The Sonnets | Page 9

on thy part,
To leave poor me,
thou hast the strength of laws,
Since why to love, I can allege no
cause.
50
How heavy do I journey on the way,
When what I seek (my
weary travel's end)
Doth teach that case 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 loved 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.
51
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 no
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.
52
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 imprisoned pride.
Blessed are
you whose worthiness gives scope,
Being had to triumph, being
lacked to hope.
53
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.
54
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 unwooed, 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.
55
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, besmeared 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 room,
Even in the
eyes of all posterity
That wear this world out to the ending doom.

So till the judgment that your self arise,
You live in this, and dwell in
lovers' eyes.
56
Sweet love renew thy force, be it not said
Thy edge should
blunter be than appetite,
Which but to-day by feeding is allayed,

To-morrow sharpened in his former might.
So love be thou, although
to-day thou fill
Thy hungry eyes, even till they wink with fulness,

To-morrow see again, and do not kill
The spirit of love, with a
perpetual dulness:
Let this sad interim like the ocean be
Which
parts the shore, where two contracted new,
Come daily to the banks,
that when they see:
Return of love, more blest may be the view.
Or
call it winter, which being full of care,
Makes summer's welcome,
thrice more wished, more rare.
57
Being your slave what should I do but tend,
Upon the hours, and
times of your desire?
I have no precious time at all to spend;
Nor
services to do till you require.
Nor dare I chide the world-without-end
hour,
Whilst I (my sovereign) watch the clock for you,
Nor think
the bitterness of absence sour,
When you have bid your servant once
adieu.
Nor dare I question with my jealous thought,
Where you may
be, or your affairs suppose,
But like a sad slave stay and think of
nought
Save where you are, how happy you make those.
So true