The Oxford Shakespeare: The Complete Works

by William Shakespeare

That every tongue says beauty should look so.

  128

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

  Upon that blessèd 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 blessed than living lips.

  Since saucy jacks so happy are in this,

  Give them thy fingers, me thy lips to kiss.

  129

  Th‘expense of spirit in a waste of shame

  Is lust in action; and till action, lust

  Is perjured, murd’rous, 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.

  130

  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.

  131

  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 judgement’s place.

  In nothing art thou black save in thy deeds,

  And thence this slander, as I think, proceeds.

  132

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

  Knowing thy heart torment 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 gray 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.

  133

  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 threefold 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.

  134

  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 putt’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.

  135

  Whoever hath her wish, thou hast thy Will,

  And Will to boot, and Will in overplus.

  More than enough am I that vex thee still,

  To thy sweet will making addition thus.

  Wilt thou, whose will is large and spacious,

  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.

  136

  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 lov’st me for my name is Will.

  137

  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 judgement 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,r />
  And to this false plague are they now transferred.

  138

  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.

  139

  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.

  140

  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 believèd be.

  That I may not be so, nor thou belied,

  Bear thine eyes straight, though thy proud heart go

  wide.

  141

  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 unswayed 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.

  142

  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!

  143

  Lo, as a care-full housewife runs to catch

  One of her feathered 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.

  144

  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.

  145

  Those lips that love’s own hand did make

  Breathed forth the sound that said ‘I hate’

  To me that languished for her sake;

  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.’

  146

  Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth,

  these rebel powers that thee 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 shalt thou feed on death, that feeds on men,

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

  147

  My love is as a fever, longing still

  For that which longer nurseth the disease,

  Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill,

  Th’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. ro

  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,

  W
ho art as black as hell, as dark as night.

  148

  O me, what eyes hath love put in my head,

  Which have no correspondence with true sight!

  Or if they have, where is my judgement 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:

  The sun itself sees not till heaven clears.

  O cunning love, with tears thou keep’st me blind

  Lest eyes, well seeing, thy foul faults should find!

  149

  Canst thou, O cruel, say I love thee not

  When I against myself with thee partake?

  Do I not think on thee when I forgot

  Am of myself, all-tyrant, for thy sake?

  Who hateth thee that I do call my friend?

  On whom frown‘st thou that I do fawn upon?

  Nay, if thou lour’st on me, do I not spend

  Revenge upon myself with present moan?

  What merit do I in myself respect

  That is so proud thy service to despise,

  When all my best doth worship thy defect,

  Commanded by the motion of thine eyes?

  But, love, hate on; for now I know thy mind.

  Those that can see thou lov’st, and I am blind.

  150

  O, from what power hast thou this powerful might

  With insufficiency my heart to sway,

  To make me give the lie to my true sight

  And swear that brightness doth not grace the day?

  Whence hast thou this becoming of things ill,

  That in the very refuse of thy deeds

  There is such strength and warrantise of skill

  That in my mind thy worst all best exceeds?

  Who taught thee how to make me love thee more

  The more I hear and see just cause of hate?

  O, though I love what others do abhor,

  With others thou shouldst not abhor my state.

  If thy unworthiness raised love in me,

  More worthy I to be beloved of thee.

  151

  Love is too young to know what conscience is,