Some fresher stamp8 of the time-bett'ring days.
And do so, love, yet when they have devised
What strained10 touches rhetoric can lend,
Thou, truly fair, wert truly sympathized11
In true plain words by thy true-telling friend.
And their gross13 painting might be better used
Where cheeks need blood: in thee it is abused14.
Sonnet 83
I never saw that you did painting1 need,
And therefore to your fair2 no painting set.
I found, or thought I found, you did exceed
The barren tender4 of a poet's debt,
And therefore have I slept in your report5,
That6 you yourself being extant well might show
How far a modern7 quill doth come too short,
Speaking of worth, what worth in you doth grow.
This silence for my sin9 you did impute,
Which shall be most my glory, being dumb,
For I impair not beauty being mute,
When others would12 give life and bring a tomb.
There lives more life in one of your fair eyes
Than both your poets14 can in praise devise.
Sonnet 84
Who is it that says most, which1 can say more
Than this rich praise, that you2 alone are you,
In whose confine immured3 is the store
Which should example where your equal grew4?
Lean penury5 within that pen doth dwell
That to his subject lends not some small glory,
But he that writes of you, if he can tell
That you are you, so dignifies his story8.
Let him but9 copy what in you is writ,
Not making worse what nature made so clear,
And such a counterpart shall fame his wit11,
Making his style admired everywhere.
You to your beauteous blessings add a curse,
Being fond on praise, which makes your praises worse14.
Sonnet 85
My tongue-tied Muse1 in manners holds her still,
While comments of your praise, richly compiled,
Reserve their character3 with golden quill
And precious phrase by all the Muses filed4.
I think good thoughts whilst other write good words,
And like unlettered clerk6 still cry 'Amen'
To every hymn that able spirit affords7
In polished form of well-refined pen.
Hearing you praised, I say, ' 'Tis so, 'tis true',
And to the most of praise add something more:
But that is in my thought, whose love to you,
Though words come hindmost, holds his rank before12.
Then others for the breath of words respect13,
Me for my dumb thoughts, speaking in effect14.
Sonnet 86
Was it the proud full sail of his great verse,
Bound for the prize2 of all-too-precious you,
That did my ripe thoughts in my brain inhearse3,
Making their tomb the womb wherein they grew?
Was it his spirit5, by spirits taught to write
Above a mortal pitch6, that struck me dead?
No, neither he nor his compeers7 by night
Giving him aid, my verse astonished8.
He, nor that affable familiar ghost9
Which nightly gulls10 him with intelligence,
As victors of my silence cannot boast.
I was not sick of any fear from thence,
But when your countenance13 filled up his line,
Then lacked I matter14, that enfeebled mine.
Sonnet 87
Farewell, thou art too dear1 for my possessing,
And like enough thou know'st thy estimate2.
The charter of thy worth3 gives thee releasing,
My bonds4 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 of7 this fair gift in me is wanting,
And so my patent8 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 growing11,
Comes home again, on better judgement making.
Thus have I had thee as a dream doth flatter:
In sleep a king, but waking no such matter14.
Sonnet 88
When thou shalt be disposed to set me light1
And place my merit in the eye of scorn2,
Upon thy side against myself I'll fight
And prove thee virtuous, though thou art forsworn4.
With mine own weakness being best acquainted,
Upon thy part6 I can set down a story
Of faults concealed, wherein I am attainted7,
That8 thou in losing me shalt win much glory:
And I by this will be a gainer too,
For bending10 all my loving thoughts on thee,
The injuries that to myself I do,
Doing thee vantage12, double-vantage me.
Such is my love, to thee I so belong,
That for thy right myself will bear all wrong14.
Sonnet 89
Say that thou didst forsake1 me for some fault
And I will comment upon2 that offence,
Speak of my lameness and I straight will halt3,
Against thy reasons making no defence.
Thou canst not, love, disgrace me half so ill,
To set a form upon desired change6,
As I'll myself disgrace, knowing thy will,
I will acquaintance strangle and look strange8,
Be absent from thy walks9, and in my tongue
Thy sweet beloved name no more shall dwell,
Lest I, too much profane, should do it wrong
And haply12 of our old acquaintance tell.
For thee, against myself I'll vow debate13,
For I must ne'er love him whom thou dost hate.
Sonnet 90
Then1 hate me when thou wilt, if ever, now,
Now, while the world is bent2 my deeds to cross,
Join with the spite of fortune, make me bow,
And do not drop in for an after-loss4.
Ah do not, when my heart hath scaped5 this sorrow,
Come in the rearward of a conquered woe6,
Give not a windy night a rainy morrow
To linger out a purposed overthrow8.
If thou wilt leave me, do not leave me last,
When other petty griefs have done their spite,
But in the onset11 come: so shall I taste
At first the very worst of fortune's might,
And other strains13 of woe, which now seem woe,
Compared with loss of thee will not seem so.
Sonnet 91
Some glory1 in their birth, some in their skill,
Some in their wealth, some in their body's force,
Some in their garments, though new-fangled ill3,
Some in their hawks and hounds, some in their horse,
And every humour5 hath his adjunct pleasure,
Wherein it finds a joy above the rest,
But these particulars are not my measure7:
All these I better8 in one general best.
Thy love is better than high birth to me,
Richer than wealth, prouder than garments' cost10,
Of more delight than hawks or horses be:
And having thee, of all men's pride I boast --
Wretched in this alone, that thou mayst take
All this away and me most wretched make.
Sonnet 92
But1 do thy worst to steal thyself away,
For term of life2 thou art assured mine,
And life no longer than thy love will stay,
For it depends upon that love of thine.
Then
need I not to fear the worst of wrongs5,
When in the least of them my life hath end6.
I see a better state to me belongs
Than that which on thy humour8 doth depend.
Thou canst not vex me with inconstant mind,
Since that my life on thy revolt doth lie10.
O, what a happy11 title do I find,
Happy to have thy love, happy to die.
But what's so blessed-fair13 that fears no blot?
Thou mayst be false14, and yet I know it not.
Sonnet 93
So1 shall I live, supposing thou art true,
Like a deceived husband: so love's face2
May still seem love to me, though altered new3,
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 wrinkles8 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 apple13 doth thy beauty grow,
If thy sweet virtue answer not thy show14.
Sonnet 94
They that have power to hurt and will do none,
That do not do the thing they most do show2,
Who, moving3 others, are themselves as stone,
Unmoved, cold4, and to temptation slow:
They rightly do inherit heaven's graces
And husband nature's riches from expense6.
They are the lords and owners of their faces7,
Others but stewards8 of their excellence.
The summer's flower is to the summer sweet,
Though to itself10 it only live and die,
But if that flower with base11 infection meet,
The basest12 weed outbraves his dignity:
For sweetest things13 turn sourest by their deeds,
Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds14.
Sonnet 95
How sweet and lovely dost thou make the shame
Which, like a canker2 in the fragrant rose,
Doth spot3 the beauty of thy budding name.
O, in what sweets4 dost thou thy sins enclose!
That tongue that tells the story of thy days,
Making lascivious comments on thy sport6,
Cannot dispraise but in a kind of praise:
Naming thy name blesses an ill report.
O, what a mansion9 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 privilege13:
The hardest knife14 ill-used doth lose his edge.
Sonnet 96
Some say thy fault is youth, some wantonness1,
Some say thy grace is youth and gentle2 sport,
Both grace and faults are loved of more and less3:
Thou mak'st faults graces that to thee resort4.
As on the finger of a throned queen
The basest6 jewel will be well esteemed,
So are those errors7 that in thee are seen
To truths8 translated and for true things deemed.
How many lambs might the stem wolf betray,
If like a lamb he could his looks translate10?
How many gazers11 mightst thou lead away,
If thou wouldst use the strength of all thy state12?
But do not so: I love thee in such sort
As, thou being mine, mine is thy good report13.
Sonnet 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 removed5 was summer's time,
The teeming6 autumn, big with rich increase,
Bearing7 the wanton burden of the prime,
Like widowed wombs after their lords'8 decease:
Yet this abundant issue9 seemed to me
But hope of orphans and10 unfathered fruit,
For summer and his pleasures wait11 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.
Sonnet 98
From you have I been absent in the spring,
When proud-pied2 April dressed in all his trim
Hath put a spirit of youth in everything,
That4 heavy Saturn laughed and leaped with him.
Yet nor5 the lays of birds nor the sweet smell
Of different flowers6 in odour and in hue
Could make me any summer's7 story tell,
Or from their proud8 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 but11 sweet, but figures of delight,
Drawn after12 you, you pattern of all those.
Yet seemed it winter still and, you away,
As14 with your shadow I with these did play.
Sonnet 99
The forward1 violet thus did I chide:
Sweet thief, whence didst thou steal thy sweet that smells2,
If not from my love's breath? The purple pride3
Which on thy soft cheek for complexion4 dwells
In my love's veins thou hast too grossly5 dyed.
The lily I condemned for thy hand6,
And buds of marjoram7 had stol'n thy hair:
The roses fearfully on thorns did stand8,
One blushing shame, another white9 despair,
A third, nor red nor white, had stol'n of both
And to his robb'ry had annexed thy breath11:
But for12 his theft, in pride of all his growth,
A vengeful canker13 eat him up to death.
More flowers I noted, yet I none could see
But sweet or colour it had stol'n from thee15.
Sonnet 100
Where art thou, Muse1, that thou forget'st so long
To speak of that which gives thee all thy might?
Spend'st thou thy fury3 on some worthless song,
Dark'ning thy power to lend base subjects light4?
Return, forgetful Muse, and straight5 redeem
In gentle numbers6 time so idly spent,
Sing to the ear that doth thy lays7 esteem
And gives thy pen both skill and argument8.
Rise, resty9 Muse, my love's sweet face survey,
If Time have any wrinkle graven10 there,
If any, be a satire to11 decay
And make Time's spoils12 despised everywhere.
Give my love fame faster than Time wastes life,
So14 thou prevent'st his scythe and crooked knife.
Sonnet 101
O truant Muse1, what shall be thy amends
For thy neglect of truth in beauty dyed2?
Both truth and beauty on my love depends3,
So dost thou too, and therein dignified4.
Make answer, Muse. Wilt thou not haply5 say,
'Truth needs no colour6, with his colour fixed,
Beauty no pencil7, beauty's truth to lay,
But best is best, if never intermixed8'?
Because he needs no praise, wilt thou be dumb?
Excuse not silence so, for't lies in thee10
To make him much outlive a gilded tomb
And to be praised of ages yet to be.
Then do thy office13, Muse. I teach thee how
To make him seem long hence14, as he shows now.
Sonnet 102
My love is
strengthened, though more weak in seeming1:
I love not less, though less the show appear.
That love is merchandised3 whose rich esteeming
The owner's tongue doth publish4 everywhere.
Our love was new and then but in the spring,
When I was wont6 to greet it with my lays,
As Philomel7 in summer's front doth sing
And stops his pipe8 in growth of riper days:
Not that the summer is less pleasant now
Than when her mournful hymns did hush the night,
But that wild11 music burdens every bough,
And sweets12 grown common lose their dear delight.
Therefore, like her, I sometime hold my tongue,
Because I would not dull14 you with my song.
Sonnet 103
Alack, what poverty1 my Muse brings forth,
That having such a scope to show her pride2,
The argument all bare3 is of more worth
Than when it hath my added praise beside.
O, blame me not, if I no more can write.
Look in your glass6, and there appears a face
That overgoes7 my blunt invention quite,
Dulling8 my lines and doing me disgrace.
Were it not sinful then, striving to mend9,
To mar10 the subject that before was well?
For to no other pass11 my verses tend
Than of your graces12 and your gifts to tell.
And more, much more, than in my verse can sit
Your own glass shows you when you look in it.
Sonnet 104
To me, fair friend, you never can be old,
For as you were when first your eye I eyed2,
Such seems your beauty still. Three winters cold
Have from the forests shook three summers' pride4,
Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn turned
In process of the seasons have I seen,
Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burned,
Since first I saw you fresh, which yet are green8.
Ah yet doth beauty, like a dial hand9,
Steal10 from his figure and no pace perceived:
So your sweet hue11, which methinks still doth stand,
Hath motion12 and mine eye may be deceived.
For fear of which, hear this, thou age unbred13:
Ere14 you were born was beauty's summer dead.
Sonnet 105
Let not my love be called idolatry1,
Nor my beloved as an idol show2,
Since3 all alike my songs and praises be
To one4, of one, still such and ever so.
Kind5 is my love today, tomorrow kind,
Still constant in a wondrous excellence.
Therefore my verse to constancy confined,
One thing expressing, leaves out difference.
'Fair9, kind and true' is all my argument,