It is hard to imagine a world without Shakespeare. Since their composition more than four hundred years ago, Shakespeare’s plays and poems have traveled the globe, inviting those who see and read his works to make them their own.
Readers of the New Folger Editions are part of this ongoing process of “taking up Shakespeare,” finding our own thoughts and feelings in language that strikes us as old or unusual and, for that very reason, new. We still struggle to keep up with a writer who could think a mile a minute, whose words paint pictures that shift like clouds. These expertly edited texts are presented to the public as a resource for study, artistic adaptation, and enjoyment. By making the classic texts of the New Folger Editions available in electronic form as The Folger Shakespeare (formerly Folger Digital Texts), we place a trusted resource in the hands of anyone who wants them.
The New Folger Editions of Shakespeare’s plays, which are the basis for the texts realized here in digital form, are special because of their origin. The Folger Shakespeare Library in Washington, DC, is the single greatest documentary source of Shakespeare’s works. An unparalleled collection of early modern books, manuscripts, and artwork connected to Shakespeare, the Folger’s holdings have been consulted extensively in the preparation of these texts. The Editions also reflect the expertise gained through the regular performance of Shakespeare’s works in the Folger’s Elizabethan Theatre.
I want to express my deep thanks to editors Barbara Mowat and Paul Werstine for creating these indispensable editions of Shakespeare’s works, which incorporate the best of textual scholarship with a richness of commentary that is both inspired and engaging. Readers who want to know more about Shakespeare and his plays can follow the paths these distinguished scholars have tread by visiting the Folger either in-person or online, where a range of physical and digital resources exists to supplement the material in these texts. I commend to you these words, and hope that they inspire.
Michael Witmore
Director, Folger Shakespeare Library
Until now, with the release of The Folger Shakespeare (formerly Folger Digital Texts), readers in search of a free online text of Shakespeare’s plays and poems had to be content primarily with using the Moby™ Text, which reproduces a late-nineteenth century version of the plays and poems. What is the difference? Many ordinary readers assume that there is a single text of all these works: what Shakespeare wrote. But Shakespeare’s plays were not published the way modern novels or plays are published today: as a single, authoritative text. In some cases, the plays have come down to us in multiple published versions, represented by various Quartos (Qq) and by the great collection put together by his colleagues in 1623, called the First Folio (F). There are, for example, three very different versions of
Hamlet
, two of
King Lear
,
Henry V
,
Romeo and Juliet
, and others. Editors choose which version to use as their base text, and then amend that text with words, lines or speech prefixes from the other versions that, in their judgment, make for a better or more accurate text.
Other editorial decisions involve choices about whether an unfamiliar word could be understood in light of other writings of the period or whether it should be changed; decisions about words that made it into Shakespeare’s text by accident through four hundred years of printings and misprinting; and even decisions based on cultural preference and taste. When the Moby™ Text was created, for example, it was deemed “improper” and “indecent” for Miranda to chastise Caliban for having attempted to rape her. (See
The Tempest
, 1.2: “Abhorred slave,/Which any print of goodness wilt not take,/Being capable of all ill! I pitied thee…”). All Shakespeare editors at the time took the speech away from her and gave it to her father, Prospero.
The editors of the Moby™ Shakespeare produced their text long before scholars fully understood the proper grounds on which to make the thousands of decisions that Shakespeare editors face. The Folger Library Shakespeare Editions, on which the Folger Shakespeare texts depend, make this editorial process as nearly transparent as is possible, in contrast to older texts, like the Moby™, which hide editorial interventions. The reader of the Folger Shakespeare knows where the text has been altered because editorial interventions are signaled by square brackets (for example, from
Othello
: “
square bracket
If she in chains of magic were not bound,
square bracket
”), half-square brackets (for example, from
Henry V
: “With
half-square bracket
blood
half-square bracket
and sword and fire to win your right,”), or angle brackets (for example, from
Hamlet
: “O farewell, honest
angle bracket
soldier.
angle bracket
Who hath relieved/you?”). At any point in the text, you can hover your cursor over a bracket for more information.
Because the Folger Shakespeare texts are edited in accord with twenty-first century knowledge about Shakespeare’s texts, the Folger here provides them to readers, scholars, teachers, actors, directors, and students, free of charge, confident of their quality as texts of the plays and pleased to be able to make this contribution to the study and enjoyment of Shakespeare.
From
fairest
creatures
we
desire
increase
,
That
thereby
beauty’s
rose
might
never
die
,
But
,
as
the
riper
should
by
time
decease
,
His
tender
heir
might
bear
his
memory
.
But
thou
,
contracted
to
thine
own
bright
eyes
,
Feed’st
thy
light’s
flame
with
self-substantial
fuel
,
Making
a
famine
where
abundance
lies
,
Thyself
thy
foe
,
to
thy
sweet
self
too
cruel
.
Thou
that
art
now
the
world’s
fresh
ornament
And
only
herald
to
the
gaudy
spring
Within
thine
own
bud
buriest
thy
content
And
,
tender
churl
,
mak’st
waste
in
niggarding
.
Pity
the
world
,
or
else
this
glutton
be
—
To
eat
the
world’s
due
,
by
the
grave
and
thee
.
When
forty
winters
shall
besiege
thy
brow
And
dig
deep
trenches
in
thy
beauty’s
field
,
Thy
youth’s
proud
livery
,
so
gazed
on
now
,
Will
be
a
tattered
weed
of
small
worth
held
.
Then
being
asked
where
all
thy
beauty
lies
,
Where
all
the
treasure
of
thy
lusty
days
,
To
say
within
thine
own
deep-sunken
eyes
Were
an
all-eating
shame
and
thriftless
praise
.
How
much
more
praise
deserved
thy
beauty’s
use
If
thou
couldst
answer
This
fair
child
of
mine
Shall
sum
my
count
and
make
my
old
excuse
,
Proving
his
beauty
by
succession
thine
.
This
were
to
be
new
made
when
thou
art
old
And
see
thy
blood
warm
when
thou
feel’st
it
cold
.
Look
in
thy
glass
and
tell
the
face
thou
viewest
Now
is
the
time
that
face
should
form
another
,
Whose
fresh
repair
if
now
thou
not
renewest
,
Thou
dost
beguile
the
world
,
unbless
some
mother
.
For
where
is
she
so
fair
whose
uneared
womb
Disdains
the
tillage
of
thy
husbandry
?
Or
who
is
he
so
fond
will
be
the
tomb
Of
his
self-love
,
to
stop
posterity
?
Thou
art
thy
mother’s
glass
,
and
she
in
thee
Calls
back
the
lovely
April
of
her
prime
;
So
thou
through
windows
of
thine
age
shalt
see
,
Despite
of
wrinkles
,
this
thy
golden
time
.
But
if
thou
live
remembered
not
to
be
,
Die
single
,
and
thine
image
dies
with
thee
.
Unthrifty
loveliness
,
why
dost
thou
spend
Upon
thyself
thy
beauty’s
legacy
?
Nature’s
bequest
gives
nothing
but
doth
lend
,
And
being
frank
,
she
lends
to
those
are
free
.
Then
,
beauteous
niggard
,
why
dost
thou
abuse
The
bounteous
largess
given
thee
to
give
?
Profitless
usurer
,
why
dost
thou
use
So
great
a
sum
of
sums
yet
canst
not
live
?
For
,
having
traffic
with
thyself
alone
,
Thou
of
thyself
thy
sweet
self
dost
deceive
.
Then
how
,
when
nature
calls
thee
to
be
gone
,
What
acceptable
audit
canst
thou
leave
?
Thy
unused
beauty
must
be
tombed
with
thee
,
Which
usèd
lives
th’
executor
to
be
.
Those
hours
that
with
gentle
work
did
frame
The
lovely
gaze
where
every
eye
doth
dwell
Will
play
the
tyrants
to
the
very
same
And
that
unfair
which
fairly
doth
excel
;
For
never-resting
time
leads
summer
on
To
hideous
winter
and
confounds
him
there
,
Sap
checked
with
frost
and
lusty
leaves
quite
gone
,
Beauty
o’er-snowed
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
.
But
flowers
distilled
,
though
they
with
winter
meet
,
Leese
but
their
show
;
their
substance
still
lives
sweet
.
Then
let
not
winter’s
ragged
hand
deface
In
thee
thy
summer
ere
thou
be
distilled
.
Make
sweet
some
vial
;
treasure
thou
some
place
With
beauty’s
treasure
ere
it
be
self-killed
.
That
use
is
not
forbidden
usury
Which
happies
those
that
pay
the
willing
loan
;
That’s
for
thyself
to
breed
another
thee
,
Or
ten
times
happier
,
be
it
ten
for
one
.
Ten
times
thyself
were
happier
than
thou
art
If
ten
of
thine
ten
times
refigured
thee
;
Then
what
could
death
do
if
thou
shouldst
depart
,
Leaving
thee
living
in
posterity
?
Be
not
self-willed
,
for
thou
art
much
too
fair
To
be
death’s
conquest
and
make
worms
thine
heir
.
Lo
,
in
the
orient
when
the
gracious
light
Lifts
up
his
burning
head
,
each
under
eye
Doth
homage
to
his
new-appearing
sight
,
Serving
with
looks
his
sacred
majesty
;
And
having
climbed
the
steep-up
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
pitch
with
weary
car
Like
feeble
age
he
reeleth
from
the
day
,
The
eyes
,
’fore
duteous
,
now
converted
are
From
his
low
tract
and
look
another
way
.
So
thou
,
thyself
outgoing
in
thy
noon
,
Unlooked
on
diest
unless
thou
get
a
son
.
Music
to
hear
,
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
annoy
?
If
the
true
concord
of
well-tunèd
sounds
,
By
unions
married
,
do
offend
thine
ear
,
They
do
but
sweetly
chide
thee
,
who
confounds
In
singleness
the
parts
that
thou
shouldst
bear
.
Mark
how
one
string
,
sweet
husband
to
another
,
Strikes
each
in
each
by
mutual
ordering
,
Resembling
sire
and
child
and
happy
mother
Who
,
all
in
one
,
one
pleasing
note
do
sing
;
Whose
speechless
song
,
being
many
,
seeming
one
,
Sings
this
to
thee
:
Thou
single
wilt
prove
none
.
Is
it
for
fear
to
wet
a
widow’s
eye
That
thou
consum’st
thyself
in
single
life
?
Ah
,
if
thou
issueless
shalt
hap
to
die
,
The
world
will
wail
thee
like
a
makeless
wife
;
The
world
will
be
thy
widow
and
still
weep
That
thou
no
form
of
thee
hast
left
behind
,
When
every
private
widow
well
may
keep
,
By
children’s
eyes
,
her
husband’s
shape
in
mind
.
Look
what
an
unthrift
in
the
world
doth
spend
Shifts
but
his
place
,
for
still
the
world
enjoys
it
;
But
beauty’s
waste
hath
in
the
world
an
end
,
And
,
kept
unused
,
the
user
so
destroys
it
.
No
love
toward
others
in
that
bosom
sits
That
on
himself
such
murd’rous
shame
commits
.
For
shame
deny
that
thou
bear’st
love
to
any
,
Who
for
thyself
art
so
unprovident
.
Grant
,
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’st
not
to
conspire
,
Seeking
that
beauteous
roof
to
ruinate
Which
to
repair
should
be
thy
chief
desire
.
O
,
change
thy
thought
,
that
I
may
change
my
mind
.
Shall
hate
be
fairer
lodged
than
gentle
love
?
Be
as
thy
presence
is
,
gracious
and
kind
,
Or
to
thyself
at
least
kind-hearted
prove
.
Make
thee
another
self
for
love
of
me
,
That
beauty
still
may
live
in
thine
or
thee
.
As
fast
as
thou
shalt
wane
,
so
fast
thou
grow’st
In
one
of
thine
,
from
that
which
thou
departest
;
And
that
fresh
blood
which
youngly
thou
bestow’st
Thou
mayst
call
thine
when
thou
from
youth
convertest
.
Herein
lives
wisdom
,
beauty
,
and
increase
;
Without
this
,
folly
,
age
,
and
cold
decay
.
If
all
were
minded
so
,
the
times
should
cease
,
And
threescore
year
would
make
the
world
away
.
Let
those
whom
nature
hath
not
made
for
store
,
Harsh
,
featureless
,
and
rude
,
barrenly
perish
;
Look
whom
she
best
endowed
she
gave
the
more
,
Which
bounteous
gift
thou
shouldst
in
bounty
cherish
.
She
carved
thee
for
her
seal
,
and
meant
thereby
Thou
shouldst
print
more
,
not
let
that
copy
die
.
When
I
do
count
the
clock
that
tells
the
time
And
see
the
brave
day
sunk
in
hideous
night
,
When
I
behold
the
violet
past
prime
And
sable
curls
all
silvered
o’er
with
white
;
When
lofty
trees
I
see
barren
of
leaves
,
Which
erst
from
heat
did
canopy
the
herd
,
And
summer’s
green
all
girded
up
in
sheaves
Borne
on
the
bier
with
white
and
bristly
beard
;
Then
of
thy
beauty
do
I
question
make
That
thou
among
the
wastes
of
time
must
go
,
Since
sweets
and
beauties
do
themselves
forsake
And
die
as
fast
as
they
see
others
grow
;
And
nothing
’gainst
Time’s
scythe
can
make
defense
Save
breed
,
to
brave
him
when
he
takes
thee
hence
.
O
,
that
you
were
your
self
!
But
,
love
,
you
are
No
longer
yours
than
you
yourself
here
live
;
Against
this
coming
end
you
should
prepare
,
And
your
sweet
semblance
to
some
other
give
.
So
should
that
beauty
which
you
hold
in
lease
Find
no
determination
;
then
you
were
Your
self
again
after
yourself’s
decease
When
your
sweet
issue
your
sweet
form
should
bear
.
Who
lets
so
fair
a
house
fall
to
decay
,
Which
husbandry
in
honor
might
uphold
Against
the
stormy
gusts
of
winter’s
day
And
barren
rage
of
death’s
eternal
cold
?
O
,
none
but
unthrifts
,
dear
my
love
,
you
know
.
You
had
a
father
;
let
your
son
say
so
.
Not
from
the
stars
do
I
my
judgment
pluck
,
And
yet
methinks
I
have
astronomy
—
But
not
to
tell
of
good
or
evil
luck
,
Of
plagues
,
of
dearths
,
or
seasons’
quality
;
Nor
can
I
fortune
to
brief
minutes
tell
,
Pointing
to
each
his
thunder
,
rain
,
and
wind
,
Or
say
with
princes
if
it
shall
go
well
By
oft
predict
that
I
in
heaven
find
.
But
from
thine
eyes
my
knowledge
I
derive
,
And
,
constant
stars
,
in
them
I
read
such
art
As
truth
and
beauty
shall
together
thrive
If
from
thyself
to
store
thou
wouldst
convert
;
Or
else
of
thee
this
I
prognosticate
:
Thy
end
is
truth’s
and
beauty’s
doom
and
date
.
When
I
consider
everything
that
grows
Holds
in
perfection
but
a
little
moment
,
That
this
huge
stage
presenteth
nought
but
shows
Whereon
the
stars
in
secret
influence
comment
;
When
I
perceive
that
men
as
plants
increase
,
Cheerèd
and
checked
even
by
the
selfsame
sky
,
Vaunt
in
their
youthful
sap
,
at
height
decrease
,
And
wear
their
brave
state
out
of
memory
;
Then
the
conceit
of
this
inconstant
stay
Sets
you
most
rich
in
youth
before
my
sight
,
Where
wasteful
Time
debateth
with
Decay
To
change
your
day
of
youth
to
sullied
night
;
And
,
all
in
war
with
Time
for
love
of
you
,
As
he
takes
from
you
,
I
engraft
you
new
.
But
wherefore
do
not
you
a
mightier
way
Make
war
upon
this
bloody
tyrant
Time
,
And
fortify
yourself
in
your
decay
With
means
more
blessèd
than
my
barren
rhyme
?
Now
stand
you
on
the
top
of
happy
hours
,
And
many
maiden
gardens
,
yet
unset
,
With
virtuous
wish
would
bear
your
living
flowers
,
Much
liker
than
your
painted
counterfeit
.
So
should
the
lines
of
life
that
life
repair
Which
this
time’s
pencil
or
my
pupil
pen
Neither
in
inward
worth
nor
outward
fair
Can
make
you
live
yourself
in
eyes
of
men
.
To
give
away
yourself
keeps
yourself
still
,
And
you
must
live
,
drawn
by
your
own
sweet
skill
.
Who
will
believe
my
verse
in
time
to
come
If
it
were
filled
with
your
most
high
deserts
?
Though
yet
,
heaven
knows
,
it
is
but
as
a
tomb
Which
hides
your
life
and
shows
not
half
your
parts
.
If
I
could
write
the
beauty
of
your
eyes
And
in
fresh
numbers
number
all
your
graces
,
The
age
to
come
would
say
This
poet
lies
;
Such
heavenly
touches
ne’er
touched
earthly
faces
.
So
should
my
papers
,
yellowed
with
their
age
,
Be
scorned
,
like
old
men
of
less
truth
than
tongue
,
And
your
true
rights
be
termed
a
poet’s
rage
And
stretchèd
meter
of
an
antique
song
.
But
were
some
child
of
yours
alive
that
time
,
You
should
live
twice
—
in
it
and
in
my
rhyme
.
Shall
I
compare
thee
to
a
summer’s
day
?
Thou
art
more
lovely
and
more
temperate
.
Rough
winds
do
shake
the
darling
buds
of
May
,
And
summer’s
lease
hath
all
too
short
a
date
.
Sometime
too
hot
the
eye
of
heaven
shines
,
And
often
is
his
gold
complexion
dimmed
;
And
every
fair
from
fair
sometime
declines
,
By
chance
or
nature’s
changing
course
untrimmed
.
But
thy
eternal
summer
shall
not
fade
Nor
lose
possession
of
that
fair
thou
ow’st
,
Nor
shall
Death
brag
thou
wand’rest
in
his
shade
,
When
in
eternal
lines
to
time
thou
grow’st
.
So
long
as
men
can
breathe
or
eyes
can
see
,
So
long
lives
this
,
and
this
gives
life
to
thee
.
Devouring
Time
,
blunt
thou
the
lion’s
paws
And
make
the
Earth
earth
devour
her
own
sweet
brood
;
Pluck
the
keen
teeth
from
the
fierce
tiger’s
jaws
,
And
burn
the
long-lived
phoenix
in
her
blood
;
Make
glad
and
sorry
seasons
as
thou
fleet’st
And
do
whate’er
thou
wilt
,
swift-footed
Time
,
To
the
wide
world
and
all
her
fading
sweets
.
But
I
forbid
thee
one
most
heinous
crime
:
O
,
carve
not
with
thy
hours
my
love’s
fair
brow
,
Nor
draw
no
lines
there
with
thine
antique
pen
;
Him
in
thy
course
untainted
do
allow
For
beauty’s
pattern
to
succeeding
men
.
Yet
do
thy
worst
,
old
Time
;
despite
thy
wrong
,
My
love
shall
in
my
verse
ever
live
young
.
A
woman’s
face
with
Nature’s
own
hand
painted
Hast
thou
,
the
master
mistress
of
my
passion
;
A
woman’s
gentle
heart
,
but
not
acquainted
With
shifting
change
,
as
is
false
women’s
fashion
;
An
eye
more
bright
than
theirs
,
less
false
in
rolling
,
Gilding
the
object
whereupon
it
gazeth
;
A
man
in
hue
all
hues
in
his
controlling
,
Which
steals
men’s
eyes
and
women’s
souls
amazeth
.
And
for
a
woman
wert
thou
first
created
,
Till
Nature
as
she
wrought
thee
fell
a-doting
,
And
by
addition
me
of
thee
defeated
By
adding
one
thing
to
my
purpose
nothing
.
But
since
she
pricked
thee
out
for
women’s
pleasure
,
Mine
be
thy
love
,
and
thy
love’s
use
their
treasure
.
So
is
it
not
with
me
as
with
that
muse
Stirred
by
a
painted
beauty
to
his
verse
,
Who
heaven
itself
for
ornament
doth
use
And
every
fair
with
his
fair
doth
rehearse
,
Making
a
couplement
of
proud
compare
With
sun
and
moon
,
with
earth
and
sea’s
rich
gems
,
With
April’s
firstborn
flowers
and
all
things
rare
That
heaven’s
air
in
this
huge
rondure
hems
.
O
,
let
me
,
true
in
love
,
but
truly
write
,
And
then
believe
me
,
my
love
is
as
fair
As
any
mother’s
child
,
though
not
so
bright
As
those
gold
candles
fixed
in
heaven’s
air
.
Let
them
say
more
that
like
of
hearsay
well
;
I
will
not
praise
that
purpose
not
to
sell
.
My
glass
shall
not
persuade
me
I
am
old
So
long
as
youth
and
thou
are
of
one
date
,
But
when
in
thee
Time’s
furrows
I
behold
,
Then
look
I
death
my
days
should
expiate
.
For
all
that
beauty
that
doth
cover
thee
Is
but
the
seemly
raiment
of
my
heart
,
Which
in
thy
breast
doth
live
,
as
thine
in
me
;
How
can
I
then
be
elder
than
thou
art
?
O
,
therefore
,
love
,
be
of
thyself
so
wary
As
I
not
for
myself
but
for
thee
will
,
Bearing
thy
heart
,
which
I
will
keep
so
chary
As
tender
nurse
her
babe
from
faring
ill
.
Presume
not
on
thy
heart
when
mine
is
slain
.
Thou
gav’st
me
thine
not
to
give
back
again
.
As
an
unperfect
actor
on
the
stage
Who
with
his
fear
is
put
beside
his
part
,
Or
some
fierce
thing
replete
with
too
much
rage
,
Whose
strength’s
abundance
weakens
his
own
heart
;
So
I
for
fear
of
trust
forget
to
say
The
perfect
ceremony
of
love’s
rite
,
And
in
mine
own
love’s
strength
seem
to
decay
,
O’ercharged
with
burden
of
mine
own
love’s
might
.
O
,
let
my
books
be
then
the
eloquence
And
dumb
presagers
of
my
speaking
breast
,
Who
plead
for
love
and
look
for
recompense
More
than
that
tongue
that
more
hath
more
expressed
.
O
,
learn
to
read
what
silent
love
hath
writ
.
To
hear
with
eyes
belongs
to
love’s
fine
wit
.
Mine
eye
hath
played
the
painter
and
hath
stelled
Thy
beauty’s
form
in
table
of
my
heart
;
My
body
is
the
frame
wherein
’tis
held
,
And
perspective
it
is
best
painter’s
art
.
For
through
the
painter
must
you
see
his
skill
To
find
where
your
true
image
pictured
lies
,
Which
in
my
bosom’s
shop
is
hanging
still
,
That
hath
his
windows
glazèd
with
thine
eyes
.
Now
see
what
good
turns
eyes
for
eyes
have
done
:
Mine
eyes
have
drawn
thy
shape
,
and
thine
for
me
Are
windows
to
my
breast
,
wherethrough
the
sun
Delights
to
peep
,
to
gaze
therein
on
thee
.
Yet
eyes
this
cunning
want
to
grace
their
art
:
They
draw
but
what
they
see
,
know
not
the
heart
.
Let
those
who
are
in
favor
with
their
stars
Of
public
honor
and
proud
titles
boast
,
Whilst
I
,
whom
fortune
of
such
triumph
bars
,
Unlooked
for
joy
in
that
I
honor
most
.
Great
princes’
favorites
their
fair
leaves
spread
But
as
the
marigold
at
the
sun’s
eye
,
And
in
themselves
their
pride
lies
burièd
,
For
at
a
frown
they
in
their
glory
die
.
The
painful
warrior
famousèd
for
worth
,
After
a
thousand
victories
once
foiled
,
Is
from
the
book
of
honor
razèd
quite
,
And
all
the
rest
forgot
for
which
he
toiled
.
Then
happy
I
,
that
love
and
am
beloved
Where
I
may
not
remove
nor
be
removed
.
Lord
of
my
love
,
to
whom
in
vassalage
Thy
merit
hath
my
duty
strongly
knit
,
To
thee
I
send
this
written
embassage
To
witness
duty
,
not
to
show
my
wit
;
Duty
so
great
,
which
wit
so
poor
as
mine
May
make
seem
bare
,
in
wanting
words
to
show
it
,
But
that
I
hope
some
good
conceit
of
thine
In
thy
soul’s
thought
,
all
naked
,
will
bestow
it
;
Till
whatsoever
star
that
guides
my
moving
Points
on
me
graciously
with
fair
aspect
,
And
puts
apparel
on
my
tattered
loving
To
show
me
worthy
of
thy
sweet
respect
.
Then
may
I
dare
to
boast
how
I
do
love
thee
;
Till
then
,
not
show
my
head
where
thou
mayst
prove
me
.
Weary
with
toil
,
I
haste
me
to
my
bed
,
The
dear
repose
for
limbs
with
travel
tired
,
But
then
begins
a
journey
in
my
head
To
work
my
mind
when
body’s
work’s
expired
.
For
then
my
thoughts
,
from
far
where
I
abide
,
Intend
a
zealous
pilgrimage
to
thee
,
And
keep
my
drooping
eyelids
open
wide
,
Looking
on
darkness
which
the
blind
do
see
;
Save
that
my
soul’s
imaginary
sight
Presents
thy
shadow
to
my
sightless
view
,
Which
like
a
jewel
hung
in
ghastly
night
Makes
black
night
beauteous
and
her
old
face
new
.
Lo
,
thus
,
by
day
my
limbs
,
by
night
my
mind
,
For
thee
and
for
myself
no
quiet
find
.
How
can
I
then
return
in
happy
plight
That
am
debarred
the
benefit
of
rest
,
When
day’s
oppression
is
not
eased
by
night
,
But
day
by
night
and
night
by
day
oppressed
;
And
each
,
though
enemies
to
either’s
reign
,
Do
in
consent
shake
hands
to
torture
me
,
The
one
by
toil
,
the
other
to
complain
How
far
I
toil
,
still
farther
off
from
thee
?
I
tell
the
day
to
please
him
thou
art
bright
And
dost
him
grace
when
clouds
do
blot
the
heaven
;
So
flatter
I
the
swart
complexioned
night
,
When
sparkling
stars
twire
not
,
thou
gild’st
the
even
.
But
day
doth
daily
draw
my
sorrows
longer
,
And
night
doth
nightly
make
grief’s
length
seem
stronger
.
When
in
disgrace
with
fortune
and
men’s
eyes
,
I
all
alone
beweep
my
outcast
state
,
And
trouble
deaf
heaven
with
my
bootless
cries
,
And
look
upon
myself
and
curse
my
fate
,
Wishing
me
like
to
one
more
rich
in
hope
,
Featured
like
him
,
like
him
with
friends
possessed
,
Desiring
this
man’s
art
and
that
man’s
scope
,
With
what
I
most
enjoy
contented
least
;
Yet
in
these
thoughts
myself
almost
despising
,
Haply
I
think
on
thee
,
and
then
my
state
,
Like
to
the
lark
at
break
of
day
arising
From
sullen
earth
,
sings
hymns
at
heaven’s
gate
;
For
thy
sweet
love
remembered
such
wealth
brings
That
then
I
scorn
to
change
my
state
with
kings
.
When
to
the
sessions
of
sweet
silent
thought
I
summon
up
remembrance
of
things
past
,
I
sigh
the
lack
of
many
a
thing
I
sought
,
And
with
old
woes
new
wail
my
dear
time’s
waste
;
Then
can
I
drown
an
eye
,
unused
to
flow
,
For
precious
friends
hid
in
death’s
dateless
night
,
And
weep
afresh
love’s
long
since
canceled
woe
,
And
moan
th’
expense
of
many
a
vanished
sight
.
Then
can
I
grieve
at
grievances
foregone
,
And
heavily
from
woe
to
woe
tell
o’er
The
sad
account
of
fore-bemoanèd
moan
,
Which
I
new
pay
as
if
not
paid
before
.
But
if
the
while
I
think
on
thee
,
dear
friend
,
All
losses
are
restored
and
sorrows
end
.
Thy
bosom
is
endearèd
with
all
hearts
Which
I
by
lacking
have
supposèd
dead
,
And
there
reigns
love
and
all
love’s
loving
parts
,
And
all
those
friends
which
I
thought
burièd
.
How
many
a
holy
and
obsequious
tear
Hath
dear
religious
love
stol’n
from
mine
eye
,
As
interest
of
the
dead
,
which
now
appear
But
things
removed
that
hidden
in
thee
lie
.
Thou
art
the
grave
where
buried
love
doth
live
,
Hung
with
the
trophies
of
my
lovers
gone
,
Who
all
their
parts
of
me
to
thee
did
give
;
That
due
of
many
now
is
thine
alone
.
Their
images
I
loved
I
view
in
thee
,
And
thou
,
all
they
,
hast
all
the
all
of
me
.
If
thou
survive
my
well-contented
day
When
that
churl
Death
my
bones
with
dust
shall
cover
,
And
shalt
by
fortune
once
more
resurvey
These
poor
rude
lines
of
thy
deceasèd
lover
,
Compare
them
with
the
bett’ring
of
the
time
,
And
though
they
be
outstripped
by
every
pen
,
Reserve
them
for
my
love
,
not
for
their
rhyme
,
Exceeded
by
the
height
of
happier
men
.
O
,
then
vouchsafe
me
but
this
loving
thought
:
Had
my
friend’s
muse
grown
with
this
growing
age
,
A
dearer
birth
than
this
his
love
had
brought
To
march
in
ranks
of
better
equipage
.
But
since
he
died
and
poets
better
prove
,
Theirs
for
their
style
I’ll
read
,
his
for
his
love
.
Full
many
a
glorious
morning
have
I
seen
Flatter
the
mountain
tops
with
sovereign
eye
,
Kissing
with
golden
face
the
meadows
green
,
Gilding
pale
streams
with
heavenly
alchemy
,
Anon
permit
the
basest
clouds
to
ride
With
ugly
rack
on
his
celestial
face
,
And
from
the
forlorn
world
his
visage
hide
,
Stealing
unseen
to
west
with
this
disgrace
.
Even
so
my
sun
one
early
morn
did
shine
With
all-triumphant
splendor
on
my
brow
,
But
,
out
alack
,
he
was
but
one
hour
mine
;
The
region
cloud
hath
masked
him
from
me
now
.
Yet
him
for
this
my
love
no
whit
disdaineth
;
Suns
of
the
world
may
stain
when
heaven’s
sun
staineth
.
Why
didst
thou
promise
such
a
beauteous
day
And
make
me
travel
forth
without
my
cloak
,
To
let
base
clouds
o’ertake
me
in
my
way
,
Hiding
thy
brav’ry
in
their
rotten
smoke
?
’Tis
not
enough
that
through
the
cloud
thou
break
To
dry
the
rain
on
my
storm-beaten
face
,
For
no
man
well
of
such
a
salve
can
speak
That
heals
the
wound
and
cures
not
the
disgrace
.
Nor
can
thy
shame
give
physic
to
my
grief
;
Though
thou
repent
,
yet
I
have
still
the
loss
.
Th’
offender’s
sorrow
lends
but
weak
relief
To
him
that
bears
the
strong
offense’s
cross
.
Ah
,
but
those
tears
are
pearl
which
thy
love
sheds
,
And
they
are
rich
and
ransom
all
ill
deeds
.
No
more
be
grieved
at
that
which
thou
hast
done
.
Roses
have
thorns
,
and
silver
fountains
mud
;
Clouds
and
eclipses
stain
both
moon
and
sun
,
And
loathsome
canker
lives
in
sweetest
bud
.
All
men
make
faults
,
and
even
I
in
this
,
Authorizing
thy
trespass
with
compare
,
Myself
corrupting
salving
thy
amiss
,
Excusing
thy
sins
more
than
thy
sins
are
.
For
to
thy
sensual
fault
I
bring
in
sense
—
Thy
adverse
party
is
thy
advocate
—
And
’gainst
myself
a
lawful
plea
commence
.
Such
civil
war
is
in
my
love
and
hate
That
I
an
accessary
needs
must
be
To
that
sweet
thief
which
sourly
robs
from
me
.
Let
me
confess
that
we
two
must
be
twain
Although
our
undivided
loves
are
one
;
So
shall
those
blots
that
do
with
me
remain
,
Without
thy
help
,
by
me
be
borne
alone
.
In
our
two
loves
there
is
but
one
respect
,
Though
in
our
lives
a
separable
spite
,
Which
though
it
alter
not
love’s
sole
effect
,
Yet
doth
it
steal
sweet
hours
from
love’s
delight
.
I
may
not
evermore
acknowledge
thee
,
Lest
my
bewailèd
guilt
should
do
thee
shame
,
Nor
thou
with
public
kindness
honor
me
Unless
thou
take
that
honor
from
thy
name
.
But
do
not
so
.
I
love
thee
in
such
sort
As
,
thou
being
mine
,
mine
is
thy
good
report
.
As
a
decrepit
father
takes
delight
To
see
his
active
child
do
deeds
of
youth
,
So
I
,
made
lame
by
fortune’s
dearest
spite
,
Take
all
my
comfort
of
thy
worth
and
truth
.
For
whether
beauty
,
birth
,
or
wealth
,
or
wit
,
Or
any
of
these
all
,
or
all
,
or
more
,
Entitled
in
thy
parts
do
crownèd
sit
,
I
make
my
love
engrafted
to
this
store
.
So
then
I
am
not
lame
,
poor
,
nor
despised
Whilst
that
this
shadow
doth
such
substance
give
That
I
in
thy
abundance
am
sufficed
And
by
a
part
of
all
thy
glory
live
.
Look
what
is
best
,
that
best
I
wish
in
thee
.
This
wish
I
have
,
then
ten
times
happy
me
.
How
can
my
muse
want
subject
to
invent
While
thou
dost
breathe
that
pour’st
into
my
verse
Thine
own
sweet
argument
,
too
excellent
For
every
vulgar
paper
to
rehearse
?
O
,
give
thyself
the
thanks
if
aught
in
me
Worthy
perusal
stand
against
thy
sight
,
For
who’s
so
dumb
that
cannot
write
to
thee
When
thou
thyself
dost
give
invention
light
?
Be
thou
the
tenth
muse
,
ten
times
more
in
worth
Than
those
old
nine
which
rhymers
invocate
;
And
he
that
calls
on
thee
,
let
him
bring
forth
Eternal
numbers
to
outlive
long
date
.
If
my
slight
muse
do
please
these
curious
days
,
The
pain
be
mine
,
but
thine
shall
be
the
praise
.
O
,
how
thy
worth
with
manners
may
I
sing
When
thou
art
all
the
better
part
of
me
?
What
can
mine
own
praise
to
mine
own
self
bring
,
And
what
is
’t
but
mine
own
when
I
praise
thee
?
Even
for
this
let
us
divided
live
And
our
dear
love
lose
name
of
single
one
,
That
by
this
separation
I
may
give
That
due
to
thee
which
thou
deserv’st
alone
.
O
absence
,
what
a
torment
wouldst
thou
prove
Were
it
not
thy
sour
leisure
gave
sweet
leave
To
entertain
the
time
with
thoughts
of
love
,
Which
time
and
thoughts
so
sweetly
doth
deceive
,
And
that
thou
teachest
how
to
make
one
twain
By
praising
him
here
who
doth
hence
remain
.
Take
all
my
loves
,
my
love
,
yea
,
take
them
all
.
What
hast
thou
then
more
than
thou
hadst
before
?
No
love
,
my
love
,
that
thou
mayst
true
love
call
;
All
mine
was
thine
before
thou
hadst
this
more
.
Then
,
if
for
my
love
thou
my
love
receivest
,
I
cannot
blame
thee
for
my
love
thou
usest
;
But
yet
be
blamed
if
thou
thyself
deceivest
By
willful
taste
of
what
thyself
refusest
.
I
do
forgive
thy
robb’ry
,
gentle
thief
,
Although
thou
steal
thee
all
my
poverty
;
And
yet
love
knows
it
is
a
greater
grief
To
bear
love’s
wrong
than
hate’s
known
injury
.
Lascivious
grace
,
in
whom
all
ill
well
shows
,
Kill
me
with
spites
,
yet
we
must
not
be
foes
.
Those
pretty
wrongs
that
liberty
commits
When
I
am
sometime
absent
from
thy
heart
,
Thy
beauty
and
thy
years
full
well
befits
,
For
still
temptation
follows
where
thou
art
.
Gentle
thou
art
,
and
therefore
to
be
won
;
Beauteous
thou
art
,
therefore
to
be
assailed
;
And
when
a
woman
woos
,
what
woman’s
son
Will
sourly
leave
her
till
he
have
prevailed
?
Ay
me
,
but
yet
thou
mightst
my
seat
forbear
,
And
chide
thy
beauty
and
thy
straying
youth
,
Who
lead
thee
in
their
riot
even
there
Where
thou
art
forced
to
break
a
twofold
truth
:
Hers
,
by
thy
beauty
tempting
her
to
thee
,
Thine
,
by
thy
beauty
being
false
to
me
.
That
thou
hast
her
,
it
is
not
all
my
grief
,
And
yet
it
may
be
said
I
loved
her
dearly
;
That
she
hath
thee
is
of
my
wailing
chief
,
A
loss
in
love
that
touches
me
more
nearly
.
Loving
offenders
,
thus
I
will
excuse
ye
:
Thou
dost
love
her
because
thou
know’st
I
love
her
,
And
for
my
sake
even
so
doth
she
abuse
me
,
Suff’ring
my
friend
for
my
sake
to
approve
her
.
If
I
lose
thee
,
my
loss
is
my
love’s
gain
,
And
losing
her
,
my
friend
hath
found
that
loss
;
Both
find
each
other
,
and
I
lose
both
twain
,
And
both
for
my
sake
lay
on
me
this
cross
.
But
here’s
the
joy
:
my
friend
and
I
are
one
;
Sweet
flattery
!
then
she
loves
but
me
alone
.
When
most
I
wink
,
then
do
mine
eyes
best
see
,
For
all
the
day
they
view
things
unrespected
;
But
when
I
sleep
,
in
dreams
they
look
on
thee
And
,
darkly
bright
,
are
bright
in
dark
directed
.
Then
thou
whose
shadow
shadows
doth
make
bright
,
How
would
thy
shadow’s
form
form
happy
show
To
the
clear
day
with
thy
much
clearer
light
When
to
unseeing
eyes
thy
shade
shines
so
!
How
would
,
I
say
,
mine
eyes
be
blessèd
made
By
looking
on
thee
in
the
living
day
,
When
in
dead
night
thy
fair
imperfect
shade
Through
heavy
sleep
on
sightless
eyes
doth
stay
!
All
days
are
nights
to
see
till
I
see
thee
,
And
nights
bright
days
when
dreams
do
show
thee
me
.
If
the
dull
substance
of
my
flesh
were
thought
,
Injurious
distance
should
not
stop
my
way
,
For
then
,
despite
of
space
,
I
would
be
brought
From
limits
far
remote
,
where
thou
dost
stay
.
No
matter
then
although
my
foot
did
stand
Upon
the
farthest
earth
removed
from
thee
,
For
nimble
thought
can
jump
both
sea
and
land
As
soon
as
think
the
place
where
he
would
be
.
But
,
ah
,
thought
kills
me
that
I
am
not
thought
,
To
leap
large
lengths
of
miles
when
thou
art
gone
,
But
that
,
so
much
of
earth
and
water
wrought
,
I
must
attend
time’s
leisure
with
my
moan
;
Receiving
nought
by
elements
so
slow
But
heavy
tears
,
badges
of
either’s
woe
.
The
other
two
,
slight
air
and
purging
fire
,
Are
both
with
thee
,
wherever
I
abide
;
The
first
my
thought
,
the
other
my
desire
,
These
present-absent
with
swift
motion
slide
.
For
when
these
quicker
elements
are
gone
In
tender
embassy
of
love
to
thee
,
My
life
,
being
made
of
four
,
with
two
alone
Sinks
down
to
death
,
oppressed
with
melancholy
;
Until
life’s
composition
be
recured
By
those
swift
messengers
returned
from
thee
,
Who
even
but
now
come
back
again
,
assured
Of
thy
fair
health
,
recounting
it
to
me
.
This
told
,
I
joy
;
but
then
,
no
longer
glad
,
I
send
them
back
again
and
straight
grow
sad
.
Mine
eye
and
heart
are
at
a
mortal
war
How
to
divide
the
conquest
of
thy
sight
.
Mine
eye
my
heart
thy
picture’s
sight
would
bar
,
My
heart
mine
eye
the
freedom
of
that
right
.
My
heart
doth
plead
that
thou
in
him
dost
lie
,
A
closet
never
pierced
with
crystal
eyes
;
But
the
defendant
doth
that
plea
deny
,
And
says
in
him
thy
fair
appearance
lies
.
To
’cide
this
title
is
impanelèd
A
quest
of
thoughts
,
all
tenants
to
the
heart
,
And
by
their
verdict
is
determinèd
The
clear
eyes’
moiety
and
the
dear
heart’s
part
,
As
thus
:
mine
eyes’
due
is
thy
outward
part
,
And
my
heart’s
right
,
thy
inward
love
of
heart
.
Betwixt
mine
eye
and
heart
a
league
is
took
,
And
each
doth
good
turns
now
unto
the
other
.
When
that
mine
eye
is
famished
for
a
look
,
Or
heart
in
love
with
sighs
himself
doth
smother
,
With
my
love’s
picture
then
my
eye
doth
feast
And
to
the
painted
banquet
bids
my
heart
.
Another
time
mine
eye
is
my
heart’s
guest
And
in
his
thoughts
of
love
doth
share
a
part
.
So
,
either
by
thy
picture
or
my
love
,
Thyself
away
are
present
still
with
me
;
For
thou
no
farther
than
my
thoughts
canst
move
,
And
I
am
still
with
them
,
and
they
with
thee
;
Or
,
if
they
sleep
,
thy
picture
in
my
sight
Awakes
my
heart
to
heart’s
and
eye’s
delight
.
How
careful
was
I
,
when
I
took
my
way
,
Each
trifle
under
truest
bars
to
thrust
,
That
to
my
use
it
might
unusèd
stay
From
hands
of
falsehood
,
in
sure
wards
of
trust
!
But
thou
,
to
whom
my
jewels
trifles
are
,
Most
worthy
comfort
,
now
my
greatest
grief
,
Thou
best
of
dearest
and
mine
only
care
Art
left
the
prey
of
every
vulgar
thief
.
Thee
have
I
not
locked
up
in
any
chest
,
Save
where
thou
art
not
,
though
I
feel
thou
art
,
Within
the
gentle
closure
of
my
breast
,
From
whence
at
pleasure
thou
mayst
come
and
part
;
And
even
thence
thou
wilt
be
stol’n
,
I
fear
,
For
truth
proves
thievish
for
a
prize
so
dear
.
Against
that
time
,
if
ever
that
time
come
,
When
I
shall
see
thee
frown
on
my
defects
,
Whenas
thy
love
hath
cast
his
utmost
sum
,
Called
to
that
audit
by
advised
respects
;
Against
that
time
when
thou
shalt
strangely
pass
And
scarcely
greet
me
with
that
sun
thine
eye
,
When
love
,
converted
from
the
thing
it
was
,
Shall
reasons
find
of
settled
gravity
;
Against
that
time
do
I
ensconce
me
here
Within
the
knowledge
of
mine
own
desert
,
And
this
my
hand
against
myself
uprear
To
guard
the
lawful
reasons
on
thy
part
.
To
leave
poor
me
thou
hast
the
strength
of
laws
,
Since
why
to
love
I
can
allege
no
cause
.
How
heavy
do
I
journey
on
the
way
,
When
what
I
seek
,
my
weary
travel’s
end
,
Doth
teach
that
ease
and
that
repose
to
say
Thus
far
the
miles
are
measured
from
thy
friend
.
The
beast
that
bears
me
,
tired
with
my
woe
,
Plods
dully
on
,
to
bear
that
weight
in
me
,
As
if
by
some
instinct
the
wretch
did
know
His
rider
loved
not
speed
,
being
made
from
thee
.
The
bloody
spur
cannot
provoke
him
on
That
sometimes
anger
thrusts
into
his
hide
,
Which
heavily
he
answers
with
a
groan
,
More
sharp
to
me
than
spurring
to
his
side
;
For
that
same
groan
doth
put
this
in
my
mind
:
My
grief
lies
onward
and
my
joy
behind
.
Thus
can
my
love
excuse
the
slow
offense
Of
my
dull
bearer
when
from
thee
I
speed
:
From
where
thou
art
,
why
should
I
haste
me
thence
?
Till
I
return
,
of
posting
is
no
need
.
O
,
what
excuse
will
my
poor
beast
then
find
When
swift
extremity
can
seem
but
slow
?
Then
should
I
spur
,
though
mounted
on
the
wind
;
In
wingèd
speed
no
motion
shall
I
know
.
Then
can
no
horse
with
my
desire
keep
pace
;
Therefore
desire
,
of
perfect’st
love
being
made
,
Shall
neigh
no
dull
flesh
in
his
fiery
race
.
But
love
for
love
thus
shall
excuse
my
jade
:
Since
from
thee
going
he
went
willful
slow
,
Towards
thee
I’ll
run
,
and
give
him
leave
to
go
.
So
am
I
as
the
rich
whose
blessèd
key
Can
bring
him
to
his
sweet
up-lockèd
treasure
,
The
which
he
will
not
ev’ry
hour
survey
,
For
blunting
the
fine
point
of
seldom
pleasure
.
Therefore
are
feasts
so
solemn
and
so
rare
,
Since
seldom
coming
in
the
long
year
set
,
Like
stones
of
worth
they
thinly
placèd
are
,
Or
captain
jewels
in
the
carcanet
.
So
is
the
time
that
keeps
you
as
my
chest
,
Or
as
the
wardrobe
which
the
robe
doth
hide
To
make
some
special
instant
special
blessed
By
new
unfolding
his
imprisoned
pride
.
Blessèd
are
you
whose
worthiness
gives
scope
,
Being
had
,
to
triumph
,
being
lacked
,
to
hope
.
What
is
your
substance
,
whereof
are
you
made
,
That
millions
of
strange
shadows
on
you
tend
?
Since
everyone
hath
,
every
one
,
one
shade
,
And
you
,
but
one
,
can
every
shadow
lend
.
Describe
Adonis
,
and
the
counterfeit
Is
poorly
imitated
after
you
;
On
Helen’s
cheek
all
art
of
beauty
set
,
And
you
in
Grecian
tires
are
painted
new
.
Speak
of
the
spring
and
foison
of
the
year
;
The
one
doth
shadow
of
your
beauty
show
,
The
other
as
your
bounty
doth
appear
,
And
you
in
every
blessèd
shape
we
know
.
In
all
external
grace
you
have
some
part
,
But
you
like
none
,
none
you
,
for
constant
heart
.
O
,
how
much
more
doth
beauty
beauteous
seem
By
that
sweet
ornament
which
truth
doth
give
.
The
rose
looks
fair
,
but
fairer
we
it
deem
For
that
sweet
odor
which
doth
in
it
live
.
The
canker
blooms
have
full
as
deep
a
dye
As
the
perfumèd
tincture
of
the
roses
,
Hang
on
such
thorns
,
and
play
as
wantonly
When
summer’s
breath
their
maskèd
buds
discloses
;
But
,
for
their
virtue
only
is
their
show
,
They
live
unwooed
and
unrespected
fade
,
Die
to
themselves
.
Sweet
roses
do
not
so
;
Of
their
sweet
deaths
are
sweetest
odors
made
.
And
so
of
you
,
beauteous
and
lovely
youth
,
When
that
shall
vade
,
by
verse
distils
your
truth
.
Not
marble
nor
the
gilded
monuments
Of
princes
shall
outlive
this
powerful
rhyme
,
But
you
shall
shine
more
bright
in
these
contents
Than
unswept
stone
besmeared
with
sluttish
time
.
When
wasteful
war
shall
statues
overturn
,
And
broils
root
out
the
work
of
masonry
,
Nor
Mars
his
sword
nor
war’s
quick
fire
shall
burn
The
living
record
of
your
memory
.
’Gainst
death
and
all
oblivious
enmity
Shall
you
pace
forth
;
your
praise
shall
still
find
room
Even
in
the
eyes
of
all
posterity
That
wear
this
world
out
to
the
ending
doom
.
So
,
till
the
judgment
that
yourself
arise
,
You
live
in
this
,
and
dwell
in
lovers’
eyes
.
Sweet
love
,
renew
thy
force
.
Be
it
not
said
Thy
edge
should
blunter
be
than
appetite
,
Which
but
today
by
feeding
is
allayed
,
Tomorrow
sharpened
in
his
former
might
.
So
,
love
,
be
thou
.
Although
today
thou
fill
Thy
hungry
eyes
even
till
they
wink
with
fullness
,
Tomorrow
see
again
,
and
do
not
kill
The
spirit
of
love
with
a
perpetual
dullness
.
Let
this
sad
int’rim
like
the
ocean
be
Which
parts
the
shore
where
two
contracted
new
Come
daily
to
the
banks
,
that
,
when
they
see
Return
of
love
,
more
blessed
may
be
the
view
.
Or
call
it
winter
,
which
being
full
of
care
Makes
summer’s
welcome
,
thrice
more
wished
,
more
rare
.
Being
your
slave
,
what
should
I
do
but
tend
Upon
the
hours
and
times
of
your
desire
?
I
have
no
precious
time
at
all
to
spend
Nor
services
to
do
till
you
require
.
Nor
dare
I
chide
the
world-without-end
hour
Whilst
I
,
my
sovereign
,
watch
the
clock
for
you
,
Nor
think
the
bitterness
of
absence
sour
When
you
have
bid
your
servant
once
adieu
.
Nor
dare
I
question
with
my
jealous
thought
Where
you
may
be
,
or
your
affairs
suppose
,
But
,
like
a
sad
slave
,
stay
and
think
of
nought
Save
where
you
are
how
happy
you
make
those
.
So
true
a
fool
is
love
that
in
your
will
,
Though
you
do
anything
,
he
thinks
no
ill
.
That
god
forbid
,
that
made
me
first
your
slave
,
I
should
in
thought
control
your
times
of
pleasure
,
Or
at
your
hand
th’
account
of
hours
to
crave
,
Being
your
vassal
bound
to
stay
your
leisure
.
O
,
let
me
suffer
,
being
at
your
beck
,
Th’
imprisoned
absence
of
your
liberty
,
And
patience
,
tame
to
sufferance
,
bide
each
check
Without
accusing
you
of
injury
.
Be
where
you
list
,
your
charter
is
so
strong
That
you
yourself
may
privilege
your
time
To
what
you
will
;
to
you
it
doth
belong
Yourself
to
pardon
of
self-doing
crime
.
I
am
to
wait
,
though
waiting
so
be
hell
,
Not
blame
your
pleasure
,
be
it
ill
or
well
.
If
there
be
nothing
new
,
but
that
which
is
Hath
been
before
,
how
are
our
brains
beguiled
,
Which
,
laboring
for
invention
,
bear
amiss
The
second
burden
of
a
former
child
.
O
,
that
record
could
with
a
backward
look
,
Even
of
five
hundred
courses
of
the
sun
,
Show
me
your
image
in
some
antique
book
,
Since
mind
at
first
in
character
was
done
,
That
I
might
see
what
the
old
world
could
say
To
this
composèd
wonder
of
your
frame
;
Whether
we
are
mended
,
or
whe’er
better
they
,
Or
whether
revolution
be
the
same
.
O
,
sure
I
am
the
wits
of
former
days
To
subjects
worse
have
given
admiring
praise
.
Like
as
the
waves
make
towards
the
pebbled
shore
,
So
do
our
minutes
hasten
to
their
end
,
Each
changing
place
with
that
which
goes
before
;
In
sequent
toil
all
forwards
do
contend
.
Nativity
,
once
in
the
main
of
light
,
Crawls
to
maturity
,
wherewith
being
crowned
,
Crookèd
eclipses
’gainst
his
glory
fight
,
And
Time
that
gave
doth
now
his
gift
confound
.
Time
doth
transfix
the
flourish
set
on
youth
And
delves
the
parallels
in
beauty’s
brow
,
Feeds
on
the
rarities
of
Nature’s
truth
,
And
nothing
stands
but
for
his
scythe
to
mow
.
And
yet
to
times
in
hope
my
verse
shall
stand
,
Praising
thy
worth
,
despite
his
cruel
hand
.
Is
it
thy
will
thy
image
should
keep
open
My
heavy
eyelids
to
the
weary
night
?
Dost
thou
desire
my
slumbers
should
be
broken
While
shadows
like
to
thee
do
mock
my
sight
?
Is
it
thy
spirit
that
thou
send’st
from
thee
So
far
from
home
into
my
deeds
to
pry
,
To
find
out
shames
and
idle
hours
in
me
,
The
scope
and
tenor
of
thy
jealousy
?
O
,
no
.
Thy
love
,
though
much
,
is
not
so
great
.
It
is
my
love
that
keeps
mine
eye
awake
,
Mine
own
true
love
that
doth
my
rest
defeat
To
play
the
watchman
ever
for
thy
sake
.
For
thee
watch
I
whilst
thou
dost
wake
elsewhere
,
From
me
far
off
,
with
others
all
too
near
.
Sin
of
self-love
possesseth
all
mine
eye
And
all
my
soul
and
all
my
every
part
;
And
for
this
sin
there
is
no
remedy
,
It
is
so
grounded
inward
in
my
heart
.
Methinks
no
face
so
gracious
is
as
mine
,
No
shape
so
true
,
no
truth
of
such
account
,
And
for
myself
mine
own
worth
do
define
As
I
all
other
in
all
worths
surmount
.
But
when
my
glass
shows
me
myself
indeed
Beated
and
chopped
with
tanned
antiquity
,
Mine
own
self-love
quite
contrary
I
read
;
Self
so
self-loving
were
iniquity
.
’Tis
thee
,
myself
,
that
for
myself
I
praise
,
Painting
my
age
with
beauty
of
thy
days
.
Against
my
love
shall
be
,
as
I
am
now
,
With
Time’s
injurious
hand
crushed
and
o’erworn
;
When
hours
have
drained
his
blood
and
filled
his
brow
With
lines
and
wrinkles
;
when
his
youthful
morn
Hath
traveled
on
to
age’s
steepy
night
,
And
all
those
beauties
whereof
now
he’s
king
Are
vanishing
,
or
vanished
out
of
sight
,
Stealing
away
the
treasure
of
his
spring
;
For
such
a
time
do
I
now
fortify
Against
confounding
age’s
cruel
knife
,
That
he
shall
never
cut
from
memory
My
sweet
love’s
beauty
,
though
my
lover’s
life
.
His
beauty
shall
in
these
black
lines
be
seen
,
And
they
shall
live
,
and
he
in
them
still
green
.
When
I
have
seen
by
Time’s
fell
hand
defaced
The
rich
proud
cost
of
outworn
buried
age
;
When
sometime
lofty
towers
I
see
down-razed
And
brass
eternal
slave
to
mortal
rage
;
When
I
have
seen
the
hungry
ocean
gain
Advantage
on
the
kingdom
of
the
shore
,
And
the
firm
soil
win
of
the
wat’ry
main
,
Increasing
store
with
loss
and
loss
with
store
;
When
I
have
seen
such
interchange
of
state
,
Or
state
itself
confounded
to
decay
,
Ruin
hath
taught
me
thus
to
ruminate
,
That
Time
will
come
and
take
my
love
away
.
This
thought
is
as
a
death
,
which
cannot
choose
But
weep
to
have
that
which
it
fears
to
lose
.
Since
brass
,
nor
stone
,
nor
earth
,
nor
boundless
sea
But
sad
mortality
o’ersways
their
power
,
How
with
this
rage
shall
beauty
hold
a
plea
,
Whose
action
is
no
stronger
than
a
flower
?
O
,
how
shall
summer’s
honey
breath
hold
out
Against
the
wrackful
siege
of
batt’ring
days
,
When
rocks
impregnable
are
not
so
stout
Nor
gates
of
steel
so
strong
,
but
Time
decays
?
O
,
fearful
meditation
!
Where
,
alack
,
Shall
Time’s
best
jewel
from
Time’s
chest
lie
hid
?
Or
what
strong
hand
can
hold
his
swift
foot
back
,
Or
who
his
spoil
of
beauty
can
forbid
?
O
,
none
,
unless
this
miracle
have
might
,
That
in
black
ink
my
love
may
still
shine
bright
.
Tired
with
all
these
,
for
restful
death
I
cry
:
As
,
to
behold
desert
a
beggar
born
,
And
needy
nothing
trimmed
in
jollity
,
And
purest
faith
unhappily
forsworn
,
And
gilded
honor
shamefully
misplaced
,
And
maiden
virtue
rudely
strumpeted
,
And
right
perfection
wrongfully
disgraced
,
And
strength
by
limping
sway
disablèd
,
And
art
made
tongue-tied
by
authority
,
And
folly
,
doctor-like
,
controlling
skill
,
And
simple
truth
miscalled
simplicity
,
And
captive
good
attending
captain
ill
.
Tired
with
all
these
,
from
these
would
I
be
gone
,
Save
that
,
to
die
,
I
leave
my
love
alone
.
Ah
,
wherefore
with
infection
should
he
live
,
And
with
his
presence
grace
impiety
,
That
sin
by
him
advantage
should
achieve
And
lace
itself
with
his
society
?
Why
should
false
painting
imitate
his
cheek
And
steal
dead
seeing
of
his
living
hue
?
Why
should
poor
beauty
indirectly
seek
Roses
of
shadow
,
since
his
rose
is
true
?
Why
should
he
live
,
now
Nature
bankrout
is
,
Beggared
of
blood
to
blush
through
lively
veins
,
For
she
hath
no
exchequer
now
but
his
,
And
,
proud
of
many
,
lives
upon
his
gains
?
O
,
him
she
stores
,
to
show
what
wealth
she
had
In
days
long
since
,
before
these
last
so
bad
.
Thus
is
his
cheek
the
map
of
days
outworn
,
When
beauty
lived
and
died
as
flowers
do
now
,
Before
these
bastard
signs
of
fair
were
borne
,
Or
durst
inhabit
on
a
living
brow
;
Before
the
golden
tresses
of
the
dead
,
The
right
of
sepulchers
,
were
shorn
away
To
live
a
second
life
on
second
head
,
Ere
beauty’s
dead
fleece
made
another
gay
.
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
.
And
him
as
for
a
map
doth
Nature
store
,
To
show
false
art
what
beauty
was
of
yore
.
Those
parts
of
thee
that
the
world’s
eye
doth
view
Want
nothing
that
the
thought
of
hearts
can
mend
.
All
tongues
,
the
voice
of
souls
,
give
thee
that
due
,
Utt’ring
bare
truth
,
even
so
as
foes
commend
.
Thy
outward
thus
with
outward
praise
is
crowned
,
But
those
same
tongues
that
give
thee
so
thine
own
In
other
accents
do
this
praise
confound
By
seeing
farther
than
the
eye
hath
shown
.
They
look
into
the
beauty
of
thy
mind
,
And
that
,
in
guess
,
they
measure
by
thy
deeds
;
Then
,
churls
,
their
thoughts
,
although
their
eyes
were
kind
,
To
thy
fair
flower
add
the
rank
smell
of
weeds
.
But
why
thy
odor
matcheth
not
thy
show
,
The
soil
is
this
,
that
thou
dost
common
grow
.
That
thou
art
blamed
shall
not
be
thy
defect
,
For
slander’s
mark
was
ever
yet
the
fair
.
The
ornament
of
beauty
is
suspect
,
A
crow
that
flies
in
heaven’s
sweetest
air
.
So
thou
be
good
,
slander
doth
but
approve
Thy
worth
the
greater
,
being
wooed
of
time
,
For
canker
vice
the
sweetest
buds
doth
love
,
And
thou
present’st
a
pure
unstainèd
prime
.
Thou
hast
passed
by
the
ambush
of
young
days
,
Either
not
assailed
,
or
victor
being
charged
;
Yet
this
thy
praise
cannot
be
so
thy
praise
To
tie
up
envy
,
evermore
enlarged
.
If
some
suspect
of
ill
masked
not
thy
show
,
Then
thou
alone
kingdoms
of
hearts
shouldst
owe
.
No
longer
mourn
for
me
when
I
am
dead
Than
you
shall
hear
the
surly
sullen
bell
Give
warning
to
the
world
that
I
am
fled
From
this
vile
world
with
vilest
worms
to
dwell
.
Nay
,
if
you
read
this
line
,
remember
not
The
hand
that
writ
it
,
for
I
love
you
so
That
I
in
your
sweet
thoughts
would
be
forgot
,
If
thinking
on
me
then
should
make
you
woe
.
O
,
if
,
I
say
,
you
look
upon
this
verse
When
I
,
perhaps
,
compounded
am
with
clay
,
Do
not
so
much
as
my
poor
name
rehearse
,
But
let
your
love
even
with
my
life
decay
,
Lest
the
wise
world
should
look
into
your
moan
And
mock
you
with
me
after
I
am
gone
.
O
,
lest
the
world
should
task
you
to
recite
What
merit
lived
in
me
that
you
should
love
,
After
my
death
,
dear
love
,
forget
me
quite
,
For
you
in
me
can
nothing
worthy
prove
;
Unless
you
would
devise
some
virtuous
lie
,
To
do
more
for
me
than
mine
own
desert
,
And
hang
more
praise
upon
deceasèd
I
Than
niggard
truth
would
willingly
impart
.
O
,
lest
your
true
love
may
seem
false
in
this
,
That
you
for
love
speak
well
of
me
untrue
,
My
name
be
buried
where
my
body
is
And
live
no
more
to
shame
nor
me
nor
you
.
For
I
am
shamed
by
that
which
I
bring
forth
,
And
so
should
you
,
to
love
things
nothing
worth
.
That
time
of
year
thou
mayst
in
me
behold
When
yellow
leaves
,
or
none
,
or
few
,
do
hang
Upon
those
boughs
which
shake
against
the
cold
,
Bare
ruined
choirs
where
late
the
sweet
birds
sang
.
In
me
thou
see’st
the
twilight
of
such
day
As
after
sunset
fadeth
in
the
west
,
Which
by
and
by
black
night
doth
take
away
,
Death’s
second
self
,
that
seals
up
all
in
rest
.
In
me
thou
see’st
the
glowing
of
such
fire
That
on
the
ashes
of
his
youth
doth
lie
,
As
the
death-bed
whereon
it
must
expire
,
Consumed
with
that
which
it
was
nourished
by
.
This
thou
perceiv’st
,
which
makes
thy
love
more
strong
,
To
love
that
well
which
thou
must
leave
ere
long
.
But
be
contented
when
that
fell
arrest
Without
all
bail
shall
carry
me
away
,
My
life
hath
in
this
line
some
interest
,
Which
for
memorial
still
with
thee
shall
stay
.
When
thou
reviewest
this
,
thou
dost
review
The
very
part
was
consecrate
to
thee
.
The
earth
can
have
but
earth
,
which
is
his
due
;
My
spirit
is
thine
,
the
better
part
of
me
.
So
then
thou
hast
but
lost
the
dregs
of
life
,
The
prey
of
worms
,
my
body
being
dead
,
The
coward
conquest
of
a
wretch’s
knife
,
Too
base
of
thee
to
be
rememberèd
.
The
worth
of
that
is
that
which
it
contains
,
And
that
is
this
,
and
this
with
thee
remains
.
So
are
you
to
my
thoughts
as
food
to
life
,
Or
as
sweet-seasoned
showers
are
to
the
ground
;
And
for
the
peace
of
you
I
hold
such
strife
As
’twixt
a
miser
and
his
wealth
is
found
:
Now
proud
as
an
enjoyer
,
and
anon
Doubting
the
filching
age
will
steal
his
treasure
;
Now
counting
best
to
be
with
you
alone
,
Then
bettered
that
the
world
may
see
my
pleasure
.
Sometime
all
full
with
feasting
on
your
sight
,
And
by
and
by
clean
starvèd
for
a
look
;
Possessing
or
pursuing
no
delight
Save
what
is
had
or
must
from
you
be
took
.
Thus
do
I
pine
and
surfeit
day
by
day
,
Or
gluttoning
on
all
,
or
all
away
.
Why
is
my
verse
so
barren
of
new
pride
,
So
far
from
variation
or
quick
change
?
Why
with
the
time
do
I
not
glance
aside
To
new-found
methods
and
to
compounds
strange
?
Why
write
I
still
all
one
,
ever
the
same
,
And
keep
invention
in
a
noted
weed
,
That
every
word
doth
almost
tell
my
name
,
Showing
their
birth
and
where
they
did
proceed
?
O
,
know
,
sweet
love
,
I
always
write
of
you
,
And
you
and
love
are
still
my
argument
;
So
all
my
best
is
dressing
old
words
new
,
Spending
again
what
is
already
spent
.
For
as
the
sun
is
daily
new
and
old
,
So
is
my
love
,
still
telling
what
is
told
.
Thy
glass
will
show
thee
how
thy
beauties
wear
,
Thy
dial
how
thy
precious
minutes
waste
;
The
vacant
leaves
thy
mind’s
imprint
will
bear
,
And
of
this
book
this
learning
mayst
thou
taste
:
The
wrinkles
which
thy
glass
will
truly
show
,
Of
mouthèd
graves
will
give
thee
memory
;
Thou
by
thy
dial’s
shady
stealth
mayst
know
Time’s
thievish
progress
to
eternity
.
Look
what
thy
memory
cannot
contain
Commit
to
these
waste
blanks
,
and
thou
shalt
find
Those
children
nursed
,
delivered
from
thy
brain
,
To
take
a
new
acquaintance
of
thy
mind
.
These
offices
,
so
oft
as
thou
wilt
look
,
Shall
profit
thee
and
much
enrich
thy
book
.
So
oft
have
I
invoked
thee
for
my
muse
And
found
such
fair
assistance
in
my
verse
As
every
alien
pen
hath
got
my
use
And
under
thee
their
poesy
disperse
.
Thine
eyes
,
that
taught
the
dumb
on
high
to
sing
And
heavy
ignorance
aloft
to
fly
,
Have
added
feathers
to
the
learnèd’s
wing
And
given
grace
a
double
majesty
.
Yet
be
most
proud
of
that
which
I
compile
,
Whose
influence
is
thine
and
born
of
thee
.
In
others’
works
thou
dost
but
mend
the
style
,
And
arts
with
thy
sweet
graces
gracèd
be
.
But
thou
art
all
my
art
and
dost
advance
As
high
as
learning
my
rude
ignorance
.
Whilst
I
alone
did
call
upon
thy
aid
,
My
verse
alone
had
all
thy
gentle
grace
;
But
now
my
gracious
numbers
are
decayed
,
And
my
sick
muse
doth
give
another
place
.
I
grant
,
sweet
love
,
thy
lovely
argument
Deserves
the
travail
of
a
worthier
pen
;
Yet
what
of
thee
thy
poet
doth
invent
He
robs
thee
of
and
pays
it
thee
again
.
He
lends
thee
virtue
,
and
he
stole
that
word
From
thy
behavior
;
beauty
doth
he
give
And
found
it
in
thy
cheek
.
He
can
afford
No
praise
to
thee
but
what
in
thee
doth
live
.
Then
thank
him
not
for
that
which
he
doth
say
,
Since
what
he
owes
thee
thou
thyself
dost
pay
.
O
,
how
I
faint
when
I
of
you
do
write
,
Knowing
a
better
spirit
doth
use
your
name
,
And
in
the
praise
thereof
spends
all
his
might
,
To
make
me
tongue-tied
speaking
of
your
fame
.
But
since
your
worth
,
wide
as
the
ocean
is
,
The
humble
as
the
proudest
sail
doth
bear
,
My
saucy
bark
,
inferior
far
to
his
,
On
your
broad
main
doth
willfully
appear
.
Your
shallowest
help
will
hold
me
up
afloat
Whilst
he
upon
your
soundless
deep
doth
ride
,
Or
,
being
wracked
,
I
am
a
worthless
boat
,
He
of
tall
building
and
of
goodly
pride
.
Then
,
if
he
thrive
and
I
be
cast
away
,
The
worst
was
this
:
my
love
was
my
decay
.
Or
I
shall
live
your
epitaph
to
make
Or
you
survive
when
I
in
earth
am
rotten
.
From
hence
your
memory
death
cannot
take
,
Although
in
me
each
part
will
be
forgotten
.
Your
name
from
hence
immortal
life
shall
have
,
Though
I
,
once
gone
,
to
all
the
world
must
die
.
The
Earth
earth
can
yield
me
but
a
common
grave
,
When
you
entombèd
in
men’s
eyes
shall
lie
.
Your
monument
shall
be
my
gentle
verse
,
Which
eyes
not
yet
created
shall
o’erread
;
And
tongues
to
be
your
being
shall
rehearse
When
all
the
breathers
of
this
world
are
dead
.
You
still
shall
live
—
such
virtue
hath
my
pen
—
Where
breath
most
breathes
,
even
in
the
mouths
of
men
.
I
grant
thou
wert
not
married
to
my
muse
,
And
therefore
mayst
without
attaint
o’erlook
The
dedicated
words
which
writers
use
Of
their
fair
subject
,
blessing
every
book
.
Thou
art
as
fair
in
knowledge
as
in
hue
,
Finding
thy
worth
a
limit
past
my
praise
,
And
therefore
art
enforced
to
seek
anew
Some
fresher
stamp
of
the
time-bettering
days
.
And
do
so
,
love
;
yet
when
they
have
devised
What
strainèd
touches
rhetoric
can
lend
,
Thou
,
truly
fair
,
wert
truly
sympathized
In
true
plain
words
by
thy
true-telling
friend
.
And
their
gross
painting
might
be
better
used
Where
cheeks
need
blood
;
in
thee
it
is
abused
.
I
never
saw
that
you
did
painting
need
And
therefore
to
your
fair
no
painting
set
.
I
found
,
or
thought
I
found
,
you
did
exceed
The
barren
tender
of
a
poet’s
debt
.
And
therefore
have
I
slept
in
your
report
,
That
you
yourself
,
being
extant
,
well
might
show
How
far
a
modern
quill
doth
come
too
short
,
Speaking
of
worth
,
what
worth
in
you
doth
grow
.
This
silence
for
my
sin
you
did
impute
,
Which
shall
be
most
my
glory
,
being
dumb
,
For
I
impair
not
beauty
,
being
mute
,
When
others
would
give
life
and
bring
a
tomb
.
There
lives
more
life
in
one
of
your
fair
eyes
Than
both
your
poets
can
in
praise
devise
.
Who
is
it
that
says
most
,
which
can
say
more
Than
this
rich
praise
,
that
you
alone
are
you
,
In
whose
confine
immurèd
is
the
store
Which
should
example
where
your
equal
grew
?
Lean
penury
within
that
pen
doth
dwell
That
to
his
subject
lends
not
some
small
glory
,
But
he
that
writes
of
you
,
if
he
can
tell
That
you
are
you
,
so
dignifies
his
story
.
Let
him
but
copy
what
in
you
is
writ
,
Not
making
worse
what
nature
made
so
clear
,
And
such
a
counterpart
shall
fame
his
wit
,
Making
his
style
admirèd
everywhere
.
You
to
your
beauteous
blessings
add
a
curse
,
Being
fond
on
praise
,
which
makes
your
praises
worse
.
My
tongue-tied
muse
in
manners
holds
her
still
While
comments
of
your
praise
,
richly
compiled
,
Reserve
their
character
with
golden
quill
And
precious
phrase
by
all
the
muses
filed
.
I
think
good
thoughts
whilst
other
write
good
words
,
And
like
unlettered
clerk
still
cry
amen
To
every
hymn
that
able
spirit
affords
In
polished
form
of
well-refinèd
pen
.
Hearing
you
praised
,
I
say
’Tis
so
,
’tis
true
,
And
to
the
most
of
praise
add
something
more
;
But
that
is
in
my
thought
,
whose
love
to
you
,
Though
words
come
hindmost
,
holds
his
rank
before
.
Then
others
for
the
breath
of
words
respect
,
Me
for
my
dumb
thoughts
,
speaking
in
effect
.
Was
it
the
proud
full
sail
of
his
great
verse
,
Bound
for
the
prize
of
all-too-precious
you
,
That
did
my
ripe
thoughts
in
my
brain
inhearse
,
Making
their
tomb
the
womb
wherein
they
grew
?
Was
it
his
spirit
,
by
spirits
taught
to
write
Above
a
mortal
pitch
,
that
struck
me
dead
?
No
,
neither
he
,
nor
his
compeers
by
night
Giving
him
aid
,
my
verse
astonishèd
.
He
,
nor
that
affable
familiar
ghost
Which
nightly
gulls
him
with
intelligence
,
As
victors
of
my
silence
cannot
boast
;
I
was
not
sick
of
any
fear
from
thence
.
But
when
your
countenance
filled
up
his
line
,
Then
lacked
I
matter
;
that
enfeebled
mine
.
Farewell
,
thou
art
too
dear
for
my
possessing
,
And
like
enough
thou
know’st
thy
estimate
.
The
charter
of
thy
worth
gives
thee
releasing
;
My
bonds
in
thee
are
all
determinate
.
For
how
do
I
hold
thee
but
by
thy
granting
,
And
for
that
riches
where
is
my
deserving
?
The
cause
of
this
fair
gift
in
me
is
wanting
,
And
so
my
patent
back
again
is
swerving
.
Thy
self
thou
gav’st
,
thy
own
worth
then
not
knowing
,
Or
me
,
to
whom
thou
gav’st
it
,
else
mistaking
;
So
thy
great
gift
,
upon
misprision
growing
,
Comes
home
again
,
on
better
judgment
making
.
Thus
have
I
had
thee
as
a
dream
doth
flatter
,
In
sleep
a
king
,
but
waking
no
such
matter
.
When
thou
shalt
be
disposed
to
set
me
light
And
place
my
merit
in
the
eye
of
scorn
,
Upon
thy
side
against
myself
I’ll
fight
And
prove
thee
virtuous
,
though
thou
art
forsworn
.
With
mine
own
weakness
being
best
acquainted
,
Upon
thy
part
I
can
set
down
a
story
Of
faults
concealed
wherein
I
am
attainted
,
That
thou
,
in
losing
me
,
shall
win
much
glory
;
And
I
by
this
will
be
a
gainer
too
;
For
bending
all
my
loving
thoughts
on
thee
,
The
injuries
that
to
myself
I
do
,
Doing
thee
vantage
,
double-vantage
me
.
Such
is
my
love
,
to
thee
I
so
belong
,
That
,
for
thy
right
,
myself
will
bear
all
wrong
.
Say
that
thou
didst
forsake
me
for
some
fault
,
And
I
will
comment
upon
that
offense
;
Speak
of
my
lameness
and
I
straight
will
halt
,
Against
thy
reasons
making
no
defense
.
Thou
canst
not
,
love
,
disgrace
me
half
so
ill
,
To
set
a
form
upon
desirèd
change
,
As
I’ll
myself
disgrace
,
knowing
thy
will
;
I
will
acquaintance
strangle
and
look
strange
,
Be
absent
from
thy
walks
,
and
in
my
tongue
Thy
sweet
belovèd
name
no
more
shall
dwell
,
Lest
I
,
too
much
profane
,
should
do
it
wrong
And
haply
of
our
old
acquaintance
tell
.
For
thee
,
against
myself
I’ll
vow
debate
,
For
I
must
ne’er
love
him
whom
thou
dost
hate
.
Then
hate
me
when
thou
wilt
,
if
ever
,
now
,
Now
,
while
the
world
is
bent
my
deeds
to
cross
,
Join
with
the
spite
of
fortune
,
make
me
bow
,
And
do
not
drop
in
for
an
afterloss
.
Ah
,
do
not
,
when
my
heart
hath
’scaped
this
sorrow
,
Come
in
the
rearward
of
a
conquered
woe
;
Give
not
a
windy
night
a
rainy
morrow
,
To
linger
out
a
purposed
overthrow
.
If
thou
wilt
leave
me
,
do
not
leave
me
last
,
When
other
petty
griefs
have
done
their
spite
,
But
in
the
onset
come
;
so
shall
I
taste
At
first
the
very
worst
of
fortune’s
might
;
And
other
strains
of
woe
,
which
now
seem
woe
,
Compared
with
loss
of
thee
will
not
seem
so
.
Some
glory
in
their
birth
,
some
in
their
skill
,
Some
in
their
wealth
,
some
in
their
body’s
force
,
Some
in
their
garments
,
though
newfangled
ill
,
Some
in
their
hawks
and
hounds
,
some
in
their
horse
;
And
every
humor
hath
his
adjunct
pleasure
,
Wherein
it
finds
a
joy
above
the
rest
.
But
these
particulars
are
not
my
measure
;
All
these
I
better
in
one
general
best
.
Thy
love
is
better
than
high
birth
to
me
,
Richer
than
wealth
,
prouder
than
garments’
cost
,
Of
more
delight
than
hawks
or
horses
be
;
And
having
thee
,
of
all
men’s
pride
I
boast
.
Wretched
in
this
alone
,
that
thou
mayst
take
All
this
away
,
and
me
most
wretched
make
.
But
do
thy
worst
to
steal
thyself
away
,
For
term
of
life
thou
art
assurèd
mine
,
And
life
no
longer
than
thy
love
will
stay
,
For
it
depends
upon
that
love
of
thine
.
Then
need
I
not
to
fear
the
worst
of
wrongs
When
in
the
least
of
them
my
life
hath
end
;
I
see
a
better
state
to
me
belongs
Than
that
which
on
thy
humor
doth
depend
.
Thou
canst
not
vex
me
with
inconstant
mind
,
Since
that
my
life
on
thy
revolt
doth
lie
.
O
,
what
a
happy
title
do
I
find
,
Happy
to
have
thy
love
,
happy
to
die
!
But
what’s
so
blessèd-fair
that
fears
no
blot
?
Thou
mayst
be
false
,
and
yet
I
know
it
not
.
So
shall
I
live
,
supposing
thou
art
true
,
Like
a
deceivèd
husband
;
so
love’s
face
May
still
seem
love
to
me
,
though
altered
new
;
Thy
looks
with
me
,
thy
heart
in
other
place
.
For
there
can
live
no
hatred
in
thine
eye
;
Therefore
in
that
I
cannot
know
thy
change
.
In
many’s
looks
,
the
false
heart’s
history
Is
writ
in
moods
and
frowns
and
wrinkles
strange
.
But
heaven
in
thy
creation
did
decree
That
in
thy
face
sweet
love
should
ever
dwell
;
Whate’er
thy
thoughts
or
thy
heart’s
workings
be
,
Thy
looks
should
nothing
thence
but
sweetness
tell
.
How
like
Eve’s
apple
doth
thy
beauty
grow
,
If
thy
sweet
virtue
answer
not
thy
show
.
They
that
have
power
to
hurt
and
will
do
none
,
That
do
not
do
the
thing
they
most
do
show
,
Who
,
moving
others
,
are
themselves
as
stone
,
Unmovèd
,
cold
,
and
to
temptation
slow
,
They
rightly
do
inherit
heaven’s
graces
And
husband
nature’s
riches
from
expense
;
They
are
the
lords
and
owners
of
their
faces
,
Others
but
stewards
of
their
excellence
.
The
summer’s
flower
is
to
the
summer
sweet
,
Though
to
itself
it
only
live
and
die
;
But
if
that
flower
with
base
infection
meet
,
The
basest
weed
outbraves
his
dignity
.
For
sweetest
things
turn
sourest
by
their
deeds
;
Lilies
that
fester
smell
far
worse
than
weeds
.
How
sweet
and
lovely
dost
thou
make
the
shame
Which
,
like
a
canker
in
the
fragrant
rose
,
Doth
spot
the
beauty
of
thy
budding
name
!
O
,
in
what
sweets
dost
thou
thy
sins
enclose
!
That
tongue
that
tells
the
story
of
thy
days
,
Making
lascivious
comments
on
thy
sport
,
Cannot
dispraise
but
in
a
kind
of
praise
;
Naming
thy
name
blesses
an
ill
report
.
O
,
what
a
mansion
have
those
vices
got
Which
for
their
habitation
chose
out
thee
,
Where
beauty’s
veil
doth
cover
every
blot
,
And
all
things
turns
to
fair
that
eyes
can
see
!
Take
heed
,
dear
heart
,
of
this
large
privilege
;
The
hardest
knife
ill
used
doth
lose
his
edge
.
Some
say
thy
fault
is
youth
,
some
wantonness
;
Some
say
thy
grace
is
youth
and
gentle
sport
.
Both
grace
and
faults
are
loved
of
more
and
less
;
Thou
mak’st
faults
graces
that
to
thee
resort
.
As
on
the
finger
of
a
thronèd
queen
The
basest
jewel
will
be
well
esteemed
,
So
are
those
errors
that
in
thee
are
seen
To
truths
translated
and
for
true
things
deemed
.
How
many
lambs
might
the
stern
wolf
betray
If
like
a
lamb
he
could
his
looks
translate
!
How
many
gazers
mightst
thou
lead
away
If
thou
wouldst
use
the
strength
of
all
thy
state
!
But
do
not
so
.
I
love
thee
in
such
sort
As
,
thou
being
mine
,
mine
is
thy
good
report
.
How
like
a
winter
hath
my
absence
been
From
thee
,
the
pleasure
of
the
fleeting
year
!
What
freezings
have
I
felt
,
what
dark
days
seen
,
What
old
December’s
bareness
everywhere
!
And
yet
this
time
removed
was
summer’s
time
,
The
teeming
autumn
,
big
with
rich
increase
,
Bearing
the
wanton
burden
of
the
prime
,
Like
widowed
wombs
after
their
lords’
decease
.
Yet
this
abundant
issue
seemed
to
me
But
hope
of
orphans
and
unfathered
fruit
;
For
summer
and
his
pleasures
wait
on
thee
,
And
thou
away
,
the
very
birds
are
mute
;
Or
if
they
sing
,
’tis
with
so
dull
a
cheer
That
leaves
look
pale
,
dreading
the
winter’s
near
.
From
you
have
I
been
absent
in
the
spring
,
When
proud-pied
April
,
dressed
in
all
his
trim
,
Hath
put
a
spirit
of
youth
in
everything
,
That
heavy
Saturn
laughed
and
leapt
with
him
.
Yet
nor
the
lays
of
birds
nor
the
sweet
smell
Of
different
flowers
in
odor
and
in
hue
Could
make
me
any
summer’s
story
tell
,
Or
from
their
proud
lap
pluck
them
where
they
grew
.
Nor
did
I
wonder
at
the
lily’s
white
,
Nor
praise
the
deep
vermilion
in
the
rose
;
They
were
but
sweet
,
but
figures
of
delight
,
Drawn
after
you
,
you
pattern
of
all
those
.
Yet
seemed
it
winter
still
,
and
,
you
away
,
As
with
your
shadow
I
with
these
did
play
.
The
forward
violet
thus
did
I
chide
:
Sweet
thief
,
whence
didst
thou
steal
thy
sweet
that
smells
,
If
not
from
my
love’s
breath
?
The
purple
pride
Which
on
thy
soft
cheek
for
complexion
dwells
In
my
love’s
veins
thou
hast
too
grossly
dyed
.
The
lily
I
condemnèd
for
thy
hand
,
And
buds
of
marjoram
had
stol’n
thy
hair
;
The
roses
fearfully
on
thorns
did
stand
,
One
blushing
shame
,
another
white
despair
;
A
third
,
nor
red
nor
white
,
had
stol’n
of
both
,
And
to
his
robb’ry
had
annexed
thy
breath
;
But
,
for
his
theft
,
in
pride
of
all
his
growth
A
vengeful
canker
ate
him
up
to
death
.
More
flowers
I
noted
,
yet
I
none
could
see
But
sweet
or
color
it
had
stol’n
from
thee
.
Where
art
thou
,
muse
,
that
thou
forget’st
so
long
To
speak
of
that
which
gives
thee
all
thy
might
?
Spend’st
thou
thy
fury
on
some
worthless
song
,
Dark’ning
thy
power
to
lend
base
subjects
light
?
Return
,
forgetful
muse
,
and
straight
redeem
In
gentle
numbers
time
so
idly
spent
;
Sing
to
the
ear
that
doth
thy
lays
esteem
And
gives
thy
pen
both
skill
and
argument
.
Rise
,
resty
muse
;
my
love’s
sweet
face
survey
If
Time
have
any
wrinkle
graven
there
.
If
any
,
be
a
satire
to
decay
And
make
Time’s
spoils
despisèd
everywhere
.
Give
my
love
fame
faster
than
Time
wastes
life
;
So
thou
prevent’st
his
scythe
and
crookèd
knife
.
O
truant
muse
,
what
shall
be
thy
amends
For
thy
neglect
of
truth
in
beauty
dyed
?
Both
truth
and
beauty
on
my
love
depends
;
So
dost
thou
too
,
and
therein
dignified
.
Make
answer
,
muse
.
Wilt
thou
not
haply
say
Truth
needs
no
color
with
his
color
fixed
,
Beauty
no
pencil
beauty’s
truth
to
lay
;
But
best
is
best
if
never
intermixed
?
Because
he
needs
no
praise
,
wilt
thou
be
dumb
?
Excuse
not
silence
so
,
for
’t
lies
in
thee
To
make
him
much
outlive
a
gilded
tomb
And
to
be
praised
of
ages
yet
to
be
.
Then
do
thy
office
,
muse
;
I
teach
thee
how
To
make
him
seem
long
hence
as
he
shows
now
.
My
love
is
strengthened
,
though
more
weak
in
seeming
;
I
love
not
less
,
though
less
the
show
appear
.
That
love
is
merchandized
whose
rich
esteeming
The
owner’s
tongue
doth
publish
everywhere
.
Our
love
was
new
,
and
then
but
in
the
spring
,
When
I
was
wont
to
greet
it
with
my
lays
,
As
Philomel
in
summer’s
front
doth
sing
,
And
stops
his
pipe
in
growth
of
riper
days
.
Not
that
the
summer
is
less
pleasant
now
Than
when
her
mournful
hymns
did
hush
the
night
,
But
that
wild
music
burdens
every
bough
,
And
sweets
grown
common
lose
their
dear
delight
.
Therefore
,
like
her
,
I
sometime
hold
my
tongue
,
Because
I
would
not
dull
you
with
my
song
.
Alack
,
what
poverty
my
muse
brings
forth
,
That
,
having
such
a
scope
to
show
her
pride
,
The
argument
all
bare
is
of
more
worth
Than
when
it
hath
my
added
praise
beside
.
O
,
blame
me
not
if
I
no
more
can
write
!
Look
in
your
glass
,
and
there
appears
a
face
That
overgoes
my
blunt
invention
quite
,
Dulling
my
lines
and
doing
me
disgrace
.
Were
it
not
sinful
,
then
,
striving
to
mend
,
To
mar
the
subject
that
before
was
well
?
For
to
no
other
pass
my
verses
tend
Than
of
your
graces
and
your
gifts
to
tell
.
And
more
,
much
more
,
than
in
my
verse
can
sit
Your
own
glass
shows
you
when
you
look
in
it
.
To
me
,
fair
friend
,
you
never
can
be
old
,
For
as
you
were
when
first
your
eye
I
eyed
,
Such
seems
your
beauty
still
.
Three
winters
cold
Have
from
the
forests
shook
three
summers’
pride
,
Three
beauteous
springs
to
yellow
autumn
turned
In
process
of
the
seasons
have
I
seen
,
Three
April
perfumes
in
three
hot
Junes
burned
,
Since
first
I
saw
you
fresh
,
which
yet
are
green
.
Ah
,
yet
doth
beauty
,
like
a
dial
hand
,
Steal
from
his
figure
,
and
no
pace
perceived
;
So
your
sweet
hue
,
which
methinks
still
doth
stand
,
Hath
motion
,
and
mine
eye
may
be
deceived
.
For
fear
of
which
,
hear
this
,
thou
age
unbred
:
Ere
you
were
born
was
beauty’s
summer
dead
.
Let
not
my
love
be
called
idolatry
,
Nor
my
belovèd
as
an
idol
show
,
Since
all
alike
my
songs
and
praises
be
To
one
,
of
one
,
still
such
,
and
ever
so
.
Kind
is
my
love
today
,
tomorrow
kind
,
Still
constant
in
a
wondrous
excellence
;
Therefore
my
verse
,
to
constancy
confined
,
One
thing
expressing
,
leaves
out
difference
.
Fair
,
kind
,
and
true
is
all
my
argument
,
Fair
,
kind
,
and
true
,
varying
to
other
words
;
And
in
this
change
is
my
invention
spent
,
Three
themes
in
one
,
which
wondrous
scope
affords
.
Fair
,
kind
,
and
true
have
often
lived
alone
,
Which
three
till
now
never
kept
seat
in
one
.
When
in
the
chronicle
of
wasted
time
I
see
descriptions
of
the
fairest
wights
,
And
beauty
making
beautiful
old
rhyme
In
praise
of
ladies
dead
and
lovely
knights
,
Then
in
the
blazon
of
sweet
beauty’s
best
,
Of
hand
,
of
foot
,
of
lip
,
of
eye
,
of
brow
,
I
see
their
antique
pen
would
have
expressed
Even
such
a
beauty
as
you
master
now
.
So
all
their
praises
are
but
prophecies
Of
this
our
time
,
all
you
prefiguring
;
And
,
for
they
looked
but
with
divining
eyes
,
They
had
not
skill
enough
your
worth
to
sing
.
For
we
,
which
now
behold
these
present
days
,
Have
eyes
to
wonder
,
but
lack
tongues
to
praise
.
Not
mine
own
fears
nor
the
prophetic
soul
Of
the
wide
world
dreaming
on
things
to
come
Can
yet
the
lease
of
my
true
love
control
,
Supposed
as
forfeit
to
a
confined
doom
.
The
mortal
moon
hath
her
eclipse
endured
,
And
the
sad
augurs
mock
their
own
presage
;
Incertainties
now
crown
themselves
assured
,
And
peace
proclaims
olives
of
endless
age
.
Now
with
the
drops
of
this
most
balmy
time
My
love
looks
fresh
,
and
Death
to
me
subscribes
,
Since
,
spite
of
him
,
I’ll
live
in
this
poor
rhyme
,
While
he
insults
o’er
dull
and
speechless
tribes
;
And
thou
in
this
shalt
find
thy
monument
When
tyrants’
crests
and
tombs
of
brass
are
spent
.
What’s
in
the
brain
that
ink
may
character
Which
hath
not
figured
to
thee
my
true
spirit
?
What’s
new
to
speak
,
what
now
to
register
,
That
may
express
my
love
or
thy
dear
merit
?
Nothing
,
sweet
boy
;
but
yet
,
like
prayers
divine
,
I
must
each
day
say
o’er
the
very
same
,
Counting
no
old
thing
old
,
thou
mine
,
I
thine
,
Even
as
when
first
I
hallowed
thy
fair
name
.
So
that
eternal
love
in
love’s
fresh
case
Weighs
not
the
dust
and
injury
of
age
,
Nor
gives
to
necessary
wrinkles
place
,
But
makes
antiquity
for
aye
his
page
,
Finding
the
first
conceit
of
love
there
bred
,
Where
time
and
outward
form
would
show
it
dead
.
O
,
never
say
that
I
was
false
of
heart
,
Though
absence
seemed
my
flame
to
qualify
;
As
easy
might
I
from
myself
depart
As
from
my
soul
,
which
in
thy
breast
doth
lie
.
That
is
my
home
of
love
.
If
I
have
ranged
,
Like
him
that
travels
I
return
again
,
Just
to
the
time
,
not
with
the
time
exchanged
,
So
that
myself
bring
water
for
my
stain
.
Never
believe
,
though
in
my
nature
reigned
All
frailties
that
besiege
all
kinds
of
blood
,
That
it
could
so
preposterously
be
stained
To
leave
for
nothing
all
thy
sum
of
good
.
For
nothing
this
wide
universe
I
call
,
Save
thou
,
my
rose
;
in
it
thou
art
my
all
.
Alas
,
’tis
true
,
I
have
gone
here
and
there
And
made
myself
a
motley
to
the
view
,
Gored
mine
own
thoughts
,
sold
cheap
what
is
most
dear
,
Made
old
offenses
of
affections
new
.
Most
true
it
is
that
I
have
looked
on
truth
Askance
and
strangely
;
but
by
all
above
,
These
blenches
gave
my
heart
another
youth
,
And
worse
essays
proved
thee
my
best
of
love
.
Now
all
is
done
,
have
what
shall
have
no
end
.
Mine
appetite
I
never
more
will
grind
On
newer
proof
,
to
try
an
older
friend
,
A
god
in
love
,
to
whom
I
am
confined
.
Then
give
me
welcome
,
next
my
heaven
the
best
,
Even
to
thy
pure
and
most
most
loving
breast
.
O
,
for
my
sake
do
you
with
Fortune
chide
,
The
guilty
goddess
of
my
harmful
deeds
,
That
did
not
better
for
my
life
provide
Than
public
means
which
public
manners
breeds
.
Thence
comes
it
that
my
name
receives
a
brand
;
And
almost
thence
my
nature
is
subdued
To
what
it
works
in
,
like
the
dyer’s
hand
.
Pity
me
,
then
,
and
wish
I
were
renewed
,
Whilst
,
like
a
willing
patient
,
I
will
drink
Potions
of
eisel
’gainst
my
strong
infection
;
No
bitterness
that
I
will
bitter
think
,
Nor
double
penance
,
to
correct
correction
.
Pity
me
,
then
,
dear
friend
,
and
I
assure
ye
Even
that
your
pity
is
enough
to
cure
me
.
Your
love
and
pity
doth
th’
impression
fill
Which
vulgar
scandal
stamped
upon
my
brow
;
For
what
care
I
who
calls
me
well
or
ill
,
So
you
o’ergreen
my
bad
,
my
good
allow
?
You
are
my
all
the
world
,
and
I
must
strive
To
know
my
shames
and
praises
from
your
tongue
;
None
else
to
me
,
nor
I
to
none
alive
,
That
my
steeled
sense
or
changes
right
or
wrong
.
In
so
profound
abysm
I
throw
all
care
Of
others’
voices
that
my
adder’s
sense
To
critic
and
to
flatterer
stoppèd
are
.
Mark
how
with
my
neglect
I
do
dispense
:
You
are
so
strongly
in
my
purpose
bred
That
all
the
world
besides
methinks
are
dead
.
Since
I
left
you
,
mine
eye
is
in
my
mind
,
And
that
which
governs
me
to
go
about
Doth
part
his
function
,
and
is
partly
blind
,
Seems
seeing
,
but
effectually
is
out
;
For
it
no
form
delivers
to
the
heart
Of
bird
,
of
flower
,
or
shape
which
it
doth
latch
;
Of
his
quick
objects
hath
the
mind
no
part
,
Nor
his
own
vision
holds
what
it
doth
catch
.
For
if
it
see
the
rud’st
or
gentlest
sight
,
The
most
sweet
favor
or
deformèd’st
creature
,
The
mountain
or
the
sea
,
the
day
or
night
,
The
crow
or
dove
,
it
shapes
them
to
your
feature
.
Incapable
of
more
,
replete
with
you
,
My
most
true
mind
thus
maketh
mine
eye
untrue
.
Or
whether
doth
my
mind
,
being
crowned
with
you
,
Drink
up
the
monarch’s
plague
,
this
flattery
?
Or
whether
shall
I
say
mine
eye
saith
true
,
And
that
your
love
taught
it
this
alchemy
,
To
make
of
monsters
and
things
indigest
Such
cherubins
as
your
sweet
self
resemble
,
Creating
every
bad
a
perfect
best
As
fast
as
objects
to
his
beams
assemble
?
O
,
’tis
the
first
:
’tis
flattery
in
my
seeing
,
And
my
great
mind
most
kingly
drinks
it
up
.
Mine
eye
well
knows
what
with
his
gust
is
greeing
,
And
to
his
palate
doth
prepare
the
cup
.
If
it
be
poisoned
,
’tis
the
lesser
sin
That
mine
eye
loves
it
and
doth
first
begin
.
Those
lines
that
I
before
have
writ
do
lie
,
Even
those
that
said
I
could
not
love
you
dearer
;
Yet
then
my
judgment
knew
no
reason
why
My
most
full
flame
should
afterwards
burn
clearer
.
But
reckoning
time
,
whose
millioned
accidents
Creep
in
’twixt
vows
and
change
decrees
of
kings
,
Tan
sacred
beauty
,
blunt
the
sharp’st
intents
,
Divert
strong
minds
to
th’
course
of
alt’ring
things
—
Alas
,
why
,
fearing
of
time’s
tyranny
,
Might
I
not
then
say
Now
I
love
you
best
,
When
I
was
certain
o’er
incertainty
,
Crowning
the
present
,
doubting
of
the
rest
?
Love
is
a
babe
.
Then
might
I
not
say
so
,
To
give
full
growth
to
that
which
still
doth
grow
.
Let
me
not
to
the
marriage
of
true
minds
Admit
impediments
.
Love
is
not
love
Which
alters
when
it
alteration
finds
Or
bends
with
the
remover
to
remove
.
O
,
no
,
it
is
an
ever-fixèd
mark
That
looks
on
tempests
and
is
never
shaken
;
It
is
the
star
to
every
wand’ring
bark
,
Whose
worth’s
unknown
,
although
his
height
be
taken
.
Love’s
not
Time’s
fool
,
though
rosy
lips
and
cheeks
Within
his
bending
sickle’s
compass
come
;
Love
alters
not
with
his
brief
hours
and
weeks
,
But
bears
it
out
even
to
the
edge
of
doom
.
If
this
be
error
,
and
upon
me
proved
,
I
never
writ
,
nor
no
man
ever
loved
.
Accuse
me
thus
:
that
I
have
scanted
all
Wherein
I
should
your
great
deserts
repay
,
Forgot
upon
your
dearest
love
to
call
,
Whereto
all
bonds
do
tie
me
day
by
day
;
That
I
have
frequent
been
with
unknown
minds
,
And
given
to
time
your
own
dear-purchased
right
;
That
I
have
hoisted
sail
to
all
the
winds
Which
should
transport
me
farthest
from
your
sight
.
Book
both
my
willfulness
and
errors
down
,
And
on
just
proof
surmise
accumulate
;
Bring
me
within
the
level
of
your
frown
,
But
shoot
not
at
me
in
your
wakened
hate
,
Since
my
appeal
says
I
did
strive
to
prove
The
constancy
and
virtue
of
your
love
.
Like
as
to
make
our
appetites
more
keen
With
eager
compounds
we
our
palate
urge
;
As
to
prevent
our
maladies
unseen
We
sicken
to
shun
sickness
when
we
purge
;
Even
so
,
being
full
of
your
ne’er-cloying
sweetness
,
To
bitter
sauces
did
I
frame
my
feeding
;
And
,
sick
of
welfare
,
found
a
kind
of
meetness
To
be
diseased
ere
that
there
was
true
needing
.
Thus
policy
in
love
,
t’
anticipate
The
ills
that
were
not
,
grew
to
faults
assured
,
And
brought
to
medicine
a
healthful
state
Which
,
rank
of
goodness
,
would
by
ill
be
cured
.
But
thence
I
learn
,
and
find
the
lesson
true
:
Drugs
poison
him
that
so
fell
sick
of
you
.
What
potions
have
I
drunk
of
siren
tears
Distilled
from
limbecks
foul
as
hell
within
,
Applying
fears
to
hopes
and
hopes
to
fears
,
Still
losing
when
I
saw
myself
to
win
!
What
wretched
errors
hath
my
heart
committed
,
Whilst
it
hath
thought
itself
so
blessèd
never
!
How
have
mine
eyes
out
of
their
spheres
been
fitted
In
the
distraction
of
this
madding
fever
!
O
,
benefit
of
ill
!
Now
I
find
true
That
better
is
by
evil
still
made
better
;
And
ruined
love
,
when
it
is
built
anew
,
Grows
fairer
than
at
first
,
more
strong
,
far
greater
.
So
I
return
rebuked
to
my
content
,
And
gain
by
ills
thrice
more
than
I
have
spent
.
That
you
were
once
unkind
befriends
me
now
,
And
for
that
sorrow
which
I
then
did
feel
Needs
must
I
under
my
transgression
bow
,
Unless
my
nerves
were
brass
or
hammered
steel
.
For
if
you
were
by
my
unkindness
shaken
As
I
by
yours
,
you’ve
passed
a
hell
of
time
,
And
I
,
a
tyrant
,
have
no
leisure
taken
To
weigh
how
once
I
suffered
in
your
crime
.
O
,
that
our
night
of
woe
might
have
remembered
My
deepest
sense
how
hard
true
sorrow
hits
,
And
soon
to
you
as
you
to
me
then
tendered
The
humble
salve
which
wounded
bosoms
fits
!
But
that
your
trespass
now
becomes
a
fee
;
Mine
ransoms
yours
,
and
yours
must
ransom
me
.
’Tis
better
to
be
vile
than
vile
esteemed
,
When
not
to
be
receives
reproach
of
being
,
And
the
just
pleasure
lost
,
which
is
so
deemed
Not
by
our
feeling
but
by
others’
seeing
.
For
why
should
others’
false
adulterate
eyes
Give
salutation
to
my
sportive
blood
?
Or
on
my
frailties
why
are
frailer
spies
,
Which
in
their
wills
count
bad
what
I
think
good
?
No
,
I
am
that
I
am
;
and
they
that
level
At
my
abuses
reckon
up
their
own
.
I
may
be
straight
though
they
themselves
be
bevel
;
By
their
rank
thoughts
my
deeds
must
not
be
shown
,
Unless
this
general
evil
they
maintain
:
All
men
are
bad
and
in
their
badness
reign
.
Thy
gift
,
thy
tables
,
are
within
my
brain
Full
charactered
with
lasting
memory
,
Which
shall
above
that
idle
rank
remain
Beyond
all
date
,
even
to
eternity
—
Or
,
at
the
least
,
so
long
as
brain
and
heart
Have
faculty
by
nature
to
subsist
;
Till
each
to
razed
oblivion
yield
his
part
Of
thee
,
thy
record
never
can
be
missed
.
That
poor
retention
could
not
so
much
hold
,
Nor
need
I
tallies
thy
dear
love
to
score
;
Therefore
to
give
them
from
me
was
I
bold
,
To
trust
those
tables
that
receive
thee
more
.
To
keep
an
adjunct
to
remember
thee
Were
to
import
forgetfulness
in
me
.
No
,
Time
,
thou
shalt
not
boast
that
I
do
change
.
Thy
pyramids
built
up
with
newer
might
To
me
are
nothing
novel
,
nothing
strange
;
They
are
but
dressings
of
a
former
sight
.
Our
dates
are
brief
,
and
therefore
we
admire
What
thou
dost
foist
upon
us
that
is
old
,
And
rather
make
them
born
to
our
desire
Than
think
that
we
before
have
heard
them
told
.
Thy
registers
and
thee
I
both
defy
,
Not
wond’ring
at
the
present
nor
the
past
;
For
thy
records
and
what
we
see
doth
lie
,
Made
more
or
less
by
thy
continual
haste
.
This
I
do
vow
,
and
this
shall
ever
be
:
I
will
be
true
despite
thy
scythe
and
thee
.
If
my
dear
love
were
but
the
child
of
state
,
It
might
for
fortune’s
bastard
be
unfathered
,
As
subject
to
time’s
love
or
to
time’s
hate
,
Weeds
among
weeds
,
or
flowers
with
flowers
gathered
.
No
,
it
was
builded
far
from
accident
;
It
suffers
not
in
smiling
pomp
,
nor
falls
Under
the
blow
of
thrallèd
discontent
,
Whereto
th’
inviting
time
our
fashion
calls
.
It
fears
not
policy
,
that
heretic
Which
works
on
leases
of
short-numbered
hours
,
But
all
alone
stands
hugely
politic
,
That
it
nor
grows
with
heat
nor
drowns
with
showers
.
To
this
I
witness
call
the
fools
of
time
,
Which
die
for
goodness
who
have
lived
for
crime
.
Were
’t
aught
to
me
I
bore
the
canopy
,
With
my
extern
the
outward
honoring
,
Or
laid
great
bases
for
eternity
,
Which
proves
more
short
than
waste
or
ruining
?
Have
I
not
seen
dwellers
on
form
and
favor
Lose
all
and
more
by
paying
too
much
rent
,
For
compound
sweet
forgoing
simple
savor
,
Pitiful
thrivers
,
in
their
gazing
spent
?
No
,
let
me
be
obsequious
in
thy
heart
,
And
take
thou
my
oblation
,
poor
but
free
,
Which
is
not
mixed
with
seconds
,
knows
no
art
But
mutual
render
,
only
me
for
thee
.
Hence
,
thou
suborned
informer
;
a
true
soul
When
most
impeached
stands
least
in
thy
control
.
O
thou
,
my
lovely
boy
,
who
in
thy
power
Dost
hold
Time’s
fickle
glass
,
his
sickle
hour
;
Who
hast
by
waning
grown
,
and
therein
show’st
Thy
lover’s
withering
as
thy
sweet
self
grow’st
.
If
Nature
,
sovereign
mistress
over
wrack
,
As
thou
goest
onwards
still
will
pluck
thee
back
,
She
keeps
thee
to
this
purpose
,
that
her
skill
May
Time
disgrace
,
and
wretched
minutes
kill
.
Yet
fear
her
,
O
thou
minion
of
her
pleasure
!
She
may
detain
,
but
not
still
keep
,
her
treasure
.
Her
audit
,
though
delayed
,
answered
must
be
,
And
her
quietus
is
to
render
thee
.
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
.
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
blest
than
living
lips
.
Since
saucy
jacks
so
happy
are
in
this
,
Give
them
thy
fingers
,
me
thy
lips
to
kiss
.
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
despisèd
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
.
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
.
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
.
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
.
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
rigor
in
my
jail
.
And
yet
thou
wilt
,
for
I
,
being
pent
in
thee
,
Perforce
am
thine
,
and
all
that
is
in
me
.
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
.
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
.
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
,
fulfill
.
Will
will
fulfill
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
.
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
overpartial
looks
,
Be
anchored
in
the
bay
where
all
men
ride
,
Why
of
eyes’
falsehood
hast
thou
forgèd
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
.
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
,
Unlearnèd
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
.
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
defense
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
.
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
.
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
.
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
.
Lo
,
as
a
careful
huswife
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
.
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
colored
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
.
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
.
Poor
soul
,
the
center
of
my
sinful
earth
,
Pressed
with
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
.
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
,
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
.
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
;
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
.
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
.
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
.
Love
is
too
young
to
know
what
conscience
is
;
Yet
who
knows
not
conscience
is
born
of
love
?
Then
,
gentle
cheater
,
urge
not
my
amiss
,
Lest
guilty
of
my
faults
thy
sweet
self
prove
.
For
,
thou
betraying
me
,
I
do
betray
My
nobler
part
to
my
gross
body’s
treason
.
My
soul
doth
tell
my
body
that
he
may
Triumph
in
love
;
flesh
stays
no
farther
reason
,
But
,
rising
at
thy
name
,
doth
point
out
thee
As
his
triumphant
prize
.
Proud
of
this
pride
,
He
is
contented
thy
poor
drudge
to
be
,
To
stand
in
thy
affairs
,
fall
by
thy
side
.
No
want
of
conscience
hold
it
that
I
call
Her
love
,
for
whose
dear
love
I
rise
and
fall
.
In
loving
thee
thou
know’st
I
am
forsworn
,
But
thou
art
twice
forsworn
,
to
me
love
swearing
;
In
act
thy
bed-vow
broke
,
and
new
faith
torn
In
vowing
new
hate
after
new
love
bearing
.
But
why
of
two
oaths’
breach
do
I
accuse
thee
When
I
break
twenty
?
I
am
perjured
most
,
For
all
my
vows
are
oaths
but
to
misuse
thee
,
And
all
my
honest
faith
in
thee
is
lost
.
For
I
have
sworn
deep
oaths
of
thy
deep
kindness
,
Oaths
of
thy
love
,
thy
truth
,
thy
constancy
;
And
to
enlighten
thee
gave
eyes
to
blindness
,
Or
made
them
swear
against
the
thing
they
see
.
For
I
have
sworn
thee
fair
;
more
perjured
eye
,
To
swear
against
the
truth
so
foul
a
lie
.
Cupid
laid
by
his
brand
and
fell
asleep
.
A
maid
of
Dian’s
this
advantage
found
,
And
his
love-kindling
fire
did
quickly
steep
In
a
cold
valley-fountain
of
that
ground
,
Which
borrowed
from
this
holy
fire
of
Love
A
dateless
lively
heat
,
still
to
endure
,
And
grew
a
seething
bath
which
yet
men
prove
Against
strange
maladies
a
sovereign
cure
.
But
at
my
mistress’
eye
Love’s
brand
new
fired
,
The
boy
for
trial
needs
would
touch
my
breast
;
I
,
sick
withal
,
the
help
of
bath
desired
And
thither
hied
,
a
sad
distempered
guest
,
But
found
no
cure
.
The
bath
for
my
help
lies
Where
Cupid
got
new
fire
—
my
mistress’
eyes
.
The
little
love-god
,
lying
once
asleep
,
Laid
by
his
side
his
heart-inflaming
brand
,
Whilst
many
nymphs
that
vowed
chaste
life
to
keep
Came
tripping
by
;
but
in
her
maiden
hand
The
fairest
votary
took
up
that
fire
,
Which
many
legions
of
true
hearts
had
warmed
;
And
so
the
general
of
hot
desire
Was
,
sleeping
,
by
a
virgin
hand
disarmed
.
This
brand
she
quenchèd
in
a
cool
well
by
,
Which
from
Love’s
fire
took
heat
perpetual
,
Growing
a
bath
and
healthful
remedy
For
men
diseased
;
but
I
,
my
mistress’
thrall
,
Came
there
for
cure
,
and
this
by
that
I
prove
:
Love’s
fire
heats
water
;
water
cools
not
love
.
Two Sonnets from
The Passionate Pilgrim
The Passionate Pilgrime.
By
W. Shakespeare.
London:
for W. Iaggard,
1599
.
These are the first versions of these two sonnets to be printed.
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
,
Unskillful
in
the
world’s
false
forgeries
.
Thus
vainly
thinking
that
she
thinks
me
young
,
Although
I
know
my
years
be
past
the
best
,
I
,
smiling
,
credit
her
false-speaking
tongue
,
Outfacing
faults
in
love
with
love’s
ill
rest
.
But
wherefore
says
my
love
that
she
is
young
?
And
wherefore
say
not
I
that
I
am
old
?
O
,
love’s
best
habit
is
a
soothing
tongue
,
And
age
in
love
loves
not
to
have
years
told
.
Therefore
I’ll
lie
with
love
,
and
love
with
me
,
Since
that
our
faults
in
love
thus
smothered
be
.
sig. A 3
Two
loves
I
have
,
of
comfort
and
despair
,
That
like
two
spirits
do
suggest
me
still
.
My
better
angel
is
a
man
right
fair
,
My
worser
spirit
a
woman
colored
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
fair
pride
.
And
whether
that
my
angel
be
turned
fiend
Suspect
I
may
,
yet
not
directly
tell
;
For
being
both
to
me
,
both
to
each
friend
,
I
guess
one
angel
in
another’s
hell
.
The
truth
I
shall
not
know
,
but
live
in
doubt
,
Till
my
bad
angel
fire
my
good
one
out
.
sig. A 4