood
Hast thou, the master-mistress of my passion
O let me, true in love, but truly write
As those gold candles fix’d in heaven’s air
O learn to read what silent love hath writ
For through the painter must thou see his skill
They draw but what they see, know not the heart.
The painful warrior famoused for fight
Lord of my love, to whom in vassalage
And puts apparel on my tatter’d loving
But then begins a journey in my head
To work my mind, when body’s work expir’d:
Looking on darkness which the blind do see:
But day by night and night by day oppressed
How far I toil, still farther off than thee
I tell the day, to please him, thou art bright,
But day both daily draw my sorrows longer
And night doth nightly make grief’s strength seem stronger.
Desiring this man’s art, and that man’s scope,
When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
I summon up remembrance of things past
But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,
Their images I lov’d I view in thee
And thou (all they) has all the all of me
Theirs for their style I’ll read, his for his love.
Gilding pale streams with heavnly alchymy
Stealing unseen to west with this disgrace
Although our undivided loves are one
When thou thyself dost give invention light?
Even for this let us divided live
Take all my loves, my love, yea, take them all;
When I am sometime absent from thy heart,
And, darkly bright, are bright in dark directed
And nights, bright days, when dreams do show thee me.
If the dull substance of my flesh were thought,
Upon the farthest earth remov’d from thee
But ah! Thought kills me, that I am not thought
In tender embassy of love to thee
Mine eye and heart are at a mortal war,
(A closet never pierced with crystal eyes,)
A quest of thoughts, all tenants to the heart;
Thyself away art present still with me;
Thou, best of dearest, and mine only care,
Against that time, if ever that time come
When love, converted from the thing it was,
Within the knowledge of mine own desert
In winged speed no motion shall I know:
But love, for love, thus shall excuse my jade;
That millions of strange shadows on you tend?
Since every one hath, every one, one’s shade,
But you like none, none you, for constant heart.
Die to themselves. Sweet roses do not so;
Not marble, nor the gilded monuments
When wasteful war shall statues overturn,
The living record of your memory.
Sweet love, renew thy force; be it not said
Let this sad interim like the ocean be
Nor dare I chide the world-without-end hour,
Whilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for you
Save, where you are how happy you make those
If there be nothing new, but that which is
That I might see what the old world could say
To this composed wonder of thy frame;
Whether we are mended, or whe’r better they,
Or whether revolution be the same.
So do our minutes hasten to their end
From me far off, with others all-too-near.
But when my glass shows me myself indeed.
And all those beauties, whereof now he’s king
That he shall never cut from memory
And brass eternal, slave to mortal rage;
Increasing store with loss; and loss with store;
Ruin hath taught me thus to ruminate –
Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea
Against the wreckful siege of battering days
That in black ink my love may still shine bright
And lace itself with his society?
Roses of shadow, since his rose is true
Thus is his cheek the map of days outworn,
… In him those holy antique hours are seen,
Without all ornament, itself, and true,
Making no summer of another’s green,
Robbing no old to dress his beauty new
Want nothing that the thought of hearts can mend
Thine outward thus with outward praise is crown’d;
The hand that writ it; for I love thee so
After my death, dear love, forget me quite,
For you in me can nothing worthy prove;
My name be buried where my body is
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Bare ruin’d choires, where late the sweet birds sang.
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie
Possessing or pursuing no delight
O know, sweet love, I always write of you,
So all my best is dressing old words new
Thy dial how thy precious minutes waste
Time’s thievish progress to eternity
And arts with thy sweet graces graced be;
But thou art all my art,
But since your worth (wide as the ocean is)
Or I shall live your epitaph to make,
And tongues to be, your being shall rehearse,
Than this rich praise – That you alone are you?
Making their tomb the womb wherein they grew
In sleep a king, but, waking, no such matter
Then hate me when thou wilt; if ever, now;
If thou wilt leave me, do not leave me last,
Happy to have thy love, happy to die!
In many’s looks the false heart’s history
They are the lords and owners of their faces
That tongue that tells the story of thy days
The hardest knife ill-used doth lose his edge
How like a winter has my absence been
Yet seem’d it winter still, you, away,
Give my love fame faster than Time wastes life;
Even those that said I could not love you dearer;
But reckoning time, whose million’d accidents
Creep in ‘twixt vows, and change decrees of kings
Crowning the present, doubting the rest
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks
That I have hoisted sails to all the winds
The constancy and virtue of your love.
What potions have I drunk of Siren tears
Applying fears to hopes, and hopes to fears
And ruin’d love, when it is built anew
Which die for goodness, who have lived for crime
May time disgrace, and wretched minutes kill
Sweet beauty hath no name, no holy hour
Had, having, and in quest to have, extreme;
Prison my heart in thy steel bosom’s ward,
Among a number one is reckon’d none.
The better angel is a man right fair
And, Death once dead, there’s no more dying then.
Past cure I am, now reason is past care.
And you and love are still my argument.