Shakespeares Sonnets | Page 9

or my love,?Thy self away, art present still with me;?For thou not farther than my thoughts canst move,?And I am still with them, and they with thee;?Or, if they sleep, thy picture in my sight?Awakes my heart, to heart's and eye's delight.
XLVIII
How careful was I when I took my way,?Each trifle under truest bars to thrust,?That to my use it might unused stay?From hands of falsehood, in sure wards of trust!?But thou, to whom my jewels trifles are,?Most worthy comfort, now my greatest grief,?Thou best of dearest, and mine only care,?Art left the prey of every vulgar thief.?Thee have I not lock'd up in any chest,?Save where thou art not, though I feel thou art,?Within the gentle closure of my breast,?From whence at pleasure thou mayst come and part;?And even thence thou wilt be stol'n I fear,?For truth proves thievish for a prize so dear.
XLIX
Against that time, if ever that time come,?When I shall see thee frown on my defects,?When as thy love hath cast his utmost sum,?Call'd to that audit by advis'd respects;?Against that time when thou shalt strangely pass,?And scarcely greet me with that sun, thine eye,?When love, converted from the thing it was,?Shall reasons find of settled gravity;?Against that time do I ensconce me here,?Within the knowledge of mine own desert,?And this my hand, against my self uprear,?To guard the lawful reasons on thy part:?To leave poor me thou hast the strength of laws,?Since why to love I can allege no cause.
L
How heavy do I journey on the way,?When what I seek, my weary travel's end,?Doth teach that ease and that repose to say,?'Thus far the miles are measured from thy friend!'?The beast that bears me, tired with my woe,?Plods dully on, to bear that weight in me,?As if by some instinct the wretch did know?His rider lov'd not speed, being made from thee:?The bloody spur cannot provoke him on,?That sometimes anger thrusts into his hide,?Which heavily he answers with a groan,?More sharp to me than spurring to his side;?For that same groan doth put this in my mind,?My grief lies onward, and my joy behind.
LI
Thus can my love excuse the slow offence?Of my dull bearer when from thee I speed:?From where thou art why should I haste me thence??Till I return, of posting is no need.?O! what excuse will my poor beast then find,?When swift extremity can seem but slow??Then should I spur, though mounted on the wind,?In winged speed n:motion shall I know,?Then can no horse with my desire keep pace;?Therefore desire, of perfect'st love being made,?Shall neigh--no dull flesh--in his fiery race;?But love, for love, thus shall excuse my jade,--?'Since from thee going, he went wilful-slow,?Towards thee I'll run, and give him leave to go.'
LII
So am I as the rich, whose blessed key,?Can bring him to his sweet up-locked treasure,?The which he will not every hour survey,?For blunting the fine point of seldom pleasure.?Therefore are feasts so solemn and so rare,?Since, seldom coming in that long year set,?Like stones of worth they thinly placed are,?Or captain jewels in the carcanet.?So is the time that keeps you as my chest,?Or as the wardrobe which the robe doth hide,?To make some special instant special-blest,?By new unfolding his imprison'd pride.?Blessed are you whose worthiness gives scope,?Being had, to triumph; being lacked, to hope.
LIII
What is your substance, whereof are you made,?That millions of strange shadows on you tend??Since every one, hath every one, one shade,?And you but one, can every shadow lend.?Describe Adonis, and the counterfeit?Is poorly imitated after you;?On Helen's cheek all art of beauty set,?And you in Grecian tires are painted new:?Speak of the spring, and foison of the year,?The one doth shadow of your beauty show,?The other as your bounty doth appear;?And you in every blessed shape we know.?In all external grace you have some part,?But you like none, none you, for constant heart.
LIV
O! how much more doth beauty beauteous seem?By that sweet ornament which truth doth give.?The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem?For that sweet odour, which doth in it live.?The canker blooms have full as deep a dye?As the perfumed tincture of the roses.?Hang on such thorns, and play as wantonly?When summer's breath their masked buds discloses:?But, for their virtue only is their show,?They live unwoo'd, and unrespected fade;?Die to themselves. Sweet roses do not so;?Of their sweet deaths, are sweetest odours made:?And so of you, beauteous and lovely youth,?When that shall vade, by verse distills your truth.
LV
Not marble, nor the gilded monuments?Of princes, shall outlive this powerful rhyme;?But you shall shine more bright in these contents?Than unswept stone, besmear'd with sluttish time.?When wasteful war shall statues overturn,?And broils root out the work of masonry,?Nor Mars his sword, nor war's quick fire shall burn?The living record of your memory.?'Gainst death, and all-oblivious enmity?Shall you pace forth; your praise shall still find