The Sonnets | Page 7

through the cloud thou break,
To dry the rain on my storm-beaten
face,
For no man well of such a salve can speak,
That heals the
wound, and cures not the disgrace:
Nor can thy shame give physic to
my grief,
Though thou repent, yet I have still the loss,
Th' offender's
sorrow lends but weak relief
To him that bears the strong offence's
cross.
Ah but those tears are pearl which thy love sheds,
And they
are rich, and ransom all ill deeds.
35
No more be grieved at that which thou hast done,
Roses have
thorns, and silver fountains mud,
Clouds and eclipses stain both
moon and sun,
And loathsome canker lives in sweetest bud.
All
men make faults, and even I in this,
Authorizing thy trespass with
compare,
My self corrupting salving thy amiss,
Excusing thy sins
more than thy sins are:
For to thy sensual fault I bring in sense,
Thy
adverse party is thy advocate,
And 'gainst my self a lawful plea
commence:
Such civil war is in my love and hate,
That I an
accessary needs must be,
To that sweet thief which sourly robs from
me.
36
Let me confess that we two must be twain,
Although our
undivided loves are one:
So shall those blots that do with me remain,

Without thy help, by me be borne alone.
In our two loves there is

but one respect,
Though in our lives a separable spite,
Which
though it alter not love's sole effect,
Yet doth it steal sweet hours
from love's delight.
I may not evermore acknowledge thee,
Lest my
bewailed guilt should do thee shame,
Nor thou with public kindness
honour me,
Unless thou take that honour from thy name:
But do not
so, I love thee in such sort,
As thou being mine, mine is thy good
report.
37
As a decrepit father takes delight,
To see his active child do
deeds of youth,
So I, made lame by Fortune's dearest spite
Take all
my comfort of thy worth and truth.
For whether beauty, birth, or
wealth, or wit,
Or any of these all, or all, or more
Entitled in thy
parts, do crowned sit,
I make my love engrafted to this store:
So
then I am not lame, poor, nor despised,
Whilst that this shadow doth
such substance give,
That I in thy abundance am sufficed,
And by a
part of all thy glory live:
Look what is best, that best I wish in thee,

This wish I have, then ten times happy me.
38
How can my muse want subject to invent
While thou dost
breathe that pour'st into my verse,
Thine own sweet argument, too
excellent,
For every vulgar paper to rehearse?
O give thy self the
thanks if aught in me,
Worthy perusal stand against thy sight,
For
who's so dumb that cannot write to thee,
When thou thy self dost give
invention light?
Be thou the tenth Muse, ten times more in worth

Than those old nine which rhymers invocate,
And he that calls on
thee, let him bring forth
Eternal numbers to outlive long date.
If my
slight muse do please these curious days,
The pain be mine, but thine
shall be the praise.
39
O how thy worth with manners may I sing,

When thou art all the
better part of me?
What can mine own praise to mine own self bring:

And what is't but mine own when I praise thee?
Even for this, let
us divided live,
And our dear love lose name of single one,
That by
this separation I may give:
That due to thee which thou deserv'st

alone:
O absence what a torment wouldst thou prove,
Were it not
thy sour leisure gave sweet leave,
To entertain the time with thoughts
of love,
Which time and thoughts so sweetly doth deceive.
And that
thou teachest how to make one twain,
By praising him here who doth
hence remain.
40
Take all my loves, my love, yea take them all,
What hast thou
then more than thou hadst before?
No love, my love, that thou mayst
true love call,
All mine was thine, before thou hadst this more:

Then if for my love, thou my love receivest,
I cannot blame thee, for
my love thou usest,
But yet be blamed, if thou thy self deceivest
By
wilful taste of what thy self refusest.
I do forgive thy robbery gentle
thief
Although thou steal thee all my poverty:
And yet love knows
it is a greater grief
To bear greater wrong, than hate's known injury.

Lascivious grace, in whom all ill well shows,
Kill me with spites
yet we must not be foes.
41
Those pretty wrongs that liberty commits,
When I am sometime
absent from thy heart,
Thy beauty, and thy years full well befits,

For still temptation follows where thou art.
Gentle thou art, and
therefore to be won,
Beauteous thou art, therefore to be assailed.

And when a woman woos, what woman's son,
Will sourly leave her
till he have prevailed?
Ay me, but yet thou mightst my seat forbear,

And chide thy beauty, and thy straying youth,
Who lead thee in
their riot even there
Where thou art forced to break a twofold truth:

Hers by thy beauty tempting her to thee,
Thine by thy beauty being
false to me.
42
That thou hast her it is not all my grief,
And yet it may be said I