The Sonnets and Other Poems

by William Shakespeare

  But in them it were a wonder32.

  So between them love did shine

  That the turtle saw his right34

  Flaming in the phoenix’ sight35:

  Either was the other’s mine36.

  Property37 was thus appalled

  That the self was not the same38:

  Single nature’s double name

  Neither two nor one was called39.

  Reason, in itself confounded41,

  Saw division grow together42,

  To themselves yet either neither43,

  Simple44 were so well compounded,

  That it45 cried, ‘How true a twain

  Seemeth this concordant46 one!

  Love hath reason, reason none,

  If what parts can so remain48.’

  Whereupon it made this threne49

  To the phoenix and the dove,

  Co-supremes51 and stars of love,

  As chorus to their tragic scene.

  THRENOS52

  Beauty, truth and rarity,

  Grace in all simplicity,

  Here enclosed in cinders lie.

  Death is now the phoenix’ nest,

  And the turtle’s loyal breast

  To eternity doth rest,

  Leaving no posterity59.

  ’Twas not their infirmity60,

  It was married chastity.

  Truth may seem but cannot be,

  Beauty brag but ’tis not she,

  Truth and be64auty buried be.

  To this urn let those repair65

  That are either true or fair,

  For these dead birds sigh a prayer.

  William Shake-speare

  SHAKESPEARE’S SONNETS

  TO THE ONLY BEGETTER OF

  THESE INSUING SONNETS

  MR. W. H. ALL HAPPINESS

  AND THAT ETERNITY

  PROMISED

  BY

  OUR EVER-LIVING POET

  WISHETH

  THE WELL-WISHING

  ADVENTURER IN

  SETTING

  FORTH

  T. T.

  Sonnet 1

  FROM fairest creatures we desire increase1,

  That2 thereby beauty’s rose might never die,

  But as the riper should by time decease,

  His tender4 heir might bear his memory:

  But thou5, contracted to thine own bright eyes,

  Feed’st thy light’s flame with self-substantial fuel6,

  Making a famine where abundance lies,

  Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.

  Thou that art now the world’s fresh9 ornament

  And only herald10 to the gaudy spring,

  Within thine own bud11 buriest thy content

  And, tender churl12, mak’st waste in niggarding.

  Pity the world, or else this glutton be,

  To eat the world’s due14, by the grave and thee.

  Sonnet 2

  When forty1 winters shall besiege thy brow

  And dig deep trenches in thy beauty’s field2,

  Thy youth’s proud livery3, so gazed on now,

  Will be a tattered weed4 of small worth held:

  Then being asked where all thy beauty lies,

  Where all the treasure6 of thy lusty days,

  To say within thine own deep-sunken eyes

  Were an all-eating shame8 and thriftless praise.

  How much more praise deserved thy beauty’s use9

  If thou couldst answer10, ‘This fair child of mine

  Shall sum my count11 and make my old excuse’,

  Proving his beauty by succession12 thine.

  This were13 to be new made when thou art old

  And see thy blood14 warm when thou feel’st it cold.

  Sonnet 3

  Look in thy glass1 and tell the face thou viewest

  Now is the time that face should form another,

  Whose fresh repair3 if now thou not renewest

  Thou dost beguile4 the world, unbless some mother.

  For where is she so fair whose uneared5 womb

  Disdains the tillage6 of thy husbandry?

  Or who is he so fond7 will be the tomb

  Of his self-love, to stop8 posterity?

  Thou art thy mother’s glass and she in thee

  Calls back10 the lovely April of her prime:

  So thou through windows11 of thine age shalt see,

  Despite of wrinkles, this thy golden time.

  But if thou live remembered not to be13,

  Die14 single and thine image dies with thee.

  Sonnet 4

  Unthrifty1 loveliness, why dost thou spend

  Upon thyself thy beauty’s legacy2?

  Nature’s bequest gives nothing but doth lend,

  And being frank4 she lends to those are free.

  Then, beauteous niggard5, why dost thou abuse

  The bounteous largesse given thee to give?

  Profitless usurer7, why dost thou use

  So great a sum of sums, yet canst not live8?

  For having traffic9 with thyself alone,

  Thou of thyself thy sweet self dost deceive10.

  Then how, when nature calls thee to be gone,

  What acceptable audit12 canst thou leave?

  Thy unused13 beauty must be tombed with thee,

  Which, usèd, lives th’executor14 to be.

  Sonnet 5

  Those hours, that with gentle work did frame1

  The lovely gaze2 where every eye doth dwell,

  Will play the tyrants to the very same

  And that unfair4 which fairly doth excel:

  For never-resting time leads5 summer on

  To hideous winter and confounds6 him there,

  Sap checked7 with frost and lusty leaves quite gone,

  Beauty o’ersnowed8 and bareness everywhere.

  Then, were not summer’s distillation9 left

  A liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass10,

  Beauty’s effect with11 beauty were bereft,

  Nor it nor no remembrance what it was12.

  But flowers distilled, though they with winter meet,

  Lose but their show14, their substance still lives sweet.

  Sonnet 6

  Then let not winter’s1 ragged hand deface

  In thee thy summer, ere thou be distilled:

  Make sweet some vial3; treasure thou some place

  With beauty’s treasure, ere it be self-killed4.

  That use5 is not forbidden usury,

  Which happies6 those that pay the willing loan;

  That’s for thyself to breed another thee,

  Or ten times happier be it ten for one8.

  Ten times thyself were happier than thou art,

  If ten of thine ten times refigured10 thee.

  Then what could death do, if thou shouldst depart,

  Leaving thee living in posterity12?

  Be not self-willed13, for thou art much too fair

  To be death’s conquest and make worms thine heir.

  Sonnet 7

  Lo, in the orient1 when the gracious light

  Lifts up his burning head, each under2 eye

  Doth homage to his new-appearing sight,

  Serving with looks his sacred majesty.

  And having climbed the steep-up5 heavenly hill,

  Resembling strong youth in his middle age,

  Yet mortal looks adore his beauty still,

  Attending on his golden pilgrimage.

  But when from highmost pitch9, with weary car,

  Like feeble age he reeleth10 from the day,

  The eyes, fore11 duteous, now converted are

  From his low tract12 and look another way:

  So thou, thyself outgoing13 in thy noon,

  Unlooked on diest14 unless thou get a son.

  Sonnet 8

  Music to hear1, why hear’st thou music sadly?

  Sweets with sweets war not, joy delights in joy.

  Why lov’st thou that which
thou receiv’st not gladly,

  Or else receiv’st with pleasure thine annoy4?

  If the true concord of well-tunèd sounds,

  By unions6 married, do offend thine ear,

  They do but sweetly chide7 thee, who confounds

  In singleness8 the parts that thou shouldst bear.

  Mark9 how one string, sweet husband to another,

  Strikes each10 in each by mutual ordering,

  Resembling sire11 and child and happy mother

  Who, all in one, one pleasing note do sing,

  Whose speechless13 song, being many, seeming one,

  Sings this to thee: ‘Thou single wilt prove none.’14

  Sonnet 9

  Is it for fear to wet a widow’s eye

  That thou consum’st thyself in single life?

  Ah, if thou issueless3 shalt hap to die,

  The world will wail thee, like a makeless4 wife,

  The world will be thy widow and still5 weep

  That thou no form6 of thee hast left behind,

  When every private7 widow well may keep

  By8 children’s eyes her husband’s shape in mind.

  Look what9 an unthrift in the world doth spend

  Shifts but his10 place, for still the world enjoys it,

  But beauty’s waste11 hath in the world an end,

  And, kept unused12, the user so destroys it.

  No love toward others in that bosom13 sits

  That on himself such murd’rous shame14 commits.

  Sonnet 10

  For shame1 deny that thou bear’st love to any,

  Who for thyself art so unprovident2.

  Grant3, if thou wilt, thou art beloved of many,

  But that thou none lov’st is most evident:

  For thou art so possessed with murd’rous hate

  That gainst thyself thou stick’st6 not to conspire,

  Seeking that beauteous roof7 to ruinate

  Which to repair should be thy chief desire.

  O, change thy thought9, that I may change my mind.

  Shall hate be fairer lodged10 than gentle love?

  Be as thy presence11 is, gracious and kind,

  Or to thyself at least kind-hearted prove.

  Make thee another self13, for love of me,

  That beauty still14 may live in thine or thee.

  Sonnet 11

  As fast as thou shalt wane1, so fast thou grow’st

  In one of thine2, from that which thou departest,

  And that fresh blood3 which youngly thou bestow’st,

  Thou mayst call thine when thou from youth4 convertest.

  Herein5 lives wisdom, beauty and increase:

  Without this, folly, age and cold decay.

  If all were minded so7, the times should cease,

  And threescore year8 would make the world away.

  Let those whom nature hath not made for store9,

  Harsh, featureless10 and rude, barrenly perish.

  Look whom11 she best endowed she gave the more,

  Which bounteous gift thou shouldst in bounty12 cherish.

  She carved thee for her seal13, and meant thereby

  Thou shouldst print14 more, not let that copy die.

  Sonnet 12

  When I do count1 the clock that tells the time

  And see the brave2 day sunk in hideous night,

  When I behold the violet past prime3

  And sable4 curls all silvered o’er with white,

  When lofty trees I see barren5 of leaves,

  Which erst6 from heat did canopy the herd,

  And summer’s green all girded up7 in sheaves

  Borne on the bier8 with white and bristly beard:

  Then of thy beauty do I question make9

  That thou among the wastes10 of time must go,

  Since sweets and beauties11 do themselves forsake

  And die as fast as they see others grow,

  And nothing gainst Time’s scythe13 can make defence

  Save breed14, to brave him when he takes thee hence.

  Sonnet 13

  O, that you1 were yourself! But, love, you are

  No longer yours than you yourself here2 live.

  Against3 this coming end you should prepare

  And your sweet semblance4 to some other give.

  So should that beauty which you hold in lease5

  Find no determination6: then you were

  Yourself again after yourself’s decease,

  When your sweet issue8 your sweet form should bear.

  Who lets so fair a house9 fall to decay,

  Which husbandry10 in honour might uphold

  Against the stormy gusts of winter’s day

  And barren rage of death’s eternal cold?

  O, none but unthrifts13! Dear my love, you know

  You had a father: let your son say so.

  Sonnet 14

  Not from the stars do I my judgement pluck1

  And yet methinks I have2 astronomy,

  But not to tell of good or evil luck,

  Of plagues, of dearths4, or seasons’ quality,

  Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell5,

  Pointing to each his thunder, rain and wind,

  Or say with princes if it shall go well,

  By oft predict8 that I in heaven find.

  But from thine eyes my knowledge I derive,

  And, constant stars, in them I read such art10

  As11 truth and beauty shall together thrive,

  If from thyself to store12 thou wouldst convert:

  Or else of thee this I prognosticate13,

  Thy end is truth’s and beauty’s doom and14 date.

  Sonnet 15

  When I consider1 everything that grows

  Holds in perfection2 but a little moment,

  That this huge stage3 presenteth nought but shows

  Whereon the stars in secret4 influence comment:

  When I perceive that men as5 plants increase,

  Cheerèd and checked6 ev’n by the selfsame sky,

  Vaunt7 in their youthful sap, at height decrease,

  And wear their brave state out of memory8:

  Then the conceit9 of this inconstant stay

  Sets you most rich in youth before my sight,

  Where wasteful11 time debateth with decay

  To change your day of youth to sullied12 night,

  And all in war13 with Time for love of you,

  As he takes from you, I engraft you new14.

  Sonnet 16

  But wherefore1 do not you a mightier way

  Make war upon this bloody2 tyrant, Time?

  And fortify3 yourself in your decay

  With means more blessèd than my barren rhyme?

  Now stand you on the top of happy hours5,

  And many maiden6 gardens, yet unset,

  With virtuous wish would bear your living flowers,

  Much liker8 than your painted counterfeit:

  So should the lines of life9 that life repair,

  Which this10, Time’s pencil, or my pupil pen,

  Neither in inward worth nor outward fair11,

  Can make you live yourself12 in eyes of men.

  To give away yourself13 keeps yourself still,

  And you must live, drawn by your own sweet skill14.

  Sonnet 17

  Who will believe my verse in time to come

  If it were filled with your most high deserts2?

  Though yet, heaven knows, it is but as a tomb

  Which hides your life and shows not half your parts4.

  If I could write the beauty of your eyes

  And in fresh number6s number all your graces,

  The age to come would say, ‘This poet lies:

  Such heavenly touches8 ne’er touched earthly faces.’

  So should my papers, yellowed with their age,

  Be scorned like old men of less truth than tongue10,

  And your true11 rights be termed a poet’s rage

  A
nd stretchèd12 metre of an antique song.

  But were some child of yours alive that time,

  You should live twice — in it and in my rhyme.

  Sonnet 18

  Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?

  Thou art more lovely and more temperate2.

  Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,

  And summer’s lease4 hath all too short a date.

  Sometime too hot the eye of heaven5 shines,

  And often is his gold complexion dimmed,

  And every fair from fair sometime declines7,

  By chance or nature’s changing course untrimmed8:

  But thy eternal summer shall not fade

  Nor lose possession10 of that fair thou ow’st,

  Nor shall death brag thou wand’rest in his shade,

  When in eternal lines12 to time thou grow’st.

  So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,

  So long lives this14 and this gives life to thee.

  Sonnet 19

  Devouring Time, blunt thou the lion’s paws,

  And make the earth devour her own sweet brood2,

  Pluck the keen3 teeth from the fierce tiger’s jaws

  And burn the long-lived phoenix4 in her blood,

  Make glad and sorry seasons as thou fleet’st5

  And do whate’er thou wilt, swift-footed Time,

  To the wide world and all her fading sweets7.

  But I forbid thee one most heinous crime:

  O, carve9 not with thy hours my love’s fair brow,

  Nor draw no lines there with thine antique10 pen.

  Him in thy course untainted11 do allow

  For beauty’s pattern12 to succeeding men.

  Yet do thy worst, old Time: despite thy wrong,

  My love14 shall in my verse ever live young.

  Sonnet 20

  A woman’s face with Nature’s own hand painted1

  Hast thou, the master-mistress2 of my passion,