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The one doth call her his, the other his,
Why, Collatine, is woe the cure for woe? (deeds ? Yet neither may possess the claim they lay. Do wounds help wounds, or grief help grievous The father says, she's mine: 0, mine she is, Is it revenge to give thyself a blow, Replies the husband: Do not take away
For his foul act by whom thy fair wife bleeds ? My sorrow's interest; let no mourner say
Such childish humour from weak minds proceeds ; He weeps for her, for she was only mine,
Thy wretched wife mistook the matter so, And only must be wail'd by Collatine.
To slay herself, that should have slain her foe. O, quoth Lucretius, I did give that life,
Courageous Roman, do not steep thy heart Which she too early and too late hath spill’d. In such relenting dew of lamentations: Woe, wot quoth Collatine, she was my wife, But kneel with me, and help to bear thy part, I ow'd her, and 'tis mine that she hath kill'd, To rouse our Roman gods with invocations, My daughter and my wife with clamour fill'd That they will suffer these abominations, The dispers'd air, who holding Lucrece' life, Since Rome herself in them doth stand disgrac'd, Answer'd their cries, my daughter and my wife. By our strong arms from forth her fair streets chas'd Brutus, who pluck'd the knife from Lucrece’ side, Now by the Capitol that we adore, Seeing such emulation in their woe,
And by this chaste blood so unjustly stain'd, Began to clothe his wit in state and pride,
By heaven's fair sun, that breeds the fat earth's store, Burying in Lucrece' wound his folly's shew. By all our country rights in Rome maintain'd, He with the Romans was esteemed so
And by chaste Lucrece' soul, that late complain'd As silly-jeering idiots are with kings,
Her wrongs to us, and by this bloody knife, For sportive words, and uttering foolish things. We will revenge the death of this true wife. But now he throws that shallow habit by,
This said, he struck his hand upon his breast, Wherein deep policy did him disguise ;
And kiss'd the fatal knife, to end his vow; And arm’d his long-hid wits advisedly,
And to his protestation urg'd the rest, To check the tears in Collatinus' eyes.
Who wondering at him, did his words allow: Thou wronged lord of Rome, quoth he, arise; Then jointly to the ground their knees they bor Let my unsounded self, suppos'd a fool,
And that deep vow which Brutus made before sew set thy long-experienc'd wit to school. He doth again repeat, and that they swort
When they had sworn to this advised doom,
SON N ETS.
TO THE ONLY BEGETTER OF THESE ENSUING SONNETS,
MR. W. H.
THE HAPPINESS, AND THAT ETERNITY PROMISED BY OUR EVER-LIVING POEI
WELL-WISHING ADVENTURER IN SETTING FORTH,
1. 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 fame 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.
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held : Then, being ask'd 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 deserv'd thy beauty's use,
If thou could'st answer—" This fair child of mine Shall sum my count, and make my old ercuse,
Proving his beauty by succession thine. This were to be new made, when thou art old, Aud see thy blood warm, when thou feel'st it cold.
III. 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 un-ear'd womb
Disdains the tillage of thy husbandry ?
Of his self-love, to stop posterity ?
Calls back the lovely April of her prime:
Despite of wrinkles, this thy golden time.
Upon thyself thy beauty's legacy?
And being frank, she lends to those are free.
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 unus'd beauty must be tomb'd with thee, Which, used, lives thy executor to be.
• ie Thomas Thorpe, in whose name the Sonnets wero first entered in Stationers' Hall.
The world will be thy widow, and still weep,
That thou no form of thee hast left behind, Those hours, ibat with gentle work did frame,
When every private widow well inay keep, The lovely gaze where every eye doth dwell,
By children's eyes, her husband's shape in mind Will play the tyrants to the very same,
Look, what an untlırist in the world doth spend, And that unfair, which fairly doth excel;
Shifts but his place, for still the world enjoys it; For never-resting time leads suinmer on
But beauty's waste hath in the world an end, To hideous winter and confounds him there;
And kept unus'd, the user so destroys it. Sap check'd with frost, and lusty leaves quite gone,
No love towards others in that bosom sits, Beauty o'er-snow'd, and bareness every vibere:
That ou himself such murderous shame commits. Then, were not summer's distillation left,
A liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass.
For shame! deny that thou bear’st love to any,
Who for thyself art so unprovident.
But that thou none lov'st, is most evident;
For thcu art so possess'd with murderous hate,
That 'gainst thyself thou stick'st not to copspire; Then let not winter's ragged hand desace
Seeking that beauteous roof to ruinate, In thee thy summer, ere thou be distillid:
Which to repair should be thy chief desire. Make sweet some phial, treasure thou some place O, change thy thought, that I may change my mind! With beauty's treasure, ere it be self-kill'd.
Shall hate be fairer lodg'd than gentle love? That use is not forbidden usury,
Be, as thy presence is, gracious and kind,
Make thee another self, for love of me,
As fast as thou shalt wane, so fast thou grow'st Be not self-will’d, for thou art much too fair
In one of thine, from that which thou departest; To be death's conquest, and make worms thine heir. And that fresh blood which youngly thou bestow'si,
Thou may’st call thine, when thou from youth
Herein lives wisdom, beauty, and increase ; Lo, in the orient when the gracious light
Without this, folly, age, and cold decay: Liits up his burning head, each under eye If all were minded so, the times should cease, Doth homage to his new-appearing sight,
And threescore years would make the world away. Serving with looks his sacred majesty;
Let those whom nature hath not made for store, And having climb’d the steep-ap heavenly hill, Harsh, featureless, and rude, barrenly perish:
Resembling strong youth in his middle ag'; Look, whom she best endow'd, she gave thee more; Yet mortal looks adore his beauty still,
Which boanteous gift thou should'st in bounty Attending on his golden pilgrimage ;
cherish: But when from high-most pitch, with weary car, She carv'd thee for her seal, and meant thereby
Like feeble age, he reeleth from the day, Thou should'st print more, nor let that copy die.
When I do count the clock that tells the time,
And see the brave day sunk in hideous night; VIII.
When I behold the violet past prime,
And sable curls, all silver'd o'er with white; Music to hear, why hear'st thou music sadly? When lofty trees I see barren of leaves,
Sweets with sweets war not, joy delights in joy: Which erst from heat did canopy the herd, Why lov'st thon that which thou receiv'st not gladly? And summer's green all girded up in sheaves.
Or else receiv'st with pleasure thine annoy? Borne on the bier with white and bristly beard; If the true concord of well-tuned sounds,
Then of thy beauty do I question make, By unions married, do offend thine ear,
That thou among the wastes of time must go, They do but sweetly chide thee, who confounds Since sweets and beauties do themselves forsake,
In singleness the parts that thou should'st bear: And die as fast as they see others grow; Maik, how one string, sweet husband to another, And nothing 'gainst time's scythe can make defence,
Strikes each in each, by mutual ordering; Save breed, to brave him, when he takes thee hence.
O, that you were yourself! but, love, you are
No longer your's, than you yourself here live: IX.
Against this coming end you should prepare,
And your sweet semblance to some other give. Is it for fear to wet a widow's eye,
So should that beauty which you hold in lease, That thou consum'st thyself in single life?
Find no determination : then you were Ah! if thou issueless shalt hap to die,
Yourself again, after yourself's decease, The world will wail thee, like a makeler's wife; When your sweet issue your sweet form should bear Who lets so fair a house fall to decay,
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate : O! none but unthrifts :-Dear my love, you know, Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, You had a father; let your son say so.
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, Not from the stars do I my judgment pluck;
By chance,or nature's changing course,untrimın'd; And yet methinks I have astronomy;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade, But not to tell of good, or evil luck,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest; Of plagues, of dearths, or seasons' quality : Nor shall death brag thou wander'st in his shade, Sor can I fortune to brief minutes tell,
When in eternal lives to time thou growest : Pointing to each his thunder, rain, and wind;
So long as men can breathe, or eyes can sec,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
Devouring Time, blunt thou the lion's paws,
Pluck the keen teeth from the fierce tiger's jaws Thy end is truth's and beauty's doom and date. And burn the long-liv'd phænix in her blood;
Make glad and sorry seasons as thou fleet'st,
do whate'er thou wilt, swift-footed Time,
To the wide world, and all her fading sweets; When I consider every thing that grows
But I forbid thee one most heinous crime: Holds in perfection but a little moment;
O, carve not with thy hours my love's fair brow, That this huge state presenteth nought but shews
Nor draw no lines there with thine antique pen; Whereon the stars in secret influence comment;
Him in thy course untainted do allow, When I perceive that men as plants increase, Cheered and check'd even by the self-same sky; Yet, do thy worst, old Time: despite thy wrong,
For beauty's pattern to succeeding men.
My love shall in my verse ever live young.
A woman's face, with nature's own hand painted, To change your day of youth to sullied night; Hast thou, the master-mistress of my passion; And, all in war with time, for love of you,
A woman's gentle heart, but not acquainted As he takes from you, I engraft you new.
With shifting change, as is false women's fashion
An eye more bright than theirs, less false in rolling XVI.
Gilding the object whereupon it gazeth ; But wherefore do not you a mightier way
A man in hue all hues in his controlling,
Which steals men's eyes, and women's souls amazeth. Make war upon this bloody tyrant, Time ?
And for a woman wert thou first created;
Till nature, as she wrought thee, fell a-doting, Now stand you on the top of happy hours ;
By adding one thing to my purpose nothi
But since she prick'd 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
Who heaven itself for ornament doth use, And you must live, drawn by your own sweet skill. And every fair with his fair doth rehearse ;
Making a couplement of proud compare,
With sun and moon, with earth and sea's rich gem, Who will believe my verse in time to come,
With April's first-born flowers, and all things rare
That heaven's air in this huge rondure hems. If it were fill'd with your most high deserts ? Though yet heaven knows, it is but as a tomb
O let me, true in love, but uuly write,
And then believe me, my love is as fair
As those gold cand):s fix'd in heaven's air : The age to come would say, this poet lies,
Let them say more that like of hcar-say well;
So long as youth and thou are of one date; But were some child of yours alive that time, But when in thee time's furrows I behold, You should live twice ;-in it, and in my rhyme. Then look I death my days should expiate.
For all that beauty that doth cover thee,
Till whatsoever star that guides my moving, Is but the seemly raiment of my heart,
Points on me graciously with fair aspect, Which in thy breast doth live, as thine in me; And puts apparel on my tatter'd loving, How can I then be elder than thou art ?
To shew me worthy of thy sweet respect : O therefore, love, be of thyself so wary,
Then may I dare to boast how I do love thee; As I not for myself but for thee will;
Till then, not shew my head where thou may'st Bearing thy heart, which I will keep so chary
prove me. As tender nurse her babe from faring ill.
Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed,
The dear repose for limbs with travel tir'd;
But ben begins a journey in my head,
Tc work my mind, when body's work's expir'd: Who with his fear is put besides his part,
For then my thoughts (from far where I abide)
Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee,
And keep my drooping eye-lids open wide,
Looking on darkness which the blind do see : heart;
Save that my soul's imaginary sight So I, for fear of trust, forget to say
Presents thy shadow to my sightless view,
Which, like a jewel hung in ghastly night,
Makes black night beauteous,and her old face new. might. 0, let my books be then the eloquence
For thee, and for myself, no quiet find.
When day's oppression is not eas'd by night,
But day by night, and night by day, oppress'd ? To bear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit. And each, though enemies to either's reign,
Do in consent shake hands to torture me;
The one by toil, the other to complain
I tell the day, to please bim, thou art bright,
And dost him grace when clouds do blot the heaven: And perspective it is best painter's art.
So flatter I the swart-complexion'd night;
To find where your true image pictur'd lies ;
That hath his windows glazed with thine eyes. And night doth nightly make grief's length seem Now see what good turns eyes for eyes have done ;
stronger. Mine eyes have drawn thy shape, and thine for me
When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes, Yet eyes this cunning want to grace their art,
I all alone beweep my out-cast state, They draw but what they see, know not the heart.
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,
Featur'd like him, like him with friends possess'd, of public honour and proud titles boast,
Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope, Whilst I, whom fortune of such triumph bars,
With what I most enjoy contented least; Unlook'd for joy in that I honour most.
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising, Great princes' favourites their fair leaves spread,
Haply I think on thee,--and then my state But as the marigold at the sun's eye;
(Like to the lark at break of day arising And in themselves their pride lies buried,
From sullen earth) sings hymns at heaven's gate : For at a frown they in their glory die.
For thy sweet love remember'd, such wealth brings The painful warrior famoused for figh,
That then I scorn to change my state with kings. After a thousand victories once foil'd:
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, Where I may not remove, nor be remov’d.
And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste:
Then can I drown an eye, unus'a to flow,
For precious friends hid in death's dateless night, Lord of my love, to whom in vassalage
And weep afresh love's long-since-cancell'd woe, Thy merit hath my duty strongly knit;
And moan the expense of many a vanish'd sight To thee I send this written embassage,
Then can I grieve at grievances fore-gone, To witness duty, not to shew my wit :
And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er Duty so great, which wit so poor as mine
The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan, May make seem bare, in wanting words to shew it; Which I new pay as if not paid before. But that I hope some good conceit of thine
But if the while I think on thee, dear friend, In thy soul's thought, all naked, will bestow it: All losses are restor'd, and sorrows end.