XIX
Devouring Time, blunt thou the lionʼs paws,
And make the earth devour her own sweet brood;
Pluck the keen teeth from the fierce tigerʼs jaws,
And burn the long-livʼd phoenix, in her blood;
Make glad and sorry seasons as thou fleets,
And do whateʼer 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 loveʼs fair brow,
Nor draw no lines there with thine antique pen;
Him in thy course untainted do allow
For beautyʼs pattern to succeeding men.
Yet, do thy worst old Time: despite thy wrong,
My love shall in my verse ever live young.
XX
A womanʼs face with natureʼs own hand painted,
Hast thou, the master mistress of my passion;
A womanʼs gentle heart, but not acquainted
With shifting change, as is false womenʼs fashion:
An eye more bright than theirs, less false in rolling,
Gilding the object whereupon it gazeth;
A man in hue all ʼhuesʼ in his controlling,
Which steals menʼs eyes and womenʼs 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 prickʼd thee out for womenʼs pleasure,
Mine be thy love and thy loveʼs use their treasure.
XXI
So is it not with me as with that Muse,
Stirrʼd by a painted beauty to his verse,
Who heaven itself 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 seaʼs rich gems,
With Aprilʼs first-born flowers, and all things rare,
That heavenʼs 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 motherʼs child, though not so bright
As those gold candles fixʼd in heavenʼs air:
Let them say more that like of hearsay well;
I will not praise that purpose not to sell.
XXII
My glass shall not persuade me I am old,
So long as youth and thou are of one date;
But when in thee timeʼs 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 myself, 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 gavʼst me thine not to give back again.
XXIII
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 strengthʼs abundance weakens his own heart;
So I, for fear of trust, forget to say
The perfect ceremony of loveʼs rite,
And in mine own loveʼs strength seem to decay,
Oʼerchargʼd with burthen of mine own loveʼs 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 expressʼd.
O! learn to read what silent love hath writ:
To hear with eyes belongs to loveʼs fine wit.
XXIV
Mine eye hath playʼd the painter and hath stellʼd,
Thy beautyʼs form in table of my heart;
My body is the frame wherein ʼtis held,
And perspective it is best painterʼs art.
For through the painter must you see his skill,
To find where your true image picturʼd lies,
Which in my bosomʼs 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.
XXV
Let those who are in favour with their stars
Of public honour and proud titles boast,
Whilst I, whom fortune of such triumph bars
Unlookʼd for joy in that I honour most.
Great princesʼ favourites their fair leaves spread
But as the marigold at the sunʼs 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 foilʼd,
Is from the book of honour razed quite,
And all the rest forgot for which he toilʼd:
Then happy I, that love and am belovʼd,
Where I may not remove nor be removʼd.
XXVI
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 it,
But that I hope some good conceit of thine
In thy soulʼs 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 tatterʼd 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.
XXVII
Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed,
The dear repose for limbs with travel tirʼd;
But then begins a journey in my head
To work my mind, when bodyʼs workʼs 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 soulʼs 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 myself, no quiet find.