No rightful plea might plead for justice there : His scarlet lust came evidence to swear, That my poor beauty had purloin'd his eyes: And when the judge is robb'd, the prisoner dies. 'Oh! teach me how to make mine own excuse, Or, at the least, this refuge let me find; Though my gross blood be stain'd with this abuse, Immaculate and spotless is my mind: That was not forced, that never was inclined To accessary yieldings; but still pure Doth in her poison'd closet yet endure.' Lo! here the hopeless merchant of this loss, With head declined, and voice damm'd up with woe, With sad set eyes, and wretched arms across, But wretched as he is, he strives in vain; More feeling painful; let it then suffice To drown one woe, one pair of weeping eyes. 'And for my sake, when I might charm thee so, For she, that was thy Lucrece-now attend me, Be suddenly revenged on my foe; Thine, mine, his own; suppose thou dost defend At this request, with noble disposition, The protestation stops. 'O speak!' quoth she, Here with a sigh, as if her heart would break, says: But more, than he, her poor tongue could not speak, Till after many accents and delays, She utters this, 'He, he, fair lord, 'tis he, Life's lasting date from cancell'd destiny. The murd'rous knife, and as it left the place, Some of her blood still pure and red remain'd, And some look'd black, and that false Tarquin stain'd. About the mourning and congealed face We are their offspring, and they none of ours. 'O! Time, cease thou thy course, and last no longer, If they surcease to be, that should survive : Till manly shame bids him possess his breath, The deep vexation of his inward soul Who mad, that sorrow should his use controul, That no man could distinguish what he said. Then son and father weep with equal strife, The one doth call her his, the other his; He weeps for her, for she was only mine, And only must be wail'd by Collatine.' 'O!' quoth Lucretius, 'I did give that life, Which she too early and too late hath spill'd.' 'Woe! woe!' quoth Collatine, 'she was my wife, I own'd her, and 'tis mine that she hath kill'd. My daughter and my wife with clamours fill'd The dispersed air, who holding Lucrece' life, Answer'd their cries, my daughter, and my wife.' Brutus, who pluck'd the knife from Lucrece' side, Seeing such emulation in their woe, Began to clothe his wit in state and pride, Burying in Lucrece' wound his folly's show; He with the Romans was esteemed so, As silly jeering ideots are with kings, For sportive words, and uttering foolish things. But now he throws that shallow habit by, Wherein deep policy did him disguise, And arm'd his long-hid wits advisedly, To check the tears in Collatinus' eyes. "Thou wronged lord of Rome,' quoth he, arise: Let my unsounded self, supposed a fool, Now set thy long-experienced wit to school. Why, Collatine, is woe the cure for woe? Do wounds help wounds, or grief help grievous deeds? Is it revenge to give thyself a blow (Since Rome herself doth stand in them disgraced) By our strong arms from forth her fair streets chased. 'Now by the capitol that we adore, And by this chastę blood so unjustly stain'd, By all our country's rights in Rome maintain'd! When they had sworn to this advised doom, When forty winters shall besiege thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed 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 deserved thy beauty's use, * i. e. Thomas Thorpe, in whose name the Son-If thou couldst answer- -'This fair child of mine. nets were first entered in Stationers' Hall. Shall sum my count, and make my old excuse-' Proving his beauty by succession thine? This were to be new made when thou art old, And 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. IV. 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 unused beauty must be tomb'd with thee, Which used lives thy executor to be. V. Those hours, that with gentle work did frame, The lovely gaze where every eye doth dwell, Will play the tyrants to the very same, And that unfair, which fairly doth excell; For never-resting time leads summer on Beauty o'ersnow'd, and bareness every where: Nor it, nor no remembrance what it was. sweet. VI. Then let not winter's ragged hand deface In thee thy summer, e'er thou be distill'd: Make sweet some phial, treasure thou some place With beauty's treasure, ere it be self-kill'd. That use is not forbidden usury, Which happies those that pay the willing loan; That's for thyself to breed another thee, Or ten times happier, be it ten for one; Ten times thyself were happier than thou art, If ten of thine ten times refigured thee: Then, what could death do, if thou shouldst depart, Leaving thee living in posterity? Be not self-will'd, for thou art much too fair To be death's conquest, and make worms thine heir. VII. Lo, in the orient when the gracious light Lifts up his burning head, each under eye Doth homage to his new-appearing sight, Serving with looks his sacred majesty; And having climb'd the steep-up heavenly hill, Resembling strong youth in his middle age, Yet mortal looks adore his beauty still, Attending on his golden pilgrimage; But when from high-most pitch, with weary car, Like feeble age, he reeleth from the day, The eyes, 'fore duteous, now converted are From his low tract, and look another way; So thou, thyself out-going in thy noon, Unlook'd on diest, unless thou get a son. VIII. Music to hear, why hear'st thou music sadly? Sweets with sweets war not, joy delights in joy. Why lovest thou that which thou receivest not gladly? Or else receivest with pleasure thine annoy?, Mark how one string, sweet husband to another, Strikes each in each by mutual ordering; 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.' ` IX. Is it for fear to wet a widow's eye, The world will be thy widow and still weep, And kept unused, the user so destroys it. No love toward others in that bosom sits, That on himself such murderous shame commits. X. For shame! deny that thou bear'st love to any, Who for thyself art so unprovident. Grant if thou wilt, thou art beloved of many, But that thou none lovest, is most evident: For thou art so possess'd with murderous hate, That 'gainst thyself thou stick'st not to conspire, Seeking that beauteous roof to ruinate, Which to repair should be thy chief desire. O change thy thought, that I may change my mind! Shall hate be fairer lodged than gentle love? Or to thyself, at least, kind-hearted prove: As fast as thou shalt wane, so fast thou grow'st In one of thine, from that which thou departest; And that fresh blood which youngly thou be stow'st, Thou may'st call thine, when thou from youth 1 Which bounteous gift thou shouldst in bounty| cherish: She carved thee for her seal, and meant thereby When I do count the clock that tells the time, Save breed, to brave him, when he takes thee hence. XIII. O that you were yourself! but, love, you are No longer your's, than you yourself here live: Against this coming end you should prepare, And your sweet semblance to some other give. So should that beauty which you hold in lease, Find no determination: then you were Yourself again, after yourself's decease, 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, And barren rage of death's eternal cold? O! none but unthrifts :-Dear my love, you know You had a father; let your son say so. XIV. Not from the stars do I my judgment pluck; And yet methinks I have astronomy, But not to tell of good, or evil luck, Of plagues, of dearths, or seasons' quality: Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell, Pointing to each his thunder, rain and wind; Or say, with princes if it shall go well, By oft predict that I in heaven find: But from thine eyes my knowledge I derive, And (constant stars) in them I read such art, As truth and beauty shall together thrive, If from thyself to store thou wouldst convert: Or else of thee this I prognosticate, Thy end is truth's and beauty's doom and date. XV. When I consider every thing that grows Holds in perfection but a little moment, That this huge state presenteth nought but shows Whereon the stars in secret influence comment: When I perceive that men as plants increase, Cheer'd and check'd even by the self-same sky: Vaunt in their youthful sap, at height decrease, And wear their brave state out of memory; Then the conceit of his inconstant stay Sets you most rich in youth before my sight, Where wasteful time debateth with decay, To change your day of youth to sullied night; And, all in war with time, for love of you, As he takes from you, I engraft you new. XVI. But wherefore do not you a mightier way Make war upon this bloody tyrant, Time? And fortify yourself in your decay With means more blessed than my barren rhyme? Now stand you on the top of happy hours; And many maiden gardens yet unset, With virtuous wish would bear you living flowers, 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, Can make you live yourself in eyes of men. To give away yourself, keeps yourself still; And you must live, drawn by your own sweet skill. XVII. Who will believe my verse in time to come, If it were fill'd with your most high deserts? Though yet heaven knows, it is but as a tomb Which hides your life, and shews not half your parts. If I could write the beauty of your eyes, And in fresh numbers number all your graces, The age to come would say, this poet lies, Such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces. So should my papers, yellowed 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, And stretched metre of an antique song: But were some child of yours alive that time, You should live twice;-in it, and in my rhyme. 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: Sometimes 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 natur'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. XIX. Devouring Time, blunt thou the lion's paws, And make the earth devour her own sweet brood; Pluck the keen teeth from the fierce tiger's jaws, And burn the long lived phoenix in her blood; Make glad and sorry seasons as thou fleet'st, And do whate'er thou wilt, swift-footed Time, To the wide world, and all her fading sweets; But I forbid thee one most heinous crime; O carve not with thy hours my love's fair brow, Nor draw no lines there with thine antique pen; Him in thy course untainted do allow, For beauty's pattern to succeeding men. Yet, do thy worst, old Time: despite thy wrong, My love shall in my verse ever live young. XX. A woman's face, with nature's own hand painted, Gilding the object whereupon it gazeth; And for a woman wert thou first created: Till nature, as she wrought thee, fell a-doting, And by addition me of thee defeated, By adding one thing to my purpose nothing. Great princes' favourites their fair leaves spread, But since she prick'd thee out for women's plea- But as the marigold at the sun's eye; And in themselves their pride lies buried, sure, Mine be thy love, and thy love's use their trea-For at a frown they in their glory die. sure. XXI. So it is not with me, as with that muse, Stirr'd by a painted beauty to his verse; Who heaven itself for ornament doth use, And every fair with his fair doth rehearse; Making a couplement of proud compare, With sun and moon, with earth and sea's rich gems, With April's first-born flowers, and all things rare My glass shall not persuade me, I am old, For all that beauty that doth cover thee, Is but the seemly raiment of my heart, Which in thy breast doth live, as thine in me; How can I then be elder than thou art? O therefore, love, be of thyself so wary, As I not for myself but for thee will; Bearing thy heart, which I will keep so chary, As tender nurse her babe from faring ill. Presume not on thy heart when mine is slain; Thou gavest me thine, not to give back again. XXIII. As an unperfect actor on the stage, Who with his fear is put beside his part, Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage, Whose strength's abundance weakens his own heart; So I, for fear of trust, forget to say O learn to read what silent love hath writ: The painful warrior famoused for fight, And all the rest forgot for which he toil'd. Lord of my love, to whom in vassalage Duty so great, which wit so poor as mine To show me worthy of thy sweet respect. Then may I dare to boast how I do love thee, Till then, not show my head where thou may'st prove me. XXVII. Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed, The dear repose for limbs with travel tired; But then begins a journey in my head, To work my mind, when body's work's expired: 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. Save that my soul's imaginary sight Presents thy shadow to my sightless view, Which, like a jewel hung in ghastly night, Makes black night beauteous, and her old face new. Lo thus by day my limbs, by night my mind, How can I then return in happy plight, Mine eye hath play'd the painter, and hath steel'd Thy beauty's form in table of my heart; My body is the frame wherein 'tis held, And perspective it is best painter's art. For through the painter must yon see his skill, To find where your true image pictured lies, Which in my bosom's shop is hanging still, That hath his windows glazed with thine eyes. Now see what good turns eyes for eyes have done; 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; Yet eyes his cunning want to grace their art, They draw but what they see, know not the heart. XXV. Let those who are in favour with their stars, Of public honour and proud titles boast, Whilst I, whom fortune of such triumph bars, Unlook'd for joy in that I honour most. I tell the day, to please him, thou art bright, And dost him grace when clouds do blot the heaven: So flatter I the swart-complexion'd night; even. But day doth daily draw my sorrows longer, And night doth nightly make grief's length seem stronger. I XXIX. When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes, all alone beweep my out-cast state, 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, Featured like him, like him with friends possess'd, Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope, With what I most enjoy contented least: Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising, Haply I think on thee,-and then my state (Like to the lark at break of day arising |