The Sonnets | Page 6

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 tattered 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.

27
Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed,
The dear respose for
limbs with travel tired,
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 my self, no
quiet find.
28
How can I then return in happy plight
That am debarred the
benefit of rest?
When day's oppression is not eased by night,
But
day by night and night by day oppressed.
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-complexioned
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
29
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 my self and curse my fate,
Wishing me like to
one more rich in hope,
Featured like him, like him with friends
possessed,
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 remembered such wealth brings,
That then
I scorn to change my state with kings.
30
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 cancelled woe,

And moan th' expense of many a vanished 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
restored, and sorrows end.
31
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 removed 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 loved, I view in thee,
And thou (all they) hast all the all of
me.
32
If thou survive my well-contented day,
When that churl death
my bones with dust shall cover
And shalt by fortune once more
re-survey
These poor rude lines of thy deceased lover:
Compare
them with the bett'ring of the time,
And though they be outstripped by
every pen,
Reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme,
Exceeded
by the height of happier men.
O then vouchsafe me but this loving
thought,
'Had my friend's Muse grown with this growing age,
A
dearer birth than this his love had brought
To march in ranks of better
equipage:

But since he died and poets better prove,
Theirs for their
style I'll read, his for his love'.
33
Full many a glorious morning have I seen,
Flatter the mountain
tops with sovereign eye,
Kissing with golden face the meadows green;


Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy:
Anon permit the
basest clouds to ride,
With ugly rack on his celestial face,
And from
the forlorn world his visage hide
Stealing unseen to west with this
disgrace:
Even so my sun one early morn did shine,
With all
triumphant splendour on my brow,
But out alack, he was but one
hour mine,
The region cloud hath masked him from me now.
Yet
him for this, my love no whit disdaineth,
Suns of the world may stain,
when heaven's sun staineth.
34
Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day,
And make me
travel forth without my cloak,
To let base clouds o'ertake me in my
way,
Hiding thy brav'ry in their rotten smoke?
'Tis not enough that