COME unto these yellow sands,And then take hands:Court’sied when you have, and kiss’d,—The wild waves whist,—Foot it featly here and there;And, sweet sprites, the burthen bear.Hark, hark!Bow, wow,The watch-dogs bark.Bow, wow.Hark, hark! I hearThe strain of strutting chanticleerCry, Cock-a-diddle-dow!
COME unto these yellow sands,And then take hands:Court’sied when you have, and kiss’d,—The wild waves whist,—Foot it featly here and there;And, sweet sprites, the burthen bear.Hark, hark!Bow, wow,The watch-dogs bark.Bow, wow.Hark, hark! I hearThe strain of strutting chanticleerCry, Cock-a-diddle-dow!
COME unto these yellow sands,And then take hands:Court’sied when you have, and kiss’d,—The wild waves whist,—Foot it featly here and there;And, sweet sprites, the burthen bear.Hark, hark!Bow, wow,The watch-dogs bark.Bow, wow.Hark, hark! I hearThe strain of strutting chanticleerCry, Cock-a-diddle-dow!
130.
WHERE the bee sucks, there suck I:In a cowslip’s bell I lie;There I couch when owls do cry.On the bat’s back I do flyAfter summer merrily:Merrily, merrily, shall I live now,Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.
WHERE the bee sucks, there suck I:In a cowslip’s bell I lie;There I couch when owls do cry.On the bat’s back I do flyAfter summer merrily:Merrily, merrily, shall I live now,Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.
WHERE the bee sucks, there suck I:In a cowslip’s bell I lie;There I couch when owls do cry.On the bat’s back I do flyAfter summer merrily:Merrily, merrily, shall I live now,Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.
131.
FULL fathom five thy father lies;Of his bones are coral made;Those are pearls that were his eyes:Nothing of him that doth fade,But doth suffer a sea-changeInto something rich and strange.Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell:Ding-dong.Hark! now I hear them—Ding-dong, bell!
FULL fathom five thy father lies;Of his bones are coral made;Those are pearls that were his eyes:Nothing of him that doth fade,But doth suffer a sea-changeInto something rich and strange.Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell:Ding-dong.Hark! now I hear them—Ding-dong, bell!
FULL fathom five thy father lies;Of his bones are coral made;Those are pearls that were his eyes:Nothing of him that doth fade,But doth suffer a sea-changeInto something rich and strange.Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell:Ding-dong.Hark! now I hear them—Ding-dong, bell!
132.
TELL me where is Fancy bred,Or in the heart or in the head?How begot, how nourishèd?Reply, reply.It is engender’d in the eyes,With gazing fed; and Fancy diesIn the cradle where it lies.Let us all ring Fancy’s knell:I’ll begin it,—Ding, dong, bell.All.Ding, dong, bell.
TELL me where is Fancy bred,Or in the heart or in the head?How begot, how nourishèd?Reply, reply.It is engender’d in the eyes,With gazing fed; and Fancy diesIn the cradle where it lies.Let us all ring Fancy’s knell:I’ll begin it,—Ding, dong, bell.All.Ding, dong, bell.
TELL me where is Fancy bred,Or in the heart or in the head?How begot, how nourishèd?Reply, reply.It is engender’d in the eyes,With gazing fed; and Fancy diesIn the cradle where it lies.Let us all ring Fancy’s knell:I’ll begin it,—Ding, dong, bell.All.Ding, dong, bell.
133.
OMISTRESS mine, where are you roaming?O, stay and hear! your true love’s coming,That can sing both high and low:Trip no further, pretty sweeting;Journeys end in lovers meeting,Every wise man’s son doth know.What is love? ’tis not hereafter;Present mirth hath present laughter;What’s to come is still unsure:In delay there lies no plenty;Then come kiss me, sweet-and-twenty!Youth’s a stuff will not endure.
OMISTRESS mine, where are you roaming?O, stay and hear! your true love’s coming,That can sing both high and low:Trip no further, pretty sweeting;Journeys end in lovers meeting,Every wise man’s son doth know.What is love? ’tis not hereafter;Present mirth hath present laughter;What’s to come is still unsure:In delay there lies no plenty;Then come kiss me, sweet-and-twenty!Youth’s a stuff will not endure.
OMISTRESS mine, where are you roaming?O, stay and hear! your true love’s coming,That can sing both high and low:Trip no further, pretty sweeting;Journeys end in lovers meeting,Every wise man’s son doth know.
What is love? ’tis not hereafter;Present mirth hath present laughter;What’s to come is still unsure:In delay there lies no plenty;Then come kiss me, sweet-and-twenty!Youth’s a stuff will not endure.
134.
COME away, come away, death,And in sad cypres let me be laid;Fly away, fly away, breath;I am slain by a fair cruel maid.My shroud of white, stuck all with yew,O prepare it!My part of death, no one so trueDid share it.Not a flower, not a flower sweet,On my black coffin let there be strown;Not a friend, not a friend greetMy poor corse, where my bones shall be thrown:A thousand thousand sighs to save,Lay me, O, whereSad true lover never find my graveTo weep there!
COME away, come away, death,And in sad cypres let me be laid;Fly away, fly away, breath;I am slain by a fair cruel maid.My shroud of white, stuck all with yew,O prepare it!My part of death, no one so trueDid share it.Not a flower, not a flower sweet,On my black coffin let there be strown;Not a friend, not a friend greetMy poor corse, where my bones shall be thrown:A thousand thousand sighs to save,Lay me, O, whereSad true lover never find my graveTo weep there!
COME away, come away, death,And in sad cypres let me be laid;Fly away, fly away, breath;I am slain by a fair cruel maid.My shroud of white, stuck all with yew,O prepare it!My part of death, no one so trueDid share it.
Not a flower, not a flower sweet,On my black coffin let there be strown;Not a friend, not a friend greetMy poor corse, where my bones shall be thrown:A thousand thousand sighs to save,Lay me, O, whereSad true lover never find my graveTo weep there!
134.cypres] crape.
134.cypres] crape.
135.
Amienssings:
UNDER the greenwood tree,Who loves to lie with me,And turn his merry noteUnto the sweet bird’s throat,Come hither, come hither, come hither:Here shall he seeNo enemyBut winter and rough weather.Who doth ambition shun,And loves to live i’ the sun,Seeking the food he eats,And pleased with what he gets,Come hither, come hither, come hither:Here shall he seeNo enemyBut winter and rough weather.
UNDER the greenwood tree,Who loves to lie with me,And turn his merry noteUnto the sweet bird’s throat,Come hither, come hither, come hither:Here shall he seeNo enemyBut winter and rough weather.Who doth ambition shun,And loves to live i’ the sun,Seeking the food he eats,And pleased with what he gets,Come hither, come hither, come hither:Here shall he seeNo enemyBut winter and rough weather.
UNDER the greenwood tree,Who loves to lie with me,And turn his merry noteUnto the sweet bird’s throat,Come hither, come hither, come hither:Here shall he seeNo enemyBut winter and rough weather.
Who doth ambition shun,And loves to live i’ the sun,Seeking the food he eats,And pleased with what he gets,Come hither, come hither, come hither:Here shall he seeNo enemyBut winter and rough weather.
Jaquesreplies:
IF it do come to passThat any man turn ass,Leaving his wealth and easeA stubborn will to please,Ducdamè, ducdamè, ducdamè:Here shall he seeGross fools as he,An if he will come to me.
IF it do come to passThat any man turn ass,Leaving his wealth and easeA stubborn will to please,Ducdamè, ducdamè, ducdamè:Here shall he seeGross fools as he,An if he will come to me.
IF it do come to passThat any man turn ass,Leaving his wealth and easeA stubborn will to please,Ducdamè, ducdamè, ducdamè:Here shall he seeGross fools as he,An if he will come to me.
136.
BLOW, blow, thou winter wind,Thou art not so unkindAs man’s ingratitude;Thy tooth is not so keen,Because thou art not seen,Although thy breath be rude.Heigh ho! sing, heigh ho! unto the green holly:Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:Then heigh ho, the holly!This life is most jolly.Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,That dost not bite so nighAs benefits forgot:Though thou the waters warp,Thy sting is not so sharpAs friend remember’d not.Heigh ho! sing, heigh ho! unto the green holly:Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:Then heigh ho, the holly!This life is most jolly.
BLOW, blow, thou winter wind,Thou art not so unkindAs man’s ingratitude;Thy tooth is not so keen,Because thou art not seen,Although thy breath be rude.Heigh ho! sing, heigh ho! unto the green holly:Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:Then heigh ho, the holly!This life is most jolly.Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,That dost not bite so nighAs benefits forgot:Though thou the waters warp,Thy sting is not so sharpAs friend remember’d not.Heigh ho! sing, heigh ho! unto the green holly:Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:Then heigh ho, the holly!This life is most jolly.
BLOW, blow, thou winter wind,Thou art not so unkindAs man’s ingratitude;Thy tooth is not so keen,Because thou art not seen,Although thy breath be rude.Heigh ho! sing, heigh ho! unto the green holly:Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:Then heigh ho, the holly!This life is most jolly.
Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,That dost not bite so nighAs benefits forgot:Though thou the waters warp,Thy sting is not so sharpAs friend remember’d not.Heigh ho! sing, heigh ho! unto the green holly:Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:Then heigh ho, the holly!This life is most jolly.
137.
IT was a lover and his lass,With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,That o’er the green corn-field did pass,In the spring time, the only pretty ring time,When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding;Sweet lovers love the spring.Between the acres of the rye,With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,These pretty country folks would lie,In the spring time, the only pretty ring time,When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding;Sweet lovers love the spring.This carol they began that hour,With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,How that life was but a flowerIn the spring time, the only pretty ring time,When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding;Sweet lovers love the spring.And, therefore, take the present timeWith a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,For love is crownèd with the primeIn the spring time, the only pretty ring time,When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding;Sweet lovers love the spring.
IT was a lover and his lass,With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,That o’er the green corn-field did pass,In the spring time, the only pretty ring time,When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding;Sweet lovers love the spring.Between the acres of the rye,With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,These pretty country folks would lie,In the spring time, the only pretty ring time,When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding;Sweet lovers love the spring.This carol they began that hour,With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,How that life was but a flowerIn the spring time, the only pretty ring time,When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding;Sweet lovers love the spring.And, therefore, take the present timeWith a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,For love is crownèd with the primeIn the spring time, the only pretty ring time,When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding;Sweet lovers love the spring.
IT was a lover and his lass,With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,That o’er the green corn-field did pass,In the spring time, the only pretty ring time,When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding;Sweet lovers love the spring.
Between the acres of the rye,With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,These pretty country folks would lie,In the spring time, the only pretty ring time,When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding;Sweet lovers love the spring.
This carol they began that hour,With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,How that life was but a flowerIn the spring time, the only pretty ring time,When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding;Sweet lovers love the spring.
And, therefore, take the present timeWith a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,For love is crownèd with the primeIn the spring time, the only pretty ring time,When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding;Sweet lovers love the spring.
138.
TAKE, O take those lips away,That so sweetly were forsworn;And those eyes, the break of day,Lights that do mislead the morn!But my kisses bring again,Bring again;Seals of love, but seal’d in vain,Seal’d in vain!
TAKE, O take those lips away,That so sweetly were forsworn;And those eyes, the break of day,Lights that do mislead the morn!But my kisses bring again,Bring again;Seals of love, but seal’d in vain,Seal’d in vain!
TAKE, O take those lips away,That so sweetly were forsworn;And those eyes, the break of day,Lights that do mislead the morn!But my kisses bring again,Bring again;Seals of love, but seal’d in vain,Seal’d in vain!
139.
HARK! hark! the lark at heaven’s gate sings,And Phœbus ’gins arise,His steeds to water at those springsOn chaliced flowers that lies;And winking Mary-buds beginTo ope their golden eyes:With everything that pretty bin,My lady sweet, arise!Arise, arise!
HARK! hark! the lark at heaven’s gate sings,And Phœbus ’gins arise,His steeds to water at those springsOn chaliced flowers that lies;And winking Mary-buds beginTo ope their golden eyes:With everything that pretty bin,My lady sweet, arise!Arise, arise!
HARK! hark! the lark at heaven’s gate sings,And Phœbus ’gins arise,His steeds to water at those springsOn chaliced flowers that lies;And winking Mary-buds beginTo ope their golden eyes:With everything that pretty bin,My lady sweet, arise!Arise, arise!
140.
FEAR no more the heat o’ the sun,Nor the furious winter’s rages;Thou thy worldly task hast done,Home art gone, and ta’en thy wagesGolden lads and girls all must,As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.Fear no more the frown o’ the great,Thou art past the tyrant’s stroke;Care no more to clothe and eat;To thee the reed is as the oak:The sceptre, learning, physic, mustAll follow this, and come to dust.Fear no more the lightning-flash,Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone;Fear not slander, censure rash;Thou hast finished joy and moan:All lovers young, all lovers mustConsign to thee, and come to dust.No exerciser harm thee!Nor no witchcraft charm thee!Ghost unlaid forbear thee!Nothing ill come near thee!Quiet consummation have;And renownèd be thy grave!
FEAR no more the heat o’ the sun,Nor the furious winter’s rages;Thou thy worldly task hast done,Home art gone, and ta’en thy wagesGolden lads and girls all must,As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.Fear no more the frown o’ the great,Thou art past the tyrant’s stroke;Care no more to clothe and eat;To thee the reed is as the oak:The sceptre, learning, physic, mustAll follow this, and come to dust.Fear no more the lightning-flash,Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone;Fear not slander, censure rash;Thou hast finished joy and moan:All lovers young, all lovers mustConsign to thee, and come to dust.No exerciser harm thee!Nor no witchcraft charm thee!Ghost unlaid forbear thee!Nothing ill come near thee!Quiet consummation have;And renownèd be thy grave!
FEAR no more the heat o’ the sun,Nor the furious winter’s rages;Thou thy worldly task hast done,Home art gone, and ta’en thy wagesGolden lads and girls all must,As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.
Fear no more the frown o’ the great,Thou art past the tyrant’s stroke;Care no more to clothe and eat;To thee the reed is as the oak:The sceptre, learning, physic, mustAll follow this, and come to dust.
Fear no more the lightning-flash,Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone;Fear not slander, censure rash;Thou hast finished joy and moan:All lovers young, all lovers mustConsign to thee, and come to dust.
No exerciser harm thee!Nor no witchcraft charm thee!Ghost unlaid forbear thee!Nothing ill come near thee!Quiet consummation have;And renownèd be thy grave!
141.
ROSES, their sharp spines being gone,Not royal in their smells alone,But in their hue;Maiden pinks, of odour faint,Daisies smell-less, yet most quaint,And sweet thyme true;Primrose, firstborn child of Ver;Merry springtime’s harbinger,With her bells dim;Oxlips in their cradles growing,Marigolds on death-beds blowing,Larks’-heels trim;All dear Nature’s children sweetLie ’fore bride and bridegroom’s feet,Blessing their sense!Not an angel of the air,Bird melodious or bird fair,Be absent hence!The crow, the slanderous cuckoo, norThe boding raven, nor chough hoar,Nor chattering pye,May on our bride-house perch or sing,Or with them any discord bring,But from it fly!
ROSES, their sharp spines being gone,Not royal in their smells alone,But in their hue;Maiden pinks, of odour faint,Daisies smell-less, yet most quaint,And sweet thyme true;Primrose, firstborn child of Ver;Merry springtime’s harbinger,With her bells dim;Oxlips in their cradles growing,Marigolds on death-beds blowing,Larks’-heels trim;All dear Nature’s children sweetLie ’fore bride and bridegroom’s feet,Blessing their sense!Not an angel of the air,Bird melodious or bird fair,Be absent hence!The crow, the slanderous cuckoo, norThe boding raven, nor chough hoar,Nor chattering pye,May on our bride-house perch or sing,Or with them any discord bring,But from it fly!
ROSES, their sharp spines being gone,Not royal in their smells alone,But in their hue;Maiden pinks, of odour faint,Daisies smell-less, yet most quaint,And sweet thyme true;
Primrose, firstborn child of Ver;Merry springtime’s harbinger,With her bells dim;Oxlips in their cradles growing,Marigolds on death-beds blowing,Larks’-heels trim;
All dear Nature’s children sweetLie ’fore bride and bridegroom’s feet,Blessing their sense!Not an angel of the air,Bird melodious or bird fair,Be absent hence!
The crow, the slanderous cuckoo, norThe boding raven, nor chough hoar,Nor chattering pye,May on our bride-house perch or sing,Or with them any discord bring,But from it fly!
? orJohn Fletcher.
142.
Urnsand odours bring away!Vapours, sighs, darken the day!Our dole more deadly looks than dying;Balms and gums and heavy cheers,Sacred vials fill’d with tears,And clamours through the wild air flying!Come, all sad and solemn shows,That are quick-eyed Pleasure’s foes!We convènt naught else but woes.
Urnsand odours bring away!Vapours, sighs, darken the day!Our dole more deadly looks than dying;Balms and gums and heavy cheers,Sacred vials fill’d with tears,And clamours through the wild air flying!Come, all sad and solemn shows,That are quick-eyed Pleasure’s foes!We convènt naught else but woes.
Urnsand odours bring away!Vapours, sighs, darken the day!Our dole more deadly looks than dying;Balms and gums and heavy cheers,Sacred vials fill’d with tears,And clamours through the wild air flying!
Come, all sad and solemn shows,That are quick-eyed Pleasure’s foes!We convènt naught else but woes.
? orJohn Fletcher.
142.dole] lamentation. convent] summon.
142.dole] lamentation. convent] summon.
143.
ORPHEUS with his lute made treesAnd the mountain tops that freezeBow themselves when he did sing:To his music plants and flowersEver sprung; as sun and showersThere had made a lasting spring.Every thing that heard him play,Even the billows of the sea,Hung their heads and then lay by.In sweet music is such art,Killing care and grief of heartFall asleep, or hearing, die.
ORPHEUS with his lute made treesAnd the mountain tops that freezeBow themselves when he did sing:To his music plants and flowersEver sprung; as sun and showersThere had made a lasting spring.Every thing that heard him play,Even the billows of the sea,Hung their heads and then lay by.In sweet music is such art,Killing care and grief of heartFall asleep, or hearing, die.
ORPHEUS with his lute made treesAnd the mountain tops that freezeBow themselves when he did sing:To his music plants and flowersEver sprung; as sun and showersThere had made a lasting spring.
Every thing that heard him play,Even the billows of the sea,Hung their heads and then lay by.In sweet music is such art,Killing care and grief of heartFall asleep, or hearing, die.
? orJohn Fletcher.
144.
LET the bird of loudest layOn the sole Arabian tree,Herald sad and trumpet be,To whose sound chaste wings obey.But thou shrieking harbinger,Foul precurrer of the fiend,Augur of the fever’s end,To this troop come thou not near.From this session interdictEvery fowl of tyrant wingSave the eagle, feather’d king:Keep the obsequy so strict.Let the priest in surplice whiteThat defunctive music can,Be the death-divining swan,Lest the requiem lack his right.And thou, treble-dated crow,That thy sable gender mak’stWith the breath thou giv’st and tak’st,’Mongst our mourners shalt thou go.Here the anthem doth commence:—Love and constancy is dead;Phœnix and the turtle fledIn a mutual flame from hence.So they loved, as love in twainHad the essence but in one;Two distincts, division none;Number there in love was slain.
LET the bird of loudest layOn the sole Arabian tree,Herald sad and trumpet be,To whose sound chaste wings obey.But thou shrieking harbinger,Foul precurrer of the fiend,Augur of the fever’s end,To this troop come thou not near.From this session interdictEvery fowl of tyrant wingSave the eagle, feather’d king:Keep the obsequy so strict.Let the priest in surplice whiteThat defunctive music can,Be the death-divining swan,Lest the requiem lack his right.And thou, treble-dated crow,That thy sable gender mak’stWith the breath thou giv’st and tak’st,’Mongst our mourners shalt thou go.Here the anthem doth commence:—Love and constancy is dead;Phœnix and the turtle fledIn a mutual flame from hence.So they loved, as love in twainHad the essence but in one;Two distincts, division none;Number there in love was slain.
LET the bird of loudest layOn the sole Arabian tree,Herald sad and trumpet be,To whose sound chaste wings obey.
But thou shrieking harbinger,Foul precurrer of the fiend,Augur of the fever’s end,To this troop come thou not near.
From this session interdictEvery fowl of tyrant wingSave the eagle, feather’d king:Keep the obsequy so strict.
Let the priest in surplice whiteThat defunctive music can,Be the death-divining swan,Lest the requiem lack his right.
And thou, treble-dated crow,That thy sable gender mak’stWith the breath thou giv’st and tak’st,’Mongst our mourners shalt thou go.
Here the anthem doth commence:—Love and constancy is dead;Phœnix and the turtle fledIn a mutual flame from hence.
So they loved, as love in twainHad the essence but in one;Two distincts, division none;Number there in love was slain.
can] knows.
can] knows.
HEARTS remote, yet not asunder;Distance, and no space was seen’Twixt the turtle and his queen:But in them it were a wonder.So between them love did shine,That the turtle saw his rightFlaming in the phœnix’ sight;Either was the other’s mine.Property was thus appall’d,That the self was not the same;Single nature’s double nameNeither two nor one was call’d.Reason, in itself confounded,Saw division grow together;To themselves yet either neither;Simple were so well compounded,That it cried, ‘How true a twainSeemeth this concordant one!Love hath reason, reason noneIf what parts can so remain.’Whereupon it made this threneTo the phœnix and the dove,Co-supremes and stars of love,As chorus to their tragic scene.
HEARTS remote, yet not asunder;Distance, and no space was seen’Twixt the turtle and his queen:But in them it were a wonder.So between them love did shine,That the turtle saw his rightFlaming in the phœnix’ sight;Either was the other’s mine.Property was thus appall’d,That the self was not the same;Single nature’s double nameNeither two nor one was call’d.Reason, in itself confounded,Saw division grow together;To themselves yet either neither;Simple were so well compounded,That it cried, ‘How true a twainSeemeth this concordant one!Love hath reason, reason noneIf what parts can so remain.’Whereupon it made this threneTo the phœnix and the dove,Co-supremes and stars of love,As chorus to their tragic scene.
HEARTS remote, yet not asunder;Distance, and no space was seen’Twixt the turtle and his queen:But in them it were a wonder.
So between them love did shine,That the turtle saw his rightFlaming in the phœnix’ sight;Either was the other’s mine.
Property was thus appall’d,That the self was not the same;Single nature’s double nameNeither two nor one was call’d.
Reason, in itself confounded,Saw division grow together;To themselves yet either neither;Simple were so well compounded,
That it cried, ‘How true a twainSeemeth this concordant one!Love hath reason, reason noneIf what parts can so remain.’
Whereupon it made this threneTo the phœnix and the dove,Co-supremes and stars of love,As chorus to their tragic scene.
THRENOS
BEAUTY, truth, and rarity,Grace in all simplicity,Here enclosed in cinders lie.Death is now the phœnix’ nest;And the turtle’s loyal breastTo eternity doth rest,Leaving no posterity:’Twas not their infirmity,It was married chastity.Truth may seem, but cannot be;Beauty brag, but ’tis not she;Truth and beauty buried be.To this urn let those repairThat are either true or fair;For these dead birds sigh a prayer.
BEAUTY, truth, and rarity,Grace in all simplicity,Here enclosed in cinders lie.Death is now the phœnix’ nest;And the turtle’s loyal breastTo eternity doth rest,Leaving no posterity:’Twas not their infirmity,It was married chastity.Truth may seem, but cannot be;Beauty brag, but ’tis not she;Truth and beauty buried be.To this urn let those repairThat are either true or fair;For these dead birds sigh a prayer.
BEAUTY, truth, and rarity,Grace in all simplicity,Here enclosed in cinders lie.
Death is now the phœnix’ nest;And the turtle’s loyal breastTo eternity doth rest,
Leaving no posterity:’Twas not their infirmity,It was married chastity.
Truth may seem, but cannot be;Beauty brag, but ’tis not she;Truth and beauty buried be.
To this urn let those repairThat are either true or fair;For these dead birds sigh a prayer.
Sonnets
145.
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 dimm’d;And every fair from fair sometime declines,By chance or nature’s changing course untrimm’d:But thy eternal Summer shall not fadeNor lose possession of that fair thou owest;Nor shall Death brag thou wanderest in his shade,When in eternal lines to time thou growest:So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
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 dimm’d;And every fair from fair sometime declines,By chance or nature’s changing course untrimm’d:But thy eternal Summer shall not fadeNor lose possession of that fair thou owest;Nor shall Death brag thou wanderest in his shade,When in eternal lines to time thou growest:So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
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 dimm’d;And every fair from fair sometime declines,By chance or nature’s changing course untrimm’d:But thy eternal Summer shall not fadeNor lose possession of that fair thou owest;Nor shall Death brag thou wanderest in his shade,When in eternal lines to time thou growest:So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
146.
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 possest,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 arisingFrom sullen earth, sings hymns at Heaven’s gate;For thy sweet love rememb’red such wealth bringsThat then I scorn to change my state with Kings.
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 possest,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 arisingFrom sullen earth, sings hymns at Heaven’s gate;For thy sweet love rememb’red such wealth bringsThat then I scorn to change my state with Kings.
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 possest,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 arisingFrom sullen earth, sings hymns at Heaven’s gate;For thy sweet love rememb’red such wealth bringsThat then I scorn to change my state with Kings.
147.
WHEN to the Sessions of sweet silent thoughtI 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-cancell’d woe,And moan th’ expense of many a vanish’d sight:Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,And heavily from woe to woe tell o’erThe 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.
WHEN to the Sessions of sweet silent thoughtI 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-cancell’d woe,And moan th’ expense of many a vanish’d sight:Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,And heavily from woe to woe tell o’erThe 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.
WHEN to the Sessions of sweet silent thoughtI 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-cancell’d woe,And moan th’ expense of many a vanish’d sight:Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,And heavily from woe to woe tell o’erThe 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.
148.
THY bosom is endearèd with all heartsWhich 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 tearHath dear religious love stol’n from mine eye,As interest of the dead!—which now appearBut 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.
THY bosom is endearèd with all heartsWhich 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 tearHath dear religious love stol’n from mine eye,As interest of the dead!—which now appearBut 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.
THY bosom is endearèd with all heartsWhich 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 tearHath dear religious love stol’n from mine eye,As interest of the dead!—which now appearBut 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.
149.
WHAT is your substance, whereof are you made,That millions of strange shadows on you tend?Since every one hath, every one, one shade,And you, but one, can every shadow lend.Describe Adonis, and the counterfeitIs 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.
WHAT is your substance, whereof are you made,That millions of strange shadows on you tend?Since every one hath, every one, one shade,And you, but one, can every shadow lend.Describe Adonis, and the counterfeitIs 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.
WHAT is your substance, whereof are you made,That millions of strange shadows on you tend?Since every one hath, every one, one shade,And you, but one, can every shadow lend.Describe Adonis, and the counterfeitIs 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.
149.foison] plenty.
149.foison] plenty.
150.
OHOW much more doth beauty beauteous seemBy that sweet ornament which truth doth give!The Rose looks fair, but fairer we it deemFor that sweet odour which doth in it live.The Canker-blooms have full as deep a dyeAs the perfumèd tincture of the Roses,Hang on such thorns, and play as wantonlyWhen summer’s breath their maskèd buds discloses:But—for their virtue only is their show—They live unwoo’d and unrespected fade,Die to themselves. Sweet Roses do not so;Of their sweet deaths are sweetest odours made.And so of you, beauteous and lovely youth,When that shall vade, my verse distils your truth.
OHOW much more doth beauty beauteous seemBy that sweet ornament which truth doth give!The Rose looks fair, but fairer we it deemFor that sweet odour which doth in it live.The Canker-blooms have full as deep a dyeAs the perfumèd tincture of the Roses,Hang on such thorns, and play as wantonlyWhen summer’s breath their maskèd buds discloses:But—for their virtue only is their show—They live unwoo’d and unrespected fade,Die to themselves. Sweet Roses do not so;Of their sweet deaths are sweetest odours made.And so of you, beauteous and lovely youth,When that shall vade, my verse distils your truth.
OHOW much more doth beauty beauteous seemBy that sweet ornament which truth doth give!The Rose looks fair, but fairer we it deemFor that sweet odour which doth in it live.The Canker-blooms have full as deep a dyeAs the perfumèd tincture of the Roses,Hang on such thorns, and play as wantonlyWhen summer’s breath their maskèd buds discloses:But—for their virtue only is their show—They live unwoo’d and unrespected fade,Die to themselves. Sweet Roses do not so;Of their sweet deaths are sweetest odours made.And so of you, beauteous and lovely youth,When that shall vade, my verse distils your truth.
151.
BEING your slave, what should I do but tendUpon 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 hourWhilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for you,Nor think the bitterness of absence sourWhen you have bid your servant once adieu;Nor dare I question with my jealous thoughtWhere you may be, or your affairs suppose,But, like a sad slave, stay and think of noughtSave, where you are how happy you make those!So true a fool is love, that in your Will,Though you do any thing, he thinks no ill.
BEING your slave, what should I do but tendUpon 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 hourWhilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for you,Nor think the bitterness of absence sourWhen you have bid your servant once adieu;Nor dare I question with my jealous thoughtWhere you may be, or your affairs suppose,But, like a sad slave, stay and think of noughtSave, where you are how happy you make those!So true a fool is love, that in your Will,Though you do any thing, he thinks no ill.
BEING your slave, what should I do but tendUpon 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 hourWhilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for you,Nor think the bitterness of absence sourWhen you have bid your servant once adieu;Nor dare I question with my jealous thoughtWhere you may be, or your affairs suppose,But, like a sad slave, stay and think of noughtSave, where you are how happy you make those!So true a fool is love, that in your Will,Though you do any thing, he thinks no ill.
152.
THAT time of year thou may’st in me beholdWhen yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hangUpon those boughs which shake against the cold—Bare ruin’d choirs where late the sweet birds sang.In me thou see’st the twilight of such dayAs 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 fireThat on the ashes of his youth doth lie,As the death-bed whereon it must expire,Consumed with that which it was nourish’d by.This thou perceiv’st, which makes thy love more strongTo love that well which thou must leave ere long.
THAT time of year thou may’st in me beholdWhen yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hangUpon those boughs which shake against the cold—Bare ruin’d choirs where late the sweet birds sang.In me thou see’st the twilight of such dayAs 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 fireThat on the ashes of his youth doth lie,As the death-bed whereon it must expire,Consumed with that which it was nourish’d by.This thou perceiv’st, which makes thy love more strongTo love that well which thou must leave ere long.
THAT time of year thou may’st in me beholdWhen yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hangUpon those boughs which shake against the cold—Bare ruin’d choirs where late the sweet birds sang.In me thou see’st the twilight of such dayAs 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 fireThat on the ashes of his youth doth lie,As the death-bed whereon it must expire,Consumed with that which it was nourish’d by.This thou perceiv’st, which makes thy love more strongTo love that well which thou must leave ere long.
153.
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.Thyself 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 flatterIn sleep a King; but waking, no such matter.
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.Thyself 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 flatterIn sleep a King; but waking, no such matter.
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.Thyself 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 flatterIn sleep a King; but waking, no such matter.
154.
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 after loss: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 tasteAt 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!
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 after loss: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 tasteAt 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!
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 after loss: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 tasteAt 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!
155.
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.
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.
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.
156.
HOW like a Winter hath my absence beenFrom 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 primeLike widow’d wombs after their Lord’s decease:Yet this abundant issue seem’d to meBut hope of orphans and unfather’d 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 cheerThat leaves look pale, dreading the Winter’s near.
HOW like a Winter hath my absence beenFrom 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 primeLike widow’d wombs after their Lord’s decease:Yet this abundant issue seem’d to meBut hope of orphans and unfather’d 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 cheerThat leaves look pale, dreading the Winter’s near.
HOW like a Winter hath my absence beenFrom 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 primeLike widow’d wombs after their Lord’s decease:Yet this abundant issue seem’d to meBut hope of orphans and unfather’d 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 cheerThat leaves look pale, dreading the Winter’s near.
157.
FROM you have I been absent in the spring,When proud-pied April, dress’d in all his trim,Hath put a spirit of youth in everything,That heavy Saturn laugh’d and leap’d with him.Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smellOf different flowers in odour 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 seem’d it Winter still, and, you away,As with your shadow I with these did play.
FROM you have I been absent in the spring,When proud-pied April, dress’d in all his trim,Hath put a spirit of youth in everything,That heavy Saturn laugh’d and leap’d with him.Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smellOf different flowers in odour 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 seem’d it Winter still, and, you away,As with your shadow I with these did play.
FROM you have I been absent in the spring,When proud-pied April, dress’d in all his trim,Hath put a spirit of youth in everything,That heavy Saturn laugh’d and leap’d with him.Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smellOf different flowers in odour 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 seem’d it Winter still, and, you away,As with your shadow I with these did play.
158.
MY love is strengthen’d, though more weak in seeming;I love not less, though less the show appear:That love is merchandised whose rich esteemingThe 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 singAnd stops her pipe in growth of riper days:Not that the summer is less pleasant nowThan when her mournful hymns did hush the night,But that wild music burthens 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.
MY love is strengthen’d, though more weak in seeming;I love not less, though less the show appear:That love is merchandised whose rich esteemingThe 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 singAnd stops her pipe in growth of riper days:Not that the summer is less pleasant nowThan when her mournful hymns did hush the night,But that wild music burthens 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.
MY love is strengthen’d, though more weak in seeming;I love not less, though less the show appear:That love is merchandised whose rich esteemingThe 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 singAnd stops her pipe in growth of riper days:Not that the summer is less pleasant nowThan when her mournful hymns did hush the night,But that wild music burthens 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.
159.
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 coldHave from the forests shook three Summers’ pride;Three beauteous springs to yellow Autumn turn’dIn process of the seasons have I seen,Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burn’d,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.
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 coldHave from the forests shook three Summers’ pride;Three beauteous springs to yellow Autumn turn’dIn process of the seasons have I seen,Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burn’d,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.
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 coldHave from the forests shook three Summers’ pride;Three beauteous springs to yellow Autumn turn’dIn process of the seasons have I seen,Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burn’d,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.
160.
WHEN in the chronicle of wasted timeI see descriptions of the fairest wights,And beauty making beautiful old rimeIn 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 exprestEven such a beauty as you master now.So all their praises are but propheciesOf this our time, all you prefiguring;And for they look’d 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.
WHEN in the chronicle of wasted timeI see descriptions of the fairest wights,And beauty making beautiful old rimeIn 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 exprestEven such a beauty as you master now.So all their praises are but propheciesOf this our time, all you prefiguring;And for they look’d 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.
WHEN in the chronicle of wasted timeI see descriptions of the fairest wights,And beauty making beautiful old rimeIn 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 exprestEven such a beauty as you master now.So all their praises are but propheciesOf this our time, all you prefiguring;And for they look’d 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.
161.
ONEVER say that I was false of heart,Though absence seem’d 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 reign’dAll frailties that besiege all kinds of blood,That it could so prepost’rously be stain’d,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.
ONEVER say that I was false of heart,Though absence seem’d 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 reign’dAll frailties that besiege all kinds of blood,That it could so prepost’rously be stain’d,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.
ONEVER say that I was false of heart,Though absence seem’d 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 reign’dAll frailties that besiege all kinds of blood,That it could so prepost’rously be stain’d,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.
162.
LET me not to the marriage of true mindsAdmit impediments. Love is not loveWhich 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 cheeksWithin 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.
LET me not to the marriage of true mindsAdmit impediments. Love is not loveWhich 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 cheeksWithin 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.
LET me not to the marriage of true mindsAdmit impediments. Love is not loveWhich 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 cheeksWithin 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.
163.
TH’ expense of Spirit in a waste of shameIs lust in action; and till action, lustIs perjured, murderous, bloody, full of blame,Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust;Enjoy’d no sooner but despisèd straight;Past reason hunted; and, no sooner had,Past reason hated, as a swallow’d baitOn 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 wellTo shun the heaven that leads men to this hell.
TH’ expense of Spirit in a waste of shameIs lust in action; and till action, lustIs perjured, murderous, bloody, full of blame,Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust;Enjoy’d no sooner but despisèd straight;Past reason hunted; and, no sooner had,Past reason hated, as a swallow’d baitOn 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 wellTo shun the heaven that leads men to this hell.
TH’ expense of Spirit in a waste of shameIs lust in action; and till action, lustIs perjured, murderous, bloody, full of blame,Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust;Enjoy’d no sooner but despisèd straight;Past reason hunted; and, no sooner had,Past reason hated, as a swallow’d baitOn 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 wellTo shun the heaven that leads men to this hell.
164.