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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,
They did conclude to bear dead Lucrece thence;
To shew her bleeding body thorough Rome,
And so to publish Tarquin's foul offence :
Which being done with speedy diligence,
The Romans plausibly did give consent
To Tarquin's everlasting beuishment.



MR. W. H.




T. T.

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.
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 gaz'd on now,

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 ?
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, remember'd 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 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.
Beauty's effect with beauty were bereti,
Nor it, nor no remembrance what it was:

For shame! deny that thou bear’st love to any,
But flowers distill’d, though they with winter meet,

Who for thyself art so unprovident.
Leese but their shew; their substance still lives sweet. Grant if thou wilt, thou art belov'd of many,

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,
Which happies those that pay the willing loan; Or to thyself, at least, kind-hearted prove :
That's for thyself to breed another thee,

Make thee another self, for love of me,
Or ten times happier, be it ten for one; That beauty still may live in thine or thee.
Ten times thyself were happier than thou art,
If ten of thine ten times refigur'd thee:

Then what could death do, if thou should'st depart,
Leaving thee living in posterity ?

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

convertest. VII.

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.
The eyes, 'fore duteous, now converted are
From his low tract, and look an ber way:

So ihou, thyself out-going in thy noon,
Unlook'd on diest, unless thou get a son.

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.
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."

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,

Which husbandry in honour might uphold,
Against the stormy gusts of winter's day,

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
And barren rage of death's eternal cold ?

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,
Or say, with princes if it shall go well,

So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
By oft predict that I in heaven find:
But from ihine eyes my knowledge I derive,

And (constant stars) in them I read such art,
As truth and beauty shall together thrive,

Devouring Time, blunt thou the lion's paws,
If from thyself to store thou would'st convert: And make the earth devour her own sweet brood ;
Or else of thee this I prognosticate,

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.
Vaunt in their youthful sap, at height decrease,

My love shall in my verse ever live young.
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,

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;
And fortify yourself in your decay
With means more blessed than my barren rhyme? And by addition me of thee defeated,

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
And many maiden gardens, yet unset,
With virtuous wish would bear you living flowers,

But since she prick'd thee out for women's pleasure,

Mine be thy love, and thy love's use their treasure.
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,

So is it not with me, as with that muse
Can make you live yourself in eyes of men. Stirr'd by a painted beauty to his verse;
To give away yourself, keeps yourself still;

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,
Which hides your life,and shows not half your parts. As any mother's child, laough not so bright

And then believe me, my love is as fair
If I could write the beauty of your eyes,
And in fresh numbers number all your graces,

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;
Such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces. I will not praise, that purpose not to sell.
So should my papers, yellow'd with their age,

Be scorn'd, like old men of less truth than tongue;
And your true rights be term’d a poet's rage, My glass shall not persuade me I am old,
And stretched metre of an antique song :

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.

Presume not on thy heart, when mine is slain;
Thou gav'st me thine, not to give back again.

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,
As an unperfect actor on the stage,

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,
Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage,
Whose strength’s abundance weakens his own

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,
The perfect ceremony of love's rite,

Which, like a jewel hung in ghastly night,
And in mine own love's strength seem to decay,
O'er-chargʻd with burthen of mine own love's Lo thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind,

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.
And dumb presagers of my speaking breast;

Who plead for love, and look for recompence, How can I then return in happy plight,
More than that tongue that more hath more ex- That am debarr'd the benefit of rest?

When day's oppression is not eas'd by night,
O, learn to read what silent love hath writ:

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
Mine eye hath play'd the painter, and hath steel'd How far I toil, still farther off from thee.
Thy beauty's form in table of my heart;

I tell the day, to please bim, thou art bright,
My body is the frame wherein 'tis held,

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;
For through the painter must you see his skill, When sparkling stars twire not, thou gild'st the

To find where your true image pictur'd lies ;
Which in my bosom's shop is hanging still, But day doth daily draw my sorrows longer,

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

Are windows to my breast, where-through the sun
Delights to peep, to gaze therein on thee;

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,
Let those who are in favour with their stars,

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:

Is from the book of honour razed quite,

When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
And all the rest forgot for which he toil'd.
Then happy I, that love and am belov'd,

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.


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