Shakespeare's Lady

by Alexa Schnee

  Levi, Peter. The Life and Times of William Shakespeare. London: Macmillan, 1988. Print.

  Neale, J. E. Elizabeth I and Her Parliaments. New York: St. Martin’s, 19. Print.

  Nuttall, A. D. Shakespeare the Thinker. New Haven, NJ: Yale UP, 2007. Print.

  Picard, Liza. Elizabeth’s London: Everyday Life in Elizabethan London. New York: St. Martin’s, 2004. Print.

  Plowden, Alison. The Young Elizabeth. New York: Stein and Day, 1971. Print.

  Rosenbaum, Ron. The Shakespeare Wars: Clashing Scholars, Public Fiascoes, Palace Coups. New York: Random House, 2006. Print.

  Rosenblum, Joseph. A Reader’s Guide to Shakespeare. Barnes & Noble Books, 1999. Print.

  Rowse, A. L. William Shakespeare: A Biography. New York: Harper & Row, 1963. Print.

  Sears, Elisabeth. Shakespeare and the Tudor Rose. Meadow Geese, 1991. Print.

  Shakespeare, William. The Complete Works of William Shakespeare. Ann Arbor: Borders Group, 1996. Print.

  Somerset, Anne. Elizabeth I. New York: Knopf, 1991. Print.

  Starkey, David. Elizabeth: the Struggle for the Throne. New York: HarperCollins, 2001. Print.

  Weir, Alison. The Life of Elizabeth I. New York: Ballantine, 1998. Print.

  THE DARK LADY SONNETS

  CXXVII

  In the old age black was not counted fair,

  Or if it were, it bore not beauty’s name;

  But now is black beauty’s successive heir,

  And beauty slandered with a bastard shame:

  For since each hand hath put on Nature’s power,

  Fairing the foul with Art’s false borrowed face,

  Sweet beauty hath no name, no holy bower,

  But is profaned, if not lives in disgrace.

  Therefore my mistress’ eyes are raven black,

  Her eyes so suited, and they mourners seem

  At such who, not born fair, no beauty lack,

  Sland’ring creation with a false esteem:

  Yet so they mourn becoming of their woe,

  That every tongue says beauty should look so.

  CXXVIII

  How oft when thou, my music, music play’st,

  Upon that blessed wood whose motion sounds

  With thy sweet fingers when thou gently sway’st

  The wiry concord that mine ear confounds,

  Do I envy those jacks that nimble leap,

  To kiss the tender inward of thy hand,

  Whilst my poor lips which should that harvest reap,

  At the wood’s boldness by thee blushing stand!

  To be so tickled, they would change their state

  And situation with those dancing chips,

  O’er whom thy fingers walk with gentle gait,

  Making dead wood more bless’d than living lips.

  Since saucy jacks so happy are in this,

  Give them thy fingers, me thy lips to kiss.

  CXXIX

  The expense of spirit in a waste of shame

  Is lust in action: and till action, lust

  Is perjured, murderous, bloody, full of blame,

  Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust;

  Enjoyed no sooner but despised straight;

  Past reason hunted; and no sooner had,

  Past reason hated, as a swallowed bait,

  On purpose laid to make the taker mad.

  Mad in pursuit and in possession so;

  Had, having, and in quest to have extreme;

  A bliss in proof, and proved, a very woe;

  Before, a joy proposed; behind a dream.

  All this the world well knows; yet none knows well

  To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell.

  CXXX

  My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun;

  Coral is far more red, than her lips red:

  If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;

  If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.

  I have seen roses damasked, red and white,

  But no such roses see I in her cheeks;

  And in some perfumes is there more delight

  Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.

  I love to hear her speak, yet well I know

  That music hath a far more pleasing sound:

  I grant I never saw a goddess go,

  My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:

  And yet by heaven, I think my love as rare,

  As any she belied with false compare.

  CXXXI

  Thou art as tyrannous, so as thou art,

  As those whose beauties proudly make them cruel;

  For well thou know’st to my dear doting heart

  Thou art the fairest and most precious jewel.

  Yet, in good faith, some say that thee behold,

  Thy face hath not the power to make love groan;

  To say they err I dare not be so bold,

  Although I swear it to myself alone.

  And to be sure that is not false I swear,

  A thousand groans, but thinking on thy face,

  One on another’s neck, do witness bear

  Thy black is fairest in my judgment’s place.

  In nothing art thou black save in thy deeds,

  And thence this slander, as I think, proceeds.

  CXXXII

  Thine eyes I love, and they, as pitying me,

  Knowing thy heart torments me with disdain,

  Have put on black and loving mourners be,

  Looking with pretty ruth upon my pain.

  And truly not the morning sun of heaven

  Better becomes the grey cheeks of the east,

  Nor that full star that ushers in the even,

  Doth half that glory to the sober west,

  As those two mourning eyes become thy face:

  O! let it then as well beseem thy heart

  To mourn for me since mourning doth thee grace,

  And suit thy pity like in every part.

  Then will I swear beauty herself is black,

  And all they foul that thy complexion lack.

  CXXXIII

  Beshrew that heart that makes my heart to groan

  For that deep wound it gives my friend and me!

  Is’t not enough to torture me alone,

  But slave to slavery my sweet’st friend must be?

  Me from myself thy cruel eye hath taken,

  And my next self thou harder hast engrossed:

  Of him, myself, and thee I am forsaken;

  A torment thrice three-fold thus to be crossed.

  Prison my heart in thy steel bosom’s ward,

  But then my friend’s heart let my poor heart bail;

  Whoe’er keeps me, let my heart be his guard;

  Thou canst not then use rigour in my jail:

  And yet thou wilt; for I, being pent in thee,

  Perforce am thine, and all that is in me.

  CXXXIV

  So now I have confessed that he is thine,

  And I myself am mortgaged to thy will,

  Myself I’ll forfeit, so that other mine

  Thou wilt restore to be my comfort still:

  But thou wilt not, nor he will not be free,

  For thou art covetous, and he is kind;

  He learned but surety-like to write for me,

  Under that bond that him as fast doth bind.

  The statute of thy beauty thou wilt take,

  Thou usurer, that put’st forth all to use,

  And sue a friend came debtor for my sake;

  So him I lose through my unkind abuse.

  Him have I lost; thou hast both him and me:

  He pays the whole, and yet am I not free.

  CXXXV

  Whoever hath her wish, thou hast thy Will,

  And Will to boot, and Will in over-plus;

  More than enough am I that vexed thee still,

  To thy sweet will making addition thus.

  Wilt thou, whose will is large and spacious,
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  Not once vouchsafe to hide my will in thine?

  Shall will in others seem right gracious,

  And in my will no fair acceptance shine?

  The sea, all water, yet receives rain still,

  And in abundance addeth to his store;

  So thou, being rich in Will, add to thy Will

  One will of mine, to make thy large will more.

  Let no unkind, no fair beseechers kill;

  Think all but one, and me in that one Will.

  CXXXVI

  If thy soul check thee that I come so near,

  Swear to thy blind soul that I was thy Will,

  And will, thy soul knows, is admitted there;

  Thus far for love, my love-suit, sweet, fulfil.

  Will, will fulfil the treasure of thy love,

  Ay, fill it full with wills, and my will one.

  In things of great receipt with ease we prove

  Among a number one is reckoned none:

  Then in the number let me pass untold,

  Though in thy store’s account I one must be;

  For nothing hold me, so it please thee hold

  That nothing me, a something sweet to thee:

  Make but my name thy love, and love that still,

  And then thou lovest me for my name is ‘Will.’

  CXXXVII

  Thou blind fool, Love, what dost thou to mine eyes,

  That they behold, and see not what they see?

  They know what beauty is, see where it lies,

  Yet what the best is take the worst to be.

  If eyes, corrupt by over-partial looks,

  Be anchored in the bay where all men ride,

  Why of eyes’ falsehood hast thou forged hooks,

  Whereto the judgment of my heart is tied?

  Why should my heart think that a several plot,

  Which my heart knows the wide world’s common place?

  Or mine eyes, seeing this, say this is not,

  To put fair truth upon so foul a face?

  In things right true my heart and eyes have erred,

  And to this false plague are they now transferred.

  CXXXVIII

  When my love swears that she is made of truth,

  I do believe her though I know she lies,

  That she might think me some untutored youth,

  Unlearned in the world’s false subtleties.

  Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me young,

  Although she knows my days are past the best,

  Simply I credit her false-speaking tongue:

  On both sides thus is simple truth suppressed:

  But wherefore says she not she is unjust?

  And wherefore say not I that I am old?

  O! love’s best habit is in seeming trust,

  And age in love, loves not to have years told:

  Therefore I lie with her, and she with me,

  And in our faults by lies we flattered be.

  CXXXIX

  O! call not me to justify the wrong

  That thy unkindness lays upon my heart;

  Wound me not with thine eye, but with thy tongue:

  Use power with power, and slay me not by art,

  Tell me thou lov’st elsewhere; but in my sight,

  Dear heart, forbear to glance thine eye aside:

  What need’st thou wound with cunning, when thy might

  Is more than my o’erpressed defence can bide?

  Let me excuse thee: ah! my love well knows

  Her pretty looks have been mine enemies;

  And therefore from my face she turns my foes,

  That they elsewhere might dart their injuries:

  Yet do not so; but since I am near slain,

  Kill me outright with looks, and rid my pain.

  CXL

  Be wise as thou art cruel; do not press

  My tongue-tied patience with too much disdain;

  Lest sorrow lend me words, and words express

  The manner of my pity-wanting pain.

  If I might teach thee wit, better it were,

  Though not to love, yet, love to tell me so;

  As testy sick men, when their deaths be near,

  No news but health from their physicians know;

  For, if I should despair, I should grow mad,

  And in my madness might speak ill of thee;

  Now this ill-wresting world is grown so bad,

  Mad slanderers by mad ears believed be.

  That I may not be so, nor thou belied,

  Bear thine eyes straight, though thy proud heart go wide.

  CXLI

  In faith I do not love thee with mine eyes,

  For they in thee a thousand errors note;

  But ’tis my heart that loves what they despise,

  Who, in despite of view, is pleased to dote.

  Nor are mine ears with thy tongue’s tune delighted;

  Nor tender feeling, to base touches prone,

  Nor taste, nor smell, desire to be invited

  To any sensual feast with thee alone:

  But my five wits nor my five senses can

  Dissuade one foolish heart from serving thee,

  Who leaves unsway’d the likeness of a man,

  Thy proud heart’s slave and vassal wretch to be:

  Only my plague thus far I count my gain,

  That she that makes me sin awards me pain.

  CXLII

  Love is my sin, and thy dear virtue hate,

  Hate of my sin, grounded on sinful loving:

  O! but with mine compare thou thine own state,

  And thou shalt find it merits not reproving;

  Or, if it do, not from those lips of thine,

  That have profaned their scarlet ornaments

  And sealed false bonds of love as oft as mine,

  Robbed others’ beds’ revenues of their rents.

  Be it lawful I love thee, as thou lov’st those

  Whom thine eyes woo as mine importune thee:

  Root pity in thy heart, that, when it grows,

  Thy pity may deserve to pitied be.

  If thou dost seek to have what thou dost hide,

  By self-example mayst thou be denied!

  CXLIII

  Lo, as a careful housewife runs to catch

  One of her feather’d creatures broke away,

  Sets down her babe, and makes all swift dispatch

  In pursuit of the thing she would have stay;

  Whilst her neglected child holds her in chase,

  Cries to catch her whose busy care is bent

  To follow that which flies before her face,

  Not prizing her poor infant’s discontent;

  So runn’st thou after that which flies from thee,

  Whilst I thy babe chase thee afar behind;

  But if thou catch thy hope, turn back to me,

  And play the mother’s part, kiss me, be kind;

  So will I pray that thou mayst have thy ‘Will,’

  If thou turn back and my loud crying still.

  CXLIV

  Two loves I have of comfort and despair,

  Which like two spirits do suggest me still:

  The better angel is a man right fair,

  The worser spirit a woman coloured ill.

  To win me soon to hell, my female evil,

  Tempteth my better angel from my side,

  And would corrupt my saint to be a devil,

  Wooing his purity with her foul pride.

  And whether that my angel be turned fiend,

  Suspect I may, yet not directly tell;

  But being both from me, both to each friend,

  I guess one angel in another’s hell:

  Yet this shall I ne’er know, but live in doubt,

  Till my bad angel fire my good one out.

  CXLV

  Those lips that Love’s own hand did make,

  Breathed forth the sound that said ‘I hate,’

  To me that languished for her sake:<
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  But when she saw my woeful state,

  Straight in her heart did mercy come,

  Chiding that tongue that ever sweet

  Was used in giving gentle doom;

  And taught it thus anew to greet;

  ‘I hate’ she altered with an end,

  That followed it as gentle day,

  Doth follow night, who like a fiend

  From heaven to hell is flown away.

  ‘I hate,’ from hate away she threw,

  And saved my life, saying ‘not you.’

  CXLVI

  Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth,

  My sinful earth these rebel powers array,

  Why dost thou pine within and suffer dearth,

  Painting thy outward walls so costly gay?

  Why so large cost, having so short a lease,

  Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend?

  Shall worms, inheritors of this excess,

  Eat up thy charge? Is this thy body’s end?

  Then soul, live thou upon thy servant’s loss,

  And let that pine to aggravate thy store;

  Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross;

  Within be fed, without be rich no more:

  So shall thou feed on Death, that feeds on men,

  And Death once dead, there’s no more dying then.

  CXLVII

  My love is as a fever longing still,

  For that which longer nurseth the disease;

  Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill,

  The uncertain sickly appetite to please.

  My reason, the physician to my love,

  Angry that his prescriptions are not kept,

  Hath left me, and I desperate now approve

  Desire is death, which physic did except.

  Past cure I am, now Reason is past care,

  And frantic-mad with evermore unrest;

  My thoughts and my discourse as madmen’s are,

  At random from the truth vainly expressed;

  For I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright,

  Who art as black as hell, as dark as night.

  CXLVIII

  O me! what eyes hath Love put in my head,

  Which have no correspondence with true sight;

  Or, if they have, where is my judgment fled,

  That censures falsely what they see aright?

  If that be fair whereon my false eyes dote,

  What means the world to say it is not so?

  If it be not, then love doth well denote

  Love’s eye is not so true as all men’s: no,

  How can it? O! how can Love’s eye be true,

  That is so vexed with watching and with tears?

  No marvel then, though I mistake my view;