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LXXI.

No longer mourn for me when I am dead
Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell
Give warning to the world that I am fled

From this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell:
Nay, if you read this line, remember not
The hand that writ it; for I love you so,
That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot,
If thinking on me then should make you woe.
O if (I say) you look upon this verse,
When I perhaps compounded am with clay,
Do not so much as my poor name rehearse;
But let your love even with my life decay :

Lest the wise world should look into your moan,
And mock you with me after I am gone.

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LXXI. The melancholy train of thought, interrupted to some extent by the last two Sonnets, reappears. As Dowden observes, “The world in this Sonnet is the 'vile world' described in lxvi." In the same Sonnet (lxvi.) the poet had spoken of dying and leaving his "love" alone. The friend is now implored to desist from mourning when the bell ceases to toll. The poet's love for him is so deep that he would not wish him to suffer from prolonged grief. Besides, ridicule might be incurred by any protracted grief for a person so little worthy of consideration.

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2 The surly sullen bell.—The tolling bell is spoken of as "surly" and 'sullen," not so much, perhaps, with reference to what it imports as to the abrupt suddenness of the stroke, and the want of that musical continuity which characterises chimes. Comparison has been made of the "sullen bell" "knolling a departed friend" in 2 Henry IV., Act i, sc. 1, lines 102, 103.

4 Vilest.-Q. has "vildest," according to the old form "vild" or "vilde" for "vile."

10 When I perhaps compounded am with clay.—Somewhat similarly has been compared 2 Henry IV., Act iv. sc. 5, lines 116, 117:—

"Only compound me with forgotten dust;

Give that which gave thee life unto the worms.'

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LXXII.

O, LEST the world should task you to recite
What merit lived in me, that you should love
After my death,-dear love, forget me quite,
For you in me can nothing worthy prove ;
Unless you
would devise some virtuous lie,
To do more for me than mine own desert,
And hang more praise upon deceased I
Than niggard truth would willingly impart;
O, lest your true love may seem false in this,
That you for love speak well of me untrue,
My name be buried where my body is,
And live no more to shame nor me nor you.
For I am sham'd by that which I bring forth,
And so should you, to love things nothing worth.

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LXXII. Continues the subject of the preceding Sonnet. The poet has no merits worthy of deep grief or prolonged remembrance. He feels ashamed of his productions; and his friend ought to have the same feeling.

8 Than niggard truth.-Than strict truth.

9, 10 Lest your true love, &c.-Lest the reality of your love for me should be questioned or denied, when the falsity of your eulogies has been detected.

10 Untrue.-Untruly.

12 And live no more, &c.—Since the poet's name would recall the poet's works.

LXXIII.

THAT time of year thou may'st in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang,
In me thou see'st 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 see'st the glowing of such fire,
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,
As the death-bed whereon it must expire,

Consum'd with that which it was nourish'd by.

This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong
To love that well which thou must leave ere long:

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LXXIII. The poet feels that his age is declining. If life is regarded as a year, its autumn is present with him; if as a day, its evening twilight; if as a fire, glowing ashes alone remain. Death will soon draw the curtain of night over all; but his friend's love is made stronger by anticipations of this approaching end.

3 Which shake against the cold.-Which shake as the cold winds of autumn blow upon them.

4 Bare ruin'd choirs.-The trees on whose branches the birds sang during spring and summer are compared to the ruins of cathedral-choirs, where once were heard the voices of the choristers and the pealing notes of the organ. Q. has "rn'wd quiers."

12 Consum'd with that which it was nourish'd by.—The fire and fuel pass away together.

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LXXIV.

BUT be contented: when that fell arrest
Without all bail shall carry me away,
My life hath in this line some interest,
Which for memorial still with thee shall stay.
When thou reviewest this, thou dost review
The very part was consecrate to thee.

The earth can have but earth, which is his due ;
My spirit is thine, the better part of me :
So then thou hast but lost the dregs of life,
The prey of worms, my body being dead;
The coward conquest of a wretch's knife,
Too base of thee to be remembered.

The worth of that, is that which it contains,
And that is this, and this with thee remains.

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LXXIV. In lxxii. the poet had said that it would be better that both he and his works should be forgotten, neither the one nor the other having just claim to immortality. He now reverts to the thought that his verse will live when he is dead. His spirit and life are there treasured up for "a life beyond life." Death can only prey on "the dregs of life."

1 But be contented.-Looks back to the last line of lxxiii. That fell arrest.—Cf. Hamlet, Act v. sc. 2, lines 347, 348:

"Had I but time (as this fell serjeant Death

Is strict in his arrest), O, I could tell you."

"Fell" means "harsh," "inexorable."

2 Without all bail.--Accepting no bail.

3 My living powers will still express themselves in these poems. Interest. -Property. Cf. xxxi. 7.

6 Cf. Martial, Ep. vii. 84, "Certior in nostro carmine vultus erit." The language of our text is stronger, speaking of the inner man, which is thoroughly identified with the written verse (line 8).

11 The coward conquest of a wretch's knife.-There is no reason whatever for supposing from this line that Shakespeare had encountered highwaymen or assassins to whose violence he had succumbed, and who had left him half-dead. The meaning is, that what of him had not been treasured up in his verse was mean and base, liable to succumb to the assassin's knife.

13 The worth of that.-Of the body. Is that which it contains,―i.e., the spirit (line 8).

14 And that is this.-Identified and incorporated with my verse.

LXXV.

So are you to my thoughts, as food to life,
Or as sweet-season'd showers are to the ground;
And for the peace of you I hold such strife

As 'twixt a miser and his wealth is found:

Now proud as an enjoyer, and anon

Doubting the filching age will steal his treasure;

Now counting best to be with you alone,

Then better'd that the world may see my pleasure:
Sometime, all full with feasting on your sight,

And by-and-by clean starved for a look ;
Possessing or pursuing no delight,

Save what is had or must from you be took.
Thus do I pine and surfeit day by day,
Or gluttoning on all, or all away.

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LXXV. Descants on the preciousness of the treasure which the poet finds in his friend, and probably gives indication of a rising or growing feeling of jealousy with regard to a rival.

2 Sweet-season'd showers.-Showers seasonable and refreshing.

3 The peace of you.-Perhaps best understood as meaning "the peaceable possession of you."

• Doubting the filching age will steal his treasure.-"Perhaps this is the first allusion to the poet, Shakespeare's rival, in his friend's favour." DowDEN.

8 At other times valuing my treasure more when others see what a prize I hold.

10 Clean starved for a look.—Cf. the expression still used "clean gone." 11-14 The poet has no other source of pleasure than that to be found in his friend, whose presence yields the most intense and eagerly enjoyed delight. When his friend is absent "all is away.".

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