Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore
Like as, to make our appetites more keen
Lo, as a care-full housewife runs to catch
Lo, in the orient when the gracious light
Look in thy glass, and tell the face thou viewest
Lord of my love, to whom in vassalage
Love is my sin, and thy dear virtue hate
Love is too young to know what conscience is I
Mine eye and heart are at a mortal war
Mine eye hath played the painter, and hath steeled
Music to hear, why hear’st thou music sadly?
My glass shall not persuade me I am old
My love is as a fever, longing still
My love is strengthened, though more weak in seeming
My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun
My tongue-tied muse in manners holds her still
No longer mourn for me when I am dead
No more be grieved at that which thou hast done
No, time, thou shalt not boast that I do change!
Not from the stars do I my judgement pluck
Not marble nor the gilded monuments
Not mine own fears nor the prophetic soul
O, call not me to justify the wrong
O, for my sake do you with fortune chide win
O, from what power hast thou this powerful might
O, how I faint when I of you do write
O how much more doth beauty beauteous seem
O, how thy worth with manners maysing
O, lest the world should task you to recite
O me, what eyes hath love put in my head
O never say that I was false of heart
O that you were yourself! But, love, you are
O thou my lovely boy, who in thy power
O truant muse, what shall be thy amends
Or I shall live your epitaph to make
Or whether doth my mind, being crowned with you
Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth
Say that thou didst forsake me for some fault
Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Sin of self-love possesseth all mine eye
Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea
Since I left you mine eye is in my mind
So am I as the rich whose blessed key
So are you to my thoughts as food to life
So is it not with me as with that muse
So, now I have confessed that he is thine
So oft have I invoked thee for my muse
So shall I live supposing thou art true
Some glory in their birth, some in their skill
Some say thy fault is youth, some wantonness
Sweet love, renew thy force. Be it not said
Take all my loves, my love, yea, take them all
That god forbid, that made me first your slave
That thou are blamed shall not be thy defect
That thou hast her, it is not all my grief
That time of year thou mayst in me behold
That you were once unkind befriends me now
The forward violet thus did I chide
The little love-god lying once asleep
The other two, slight air and purging fire
Then hate me when thou wilt, if ever, now
Then let not winter’s ragged hand deface
Th’expense of spirit in a waste of shame
They that have power to hurt and will do none
Thine eyes I love, and they, as pitying me
Those hours that with gentle work did frame
Those lines that I before have writ do lie
Those lips that love’s own hand did make
Those parts of thee that the world’s eye doth view
Those pretty wrongs that liberty commits
Thou art as tyrannous so as thou art
Thou blind fool love, what dost thou to mine eyes
Thus can my love excuse the slow offence
Thus is his cheek the map of days outworn
Thy bosom is endeared with all hearts
Thy gift, thy tables, are within my brain
Thy glass will show thee how thy beauties wear
Tired with all these, for restful death I cry
’Tis better to be vile than vile esteemed
To me, fair friend, you never can be old
Two loves I have, of comfort and despair
Unthrifty loveliness, why dost thou spend
Was it the proud full sail of his great verse
Weary with toil I haste me to my bed
Were’t aught to me I bore the canopy
What is your substance, whereof are you made
What potions have I drunk of siren tears
What’s in the brain that ink may character
When forty winters shall besiege thy brow
When I consider every thing that grows
When I do count the clock that tells the time
When I have seen by time’s fell hand defaced
When, in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes
When in the chronicle of wasted time
When most I wink, then do mine eyes best see
When my love swears that she is made of truth
When thou shalt be disposed to set me light
When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
Where art thou, muse, that thou forget’st so long
Whilst I alonecall upon thy aid
Who is it that says most which can say more
Who will believe my verse in time to come
Whoever hath her wish, thou hast thy Will
Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day
Why is my verse so barren of new pride
Your love and pity doth th‘impression fill
The Oxford Shakespeare: The Complete Works Page 433
