The Sonnets | Page 5

of that fair thou ow'st,
Nor shall death brag thou
wand'rest in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st,

So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and
this gives life to thee.
19
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.
20
A woman's face with nature's own hand painted,
Hast thou the
master mistress of my passion,
A woman's gentle heart but not
acquainted
With shifting change as is false women's fashion,
An
eye more bright than theirs, less false in rolling:
Gilding the object
whereupon it gazeth,

A man in hue all hues in his controlling,

Which steals men's eyes and women's souls amazeth.
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.
But since she pricked thee out for women's
pleasure,
Mine be thy love and thy love's use their treasure.
21
So is it not with me as with that muse,
Stirred by a painted
beauty to his verse,
Who heaven it self 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,
That heaven's air in this
huge rondure hems.
O let me true in love but truly write,
And then
believe me, my love is as fair,
As any mother's child, though not so
bright
As those gold candles fixed in heaven's air:
Let them say
more that like of hearsay well,
I will not praise that purpose not to
sell.
22
My glass shall not persuade me I am old,
So long as youth and
thou are of one date,
But when in thee time's furrows I behold,

Then look I death my days should expiate.
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 my self, 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 gav'st me thine not to give back again.
23
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,
The perfect ceremony of love's rite,

And in mine
own love's strength seem to decay,
O'ercharged with burthen of mine
own love's might:
O let my looks be then the eloquence,
And dumb
presagers of my speaking breast,
Who plead for love, and look for
recompense,
More than that tongue that more hath more expressed.

O learn to read what silent love hath writ,
To hear with eyes belongs

to love's fine wit.
24
Mine eye hath played the painter and hath stelled,
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 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 this cunning want to grace their art,

They draw but what they see, know not the heart.
25
Let those who are in favour with their stars,
Of public honour
and proud titles boast,
Whilst I whom fortune of such triumph bars

Unlooked 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 foiled,
Is from the book of honour razed quite,
And
all the rest forgot for which he toiled:
Then happy I that love and am
beloved
Where I may not remove nor be removed.
26
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