The Sonnets | Page 4

gracious and kind,
Or to thy self at least kind-hearted prove,
Make
thee another self for love of me,
That beauty still may live in thine or
thee.
11
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 bestow'st,
Thou mayst call thine, when thou from youth
convertest,
Herein lives wisdom, beauty, and increase,
Without this

folly, age, and cold decay,
If all were minded so, the times should
cease,
And threescore year would make the world away:
Let those
whom nature hath not made for store,
Harsh, featureless, and rude,
barrenly perish:
Look whom she best endowed, she gave thee more;

Which bounteous gift thou shouldst in bounty cherish:
She carved
thee for her seal, and meant thereby,
Thou shouldst print more, not let
that copy die.
12
When I do count the clock that tells the time,
And see the brave
day sunk in hideous night,
When I behold the violet past prime,

And sable curls all silvered o'er with white:
When lofty trees I see
barren of leaves,
Which erst from heat did canopy the herd
And
summer's green all girded up in sheaves
Borne on the bier with white
and bristly beard:
Then of thy beauty do I question make
That thou
among the wastes of time must go,
Since sweets and beauties do
themselves forsake,
And die as fast as they see others grow,
And
nothing 'gainst Time's scythe can make defence
Save breed to brave
him, when he takes thee hence.
13
O that you were your self, but love you are
No longer yours,
than you your self 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
Your self again after your self'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.
14
Not from the stars do I my judgement 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 thy self, to store
thou wouldst convert:
Or else of thee this I prognosticate,
Thy end
is truth's and beauty's doom and date.
15
When I consider every thing that grows
Holds in perfection but a
little moment.
That this huge stage presenteth nought but shows

Whereon the stars in secret influence comment.
When I perceive that
men as plants increase,
Cheered and checked 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 this 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.
16
But wherefore do not you a mightier way
Make war upon this
bloody tyrant Time?
And fortify your self 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 your self in eyes of men.
To give
away your self, keeps your self still,
And you must live drawn by
your own sweet skill.
17
Who will believe my verse in time to come
If it were filled with
your most high deserts?
Though yet heaven knows it is but as a tomb


Which hides your life, and shows 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 touched earthly faces.
So should my papers (yellowed

with their age)
Be scorned, like old men of less truth than tongue,

And your true rights be termed 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.
18
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 dimmed,

And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance, or nature's
changing course untrimmed:
But thy eternal summer shall not fade,

Nor lose possession