X
For shame! deny that thou bearʼst love to any,
Who for thy self art so unprovident.
Grant, if thou wilt, thou art belovʼd of many,
But that thou none lovʼst is most evident:
For thou art so possessʼd with murderous hate,
That ʼgainst thy self thou stickʼst not to conspire,
Seeking that beauteous roof to ruinate
Which to repair should be thy chief desire.
O! change thy thought, that I may change my mind:
Shall hate be fairer lodgʼd than gentle love?
Be, as thy presence is, gracious and kind,
Or to thyself at least kind-hearted prove:
Make thee another self for love of me,
That beauty still may live in thine or thee.
XI
As fast as thou shalt wane, so fast thou growʼst,
In one of thine, from that which thou departest;
And that fresh blood which youngly thou bestowʼst,
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 endowʼd, she gave thee more;
Which bounteous gift thou shouldst in bounty cherish:
She carvʼd thee for her seal, and meant thereby,
Thou shouldst print more, not let that copy die.
XII
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 oʼer with white;
When lofty trees I see barren of leaves,
Which erst from heat did canopy the herd,
And summerʼs 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 ʼgainst Timeʼs scythe can make defence
Save breed, to brave him when he takes thee hence.
XIII
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
Yourself again, after yourselfʼs 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 winterʼs day
And barren rage of deathʼs eternal cold?
O! none but unthrifts. Dear my love, you know,
You had a father: let your son say so.
XIV
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 seasonsʼ 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 thyself, to store thou wouldst convert’;
Or else of thee this I prognosticate:
‘Thy end is truthʼs and beautyʼs doom and date.’
XV
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.
XVI
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, Timeʼs 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 yourself, keeps yourself still,
And you must live, drawn by your own sweet skill.
XVII
Who will believe my verse in time to come,
If it were fillʼd 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 neʼer touchʼd earthly faces.’
So should my papers, yellowʼd with their age,
Be scornʼd, like old men of less truth than tongue,
And your true rights be termʼd a poetʼs 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.
XVIII
Shall I compare thee to a summerʼs day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summerʼs lease hath all too short a date:
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimmʼd,
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance, or natureʼs changing course untrimmʼd:
But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou owʼst,
Nor shall death brag thou wanderʼst in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou growʼst,
So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.