Shakespeares Sonnets | Page 6

with eyes belongs to love's fine wit.
XXIV
Mine eye hath play'd the painter and hath stell'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 you see his skill,?To find where your true image pictur'd 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 this 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.?Great princes' favourites their fair leaves spread?But as the marigold at the sun's eye,?And in themselves their pride lies buried,?For at a frown they in their glory die.?The painful warrior famoused for fight,?After a thousand victories once foil'd,?Is from the book of honour razed quite,?And all the rest forgot for which he toil'd:?Then happy I, that love and am belov'd,?Where I may not remove nor be remov'd.
XXVI
Lord of my love, to whom in vassalage?Thy merit hath my duty strongly knit,?To thee I send this written embassage,?To witness duty, not to show my wit:?Duty so great, which wit so poor as mine?May make seem bare, in wanting words to show it,?But that I hope some good conceit of thine?In thy soul's thought, all naked, will bestow it:?Till whatsoever star that guides my moving,?Points on me graciously with fair aspect,?And puts apparel on my tatter'd loving,?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 mayst prove me.
XXVII
Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed,?The dear respose for limbs with travel tir'd;?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 eyelids 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,?For thee, and for myself, no quiet find.
XXVIII
How can I then return in happy plight,?That am debarre'd the benefit of rest??When day's oppression is not eas'd by night,?But day by night and night by day oppress'd,?And each, though enemies to either's reign,?Do in consent shake hands to torture me,?The one by toil, the other to complain?How far I toil, still farther off from thee.?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,?When sparkling stars twire not thou gild'st the even.?But day doth daily draw my sorrows longer,?And night doth nightly make grief's length seem stronger.
XXIX
When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes?I all alone beweep my outcast 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,?Featur'd 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 my self almost despising,?Haply I think on thee,-- and then my state,?Like to the lark at break of day arising?From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate,;?For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings?That then I scorn to change my state with kings.
XXX
When to the sessions of sweet silent thought?I summon up remembrance of things past,?I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,?And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste:?Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow,?For precious friends hid in death's dateless night,?And weep afresh love's long since cancell'd woe,?And moan the expense of many a vanish'd sight:?Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,?And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er?The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan,?Which I new pay as if not paid before.?But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,?All losses are restor'd and sorrows end.
XXXI
Thy bosom is endeared with all hearts,?Which I by lacking have supposed dead;?And there reigns Love, and all Love's loving parts,?And all those friends which I thought buried.?How many a holy and obsequious tear?Hath dear religious love stol'n from mine eye,?As interest of the dead, which now appear?But things remov'd that hidden in thee lie!?Thou art the grave where buried love doth live,?Hung with the trophies of my lovers gone,?Who all their parts of me to thee did give,?That due of many now is thine alone:?Their images I lov'd,