The Sonnets

Than that, which on thy humour doth depend.

Thou canst not vex me with inconstant mind,

Since that my life on thy revolt doth lie,

O what a happy title do I find,

Happy to have thy love, happy to die!

But what's so blessed-fair that fears no blot?

Thou mayst be false, and yet I know it not.

93

So shall I live, supposing thou art true,

Like a deceived husband, so love's face,

May still seem love to me, though altered new:

Thy looks with me, thy heart in other place.

For there can live no hatred in thine eye,

Therefore in that I cannot know thy change,

In many's looks, the false heart's history

Is writ in moods and frowns and wrinkles strange. 

But heaven in thy creation did decree,

That in thy face sweet love should ever dwell,

Whate'er thy thoughts, or thy heart's workings be,

Thy looks should nothing thence, but sweetness tell.

How like Eve's apple doth thy beauty grow,

If thy sweet virtue answer not thy show.

94

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,

Unmoved, cold, and to temptation slow:

They rightly do inherit heaven's graces,

And husband nature's riches from expense,

Tibey 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 it self, 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.

95

How sweet and lovely dost thou make the shame,

Which like a canker in the fragrant rose,

Doth spot the beauty of thy budding name!

O in what sweets dost thou thy sins enclose!

That tongue that tells the story of thy days,

(Making lascivious comments on thy sport)

Cannot dispraise, but in a kind of praise,

Naming thy name, blesses an ill report.

O what a mansion have those vices got,

Which for their habitation chose out thee,

Where beauty's veil doth cover every blot,

And all things turns to fair, that eyes can see!

Take heed (dear heart) of this large privilege,

The hardest knife ill-used doth lose his edge.

96 

Some say thy fault is youth, some wantonness,

Some say thy grace is youth and gentle sport,

Both grace and faults are loved of more and less:

Thou mak'st faults graces, that to thee resort:

As on the finger of a throned queen,

The basest jewel will be well esteemed:

So are those errors that in thee are seen,

To truths translated, and for true things deemed.

How many lambs might the stern wolf betray,

If like a lamb he could his looks translate!

How many gazers mightst thou lead away,

if thou wouldst use the strength of all thy state!

But do not so, I love thee in such sort,

As thou being mine, mine is thy good report.

97

How like a winter hath my absence been

From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year!

What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen!

What old December's bareness everywhere! 

And yet this time removed was summer's time,

The teeming autumn big with rich increase,

Bearing the wanton burden of the prime,

Like widowed wombs after their lords' decease:

Yet this abundant issue seemed to me

But hope of orphans, and unfathered fruit,

For summer and his pleasures wait on thee,

And thou away, the very birds are mute.

Or if they sing, 'tis with so dull a cheer,

That leaves look pale, dreading the winter's near.

98

From you have I been absent in the spring,

When proud-pied April (dressed in all his trim)

Hath put a spirit of youth in every thing:

That heavy Saturn laughed and leaped with him.

Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell

Of 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 seemed it winter still, and you away,

As with your shadow I with these did play.

99

The forward violet thus did I chide,

Sweet thief, whence didst thou steal thy sweet that smells,

If not from my love's breath? The purple pride

Which on thy soft check for complexion dwells,

In my love's veins thou hast too grossly dyed.

The lily I condemned for thy hand,

And buds of marjoram had stol'n thy hair,

The roses fearfully on thorns did stand,

One blushing shame, another white despair:

A third nor red, nor white, had stol'n of both,

And to his robbery had annexed thy breath,

But for his theft in pride of all his growth 

A vengeful canker eat him up to death.

More flowers I noted, yet I none could see,

But sweet, or colour it had stol'n from thee.

100

Where art thou Muse that thou forget'st so long,

To speak of that which gives thee all thy might?

Spend'st thou thy fury on some worthless song,

Darkening thy power to lend base subjects light?

Return forgetful Muse, and straight redeem,

In gentle numbers time so idly spent,

Sing to the ear that doth thy lays esteem,

And gives thy pen both skill and argument.

Rise resty Muse, my love's sweet face survey,