ShakeWilliam Shakespeare
"Love looks not with the
eyes, but with the mind;
And therefore is winged
Cupid painted blind."
S Sonnetspeare
XVIII.
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
fade
Nor lose possession of that fair
thou owest;
Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st
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.
LXXIII
That time of year thou mayst in me
behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few,
do hang
Upon those boughs which shake
against the cold,
Bare ruines choirs, where late the
sweet birds
sang.
In me thou seest the twilight of
such day
As 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 seest the glowing of such
fire
That on the ashes of his youth doth
lie,
As the deathbed whereon it must
expire,
Consumed with that wich it was
nourished by.
This thou preceivest, which makes
thy love more strong,
To love that well which thou must
leave ere long.
THE PASSIONATE PILGRIM
I.
WHEN my love swears that she is made
of truth,
I do believe her, though I know she
lies,
That she might think me some
untutor'd youth,
Unskilful in the world's false
forgeries.
Thus vainly thinking that she thinks
me young,
Although I know my years be past the
best,
I smiling credit her false-speaking
tongue,
Outfacing faults in love with love's
ill rest.
But wherefore says my love that she
is young?
And wherefore say not I that I am
old?
O, love's best habit is a soothing
tongue,
And age, in love, loves not to have
years told.
Therefore I'll lie with love, and
love with me,
Since that our faults in love thus
smother'd be.
II.
Two loves I have, of comfort and
despair,
That like two spirits do suggest me
still;
My better angel is a man right
fair,
My worser spirit a woman colour'd
ill.
To win me soon to hell, my female
evil
Tempteth my better angel from my
side,
And would corrupt my saint to be a
devil,
Wooing his purity with her fair
pride.
And whether that my angel be turn'd
fiend,
Suspect I may, yet not directly
tell:
For being both to me, both to each
friend,
I guess one angel in another's
hell;
The truth I shall not know, but live
in doubt,
Till my bad angel fire my good one
out.
III.
Did not the heavenly rhetoric of
thine eye,
'Gainst whom the world could not
hold argument,
Persuade my heart to this false
perjury?
Vows for thee broke deserve not
punishment.
A woman I forswore; but I will
prove,
Thou being a goddess, I forswore not
thee:
My vow was earthly, thou a heavenly
love;
Thy grace being gain'd cures all
disgrace in me.
My vow was breath, and breath a
vapour is;
Then, thou fair sun, that on this
earth doth shine,
Exhale this vapour vow; in thee it
is:
If broken, then it is no fault of
mine.
If by me broke, what fool is not so
wise
To break an oath, to win a
paradise?
IV.
Sweet Cytherea, sitting by a
brook
With young Adonis, lovely, fresh,
and green,
Did court the lad with many a lovely
look,
Such looks as none could look but
beauty's queen.
She told him stories to delight his
ear;
She showed him favors to allure his
eye;
To win his heart, she touch'd him
here and there,--
Touches so soft still conquer
chastity.
But whether unripe years did want
conceit,
Or he refused to take her figured
proffer,
The tender nibbler would not touch
the bait,
But smile and jest at every gentle
offer:
Then fell she on her back, fair
queen, and toward:
He rose and ran away; ah, fool too
froward!
V.
If love make me forsworn, how shall
I swear to love?
O never faith could hold, if not to
beauty vow'd:
Though to myself forsworn, to thee
I'll constant prove;
Those thoughts, to me like oaks, to
thee like osiers bow'd.
Study his bias leaves, and makes his
book thine eyes,
Where all those pleasures live that
art can comprehend.
If knowledge be the mark, to know
thee shall suffice;
Well learned is that tongue that
well can thee commend;
All ignorant that soul that sees
thee without wonder;
Which is to me some praise, that I
thy parts admire:
Thine eye Jove's lightning seems,
thy voice his dreadful
thunder,
Which, not to anger bent, is music
and sweet fire.
Celestial as thou art, O do not love
that wrong,
To sing heaven's praise with such an
earthly tongue.
VI.
Scarce had the sun dried up the dewy
morn,
And scarce the herd gone to the
hedge for shade,
When Cytherea, all in love
forlorn,
A longing tarriance for Adonis
made
Under an osier growing by a
brook,
A brook where Adon used to cool his
spleen:
Hot was the day; she hotter that did
look
For his approach, that often there
had been.
Anon he comes, and throws his mantle
by,
And stood stark naked on the brook's
green brim:
The sun look'd on the world with
glorious eye,
Yet not so wistly as this queen on
him.
He, spying her, bounced in, whereas
he stood:
'O Jove,' quoth she, 'why was not I
a flood!'
VII.
Fair is my love, but not so fair as
fickle;
Mild as a dove, but neither true nor
trusty;
Brighter than glass, and yet, as
glass is, brittle;
Softer than wax, and yet, as iron,
rusty:
A lily pale, with damask dye to
grace her,
None fairer, nor none falser to
deface her.
Her lips to mine how often hath she
joined,
Between each kiss her oaths of true
love swearing!
How many tales to please me hath she
coined,
Dreading my love, the loss thereof
still fearing!
Yet in the midst of all her pure
protestings,
Her faith, her oaths, her tears, and
all were jestings.
She burn'd with love, as straw with
fire flameth;
She burn'd out love, as soon as
straw outburneth;
She framed the love, and yet she
foil'd the framing;
She bade love last, and yet she fell
a-turning.
Was this a lover, or a lecher
whether?
Bad in the best, though excellent in
neither.
VIII.
If music and sweet poetry
agree,
As they must needs, the sister and
the brother,
Then must the love be great 'twixt
thee and me,
Because thou lovest the one, and I
the other.
Dowland to thee is dear, whose
heavenly touch
Upon the lute doth ravish human
sense;
Spenser to me, whose deep conceit is
such
As, passing all conceit, needs no
defence.
Thou lovest to hear the sweet
melodious sound
That Phoebus' lute, the queen of
music, makes;
And I in deep delight am chiefly
drown'd
When as himself to singing he
betakes.
One god is god of both, as poets
feign;
One knight loves both, and both in
thee remain.
IX.
Fair was the morn when the fair
queen of love,
[ ]
Paler for sorrow than her milk-white
dove,
For Adon's sake, a youngster proud
and wild;
Her stand she takes upon a steep-up
hill:
Anon Adonis comes with horn and
hounds;
She, silly queen, with more than
love's good will,
Forbade the boy he should not pass
those grounds:
'Once,' quoth she, 'did I see a fair
sweet youth
Here in these brakes deep-wounded
with a boar,
Deep in the thigh, a spectacle of
ruth!
See, in my thigh,' quoth she, 'here
was the sore.'
She showed hers: he saw more wounds
than one,
And blushing fled, and left her all
alone.
X.
Sweet rose, fair flower, untimely
pluck'd, soon vaded,
Pluck'd in the bud, and vaded in the
spring!
Bright orient pearl, alack, too
timely shaded!
Fair creature, kill'd too soon by
death's sharp sting!
Like a green plum that hangs upon a
tree,
And falls, through wind, before the
fall should be.
I weep for thee, and yet no cause I
have;
For why thou left'st me nothing in
thy will:
And yet thou left'st me more than I
did crave;
For why I craved nothing of thee
still:
O yes, dear friend, I pardon crave
of thee,
Thy discontent thou didst bequeath
to me.
XI.
Venus, with young Adonis sitting by
her
Under a myrtle shade, began to woo
him:
She told the youngling how god Mars
did try her,
And as he fell to her, so fell she
to him.
'Even thus,' quoth she, 'the warlike
god embraced me,'
And then she clipp'd Adonis in her
arms;
'Even thus,' quoth she, 'the warlike
god unlaced me,'
As if the boy should use like loving
charms;
'Even thus,' quoth she, 'he seized
on my lips,'
And with her lips on his did act the
seizure:
And as she fetched breath, away he
skips,
And would not take her meaning nor
her pleasure.
Ah, that I had my lady at this
bay,
To kiss and clip me till I run
away!
XII.
Crabbed age and youth cannot live
together:
Youth is full of pleasance, age is
full of care;
Youth like summer morn, age like
winter weather;
Youth like summer brave, age like
winter bare.
Youth is full of sport, age's breath
is short;
Youth is nimble, age is lame;
Youth is hot and bold, age is weak
and cold;
Youth is wild, and age is
tame.
Age, I do abhor thee; youth, I do
adore thee;
O, my love, my love is young!
Age, I do defy thee: O, sweet
shepherd, hie thee,
For methinks thou stay'st too
long,
XIII.
Beauty is but a vain and doubtful
good;
A shining gloss that vadeth
suddenly;
A flower that dies when first it
gins to bud;
A brittle glass that's broken
presently:
A doubtful good, a gloss, a glass, a
flower,
Lost, vaded, broken, dead within an
hour.
And as goods lost are seld or never
found,
As vaded gloss no rubbing will
refresh,
As flowers dead lie wither'd on the
ground,
As broken glass no cement can
redress,
So beauty blemish'd once's for ever
lost,
In spite of physic, painting, pain
and cost.
XIV.
Good night, good rest. Ah, neither
be my share:
She bade good night that kept my
rest away;
And daff'd me to a cabin hang'd with
care,
To descant on the doubts of my
decay.
'Farewell,' quoth she, 'and come
again tomorrow:'
Fare well I could not, for I supp'd
with sorrow.
Yet at my parting sweetly did she
smile,
In scorn or friendship, nill I
construe whether:
'T may be, she joy'd to jest at my
exile,
'T may be, again to make me wander
thither:
'Wander,' a word for shadows like
myself,
As take the pain, but cannot pluck
the pelf.
XV.
Lord, how mine eyes throw gazes to
the east!
My heart doth charge the watch; the
morning rise
Doth cite each moving sense from
idle rest.
Not daring trust the office of mine
eyes,
While Philomela sits and sings, I
sit and mark,
And wish her lays were tuned like
the lark;
For she doth welcome daylight with
her ditty,
And drives away dark dismal-dreaming
night:
The night so pack'd, I post unto my
pretty;
Heart hath his hope, and eyes their
wished sight;
Sorrow changed to solace, solace
mix'd with sorrow;
For why, she sigh'd and bade me come
tomorrow.
Were I with her, the night would
post too soon;
But now are minutes added to the
hours;
To spite me now, each minute seems a
moon;
Yet not for me, shine sun to succor
flowers!
Pack night, peep day; good day, of
night now borrow:
Short, night, to-night, and length
thyself tomorrow.
About me
Words from the heart
My beautiful boy
The kindest of souls
Words by my favourite writers
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