The Complete Works of William Shakespeare, William Shakespeare [book recommendations based on other books txt] 📗

less by thy continual haste: This I do vow and this shall ever be, I will be true despite thy scythe and thee.

 

124

If my dear love were but the child of state, It might for Fortune’s bastard be unfathered, As subject to time’s love or to time’s hate, Weeds among weeds, or flowers with flowers gathered.

No it was builded far from accident,

It suffers not in smiling pomp, nor falls Under the blow of thralled discontent,

Whereto th’ inviting time our fashion calls: It fears not policy that heretic,

Which works on leases of short-numbered hours, But all alone stands hugely politic,

That it nor grows with heat, nor drowns with showers.

To this I witness call the fools of time, Which die for goodness, who have lived for crime.

 

125

Were’t aught to me I bore the canopy,

With my extern the outward honouring,

Or laid great bases for eternity,

Which proves more short than waste or ruining?

Have I not seen dwellers on form and favour Lose all, and more by paying too much rent For compound sweet; forgoing simple savour, Pitiful thrivers in their gazing spent?

No, let me be obsequious in thy heart,

And take thou my oblation, poor but free, Which is not mixed with seconds, knows no art, But mutual render, only me for thee.

Hence, thou suborned informer, a true soul When most impeached, stands least in thy control.

 

126

O thou my lovely boy who in thy power,

Dost hold Time’s fickle glass his fickle hour: Who hast by waning grown, and therein show’st, Thy lovers withering, as thy sweet self grow’st.

If Nature (sovereign mistress over wrack) As thou goest onwards still will pluck thee back, She keeps thee to this purpose, that her skill May time disgrace, and wretched minutes kill.

Yet fear her O thou minion of her pleasure, She may detain, but not still keep her treasure!

Her audit (though delayed) answered must be, And her quietus is to render thee.

 

127

In the old age black was not counted fair, Or if it were it bore not beauty’s name: But now is black beauty’s successive heir, And beauty slandered with a bastard shame, For since each hand hath put on nature’s power, Fairing the foul with art’s false borrowed face, Sweet beauty hath no name no holy bower, But is profaned, if not lives in disgrace.

Therefore my mistress’ eyes are raven black, Her eyes so suited, and they mourners seem, At such who not born fair no beauty lack, Slandering creation with a false esteem, Yet so they mourn becoming of their woe, That every tongue says beauty should look so.

 

128

How oft when thou, my music, music play’st, Upon that blessed wood whose motion sounds With thy sweet fingers when thou gently sway’st The wiry concord that mine ear confounds, Do I envy those jacks that nimble leap, To kiss the tender inward of thy hand,

Whilst my poor lips which should that harvest reap, At the wood’s boldness by thee blushing stand.

To be so tickled they would change their state And situation with those dancing chips, O’er whom thy fingers walk with gentle gait, Making dead wood more blest than living lips, Since saucy jacks so happy are in this, Give them thy fingers, me thy lips to kiss.

 

129

Th’ expense of spirit in a waste of shame Is lust in action, and till action, lust Is perjured, murd’rous, bloody full of blame, Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust, Enjoyed no sooner but despised straight, Past reason hunted, and no sooner had

Past reason hated as a swallowed bait,

On purpose laid to make the taker mad.

Mad in pursuit and in possession so,

Had, having, and in quest, to have extreme, A bliss in proof and proved, a very woe, Before a joy proposed behind a dream.

All this the world well knows yet none knows well, To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell.

 

130

My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun, Coral is far more red, than her lips red, If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun: If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head: I have seen roses damasked, red and white, But no such roses see I in her cheeks,

And in some perfumes is there more delight, Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.

I love to hear her speak, yet well I know, That music hath a far more pleasing sound: I grant I never saw a goddess go,

My mistress when she walks treads on the ground.

And yet by heaven I think my love as rare, As any she belied with false compare.

 

131

Thou art as tyrannous, so as thou art,

As those whose beauties proudly make them cruel; For well thou know’st to my dear doting heart Thou art the fairest and most precious jewel.

Yet in good faith some say that thee behold, Thy face hath not the power to make love groan; To say they err, I dare not be so bold, Although I swear it to my self alone.

And to be sure that is not false I swear, A thousand groans but thinking on thy face, One on another’s neck do witness bear

Thy black is fairest in my judgment’s place.

In nothing art thou black save in thy deeds, And thence this slander as I think proceeds.

 

132

Thine eyes I love, and they as pitying me, Knowing thy heart torment me with disdain, Have put on black, and loving mourners be, Looking with pretty ruth upon my pain.

And truly not the morning sun of heaven Better becomes the grey cheeks of the east, Nor that full star that ushers in the even Doth half that glory to the sober west

As those two mourning eyes become thy face: O let it then as well beseem thy heart

To mourn for me since mourning doth thee grace, And suit thy pity like in every part.

Then will I swear beauty herself is black, And all they foul that thy complexion lack.

 

133

Beshrew that heart that makes my heart to groan For that deep wound it gives my friend and me; Is’t not enough to torture me alone,

But slave to slavery my sweet’st friend must be?

Me from my self thy cruel eye hath taken, And my next self thou harder hast engrossed, Of him, my self, and thee I am forsaken, A torment thrice threefold thus to be crossed: Prison my heart in thy steel bosom’s ward, But then my friend’s heart let my poor heart bail, Whoe’er keeps me, let my heart be his guard, Thou canst not then use rigour in my gaol.

And yet thou wilt, for I being pent in thee, Perforce am thine and all that is in me.

 

134

So now I have confessed that he is thine, And I my self am mortgaged to thy will, My self I’ll forfeit, so that other mine, Thou wilt restore to be my comfort still: But thou wilt not, nor he will not be free, For thou art covetous, and he is kind,

He learned but surety-like to write for me, Under that bond that him as fist doth bind.

The statute of thy beauty thou wilt take, Thou usurer that put’st forth all to use, And sue a friend, came debtor for my sake, So him I lose through my unkind abuse.

Him have I lost, thou hast both him and me, He pays the whole, and yet am I not free.

 

135

Whoever hath her wish, thou hast thy will, And ‘Will’ to boot, and ‘Will’ in overplus, More than enough am I that vex thee still, To thy sweet will making addition thus.

Wilt thou whose will is large and spacious, Not once vouchsafe to hide my will in thine?

Shall will in others seem right gracious, And in my will no fair acceptance shine?

The sea all water, yet receives rain still, And in abundance addeth to his store,

So thou being rich in will add to thy will One will of mine to make thy large will more.

Let no unkind, no fair beseechers kill, Think all but one, and me in that one ‘Will.’

 

136

If thy soul check thee that I come so near, Swear to thy blind soul that I was thy ‘Will’, And will thy soul knows is admitted there, Thus far for love, my love-suit sweet fulfil.

‘Will’, will fulfil the treasure of thy love, Ay, fill it full with wills, and my will one, In things of great receipt with case we prove, Among a number one is reckoned none.

Then in the number let me pass untold,

Though in thy store’s account I one must be, For nothing hold me, so it please thee hold, That nothing me, a something sweet to thee.

Make but my name thy love, and love that still, And then thou lov’st me for my name is Will.

 

137

Thou blind fool Love, what dost thou to mine eyes, That they behold and see not what they see?

They know what beauty is, see where it lies, Yet what the best is, take the worst to be.

If eyes corrupt by over-partial looks,

Be anchored in the bay where all men ride, Why of eyes’ falsehood hast thou forged hooks, Whereto the judgment of my heart is tied?

Why should my heart think that a several plot, Which my heart knows the wide world’s common place?

Or mine eyes seeing this, say this is not To put fair truth upon so foul a face?

In things right true my heart and eyes have erred, And to this false plague are they now transferred.

 

138

When my love swears that she is made of truth, I do believe her though I know she lies, That she might think me some untutored youth, Unlearned in the world’s false subtleties.

Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me young, Although she knows my days are past the best, Simply I credit her false-speaking tongue, On both sides thus is simple truth suppressed: But wherefore says she not she is unjust?

And wherefore say not I that I am old?

O love’s best habit is in seeming trust, And age in love, loves not to have years told.

Therefore I lie with her, and she with me, And in our faults by lies we flattered be.

 

139

O call not me to justify the wrong,

That thy unkindness lays upon my heart, Wound me not with thine eye but with thy tongue, Use power with power, and slay me not by art, Tell me thou lov’st elsewhere; but in my sight, Dear heart forbear to glance thine eye aside, What need’st thou wound with cunning when thy might Is more than my o’erpressed defence can bide?

Let me excuse thee, ah my love well knows, Her pretty looks have been mine enemies, And therefore from my face she turns my foes, That they elsewhere might dart their injuries: Yet do not so, but since I am near slain, Kill me outright with looks, and rid my pain.

 

140

Be wise as thou art cruel, do not press My tongue-tied patience with too much disdain: Lest sorrow lend me words and words express, The manner of my pity-wanting pain.

If I might teach thee wit better it were, Though not to love, yet love to tell me so, As testy sick men when their deaths be near, No news but health from their physicians know.

For if I should despair I should grow mad, And in my madness might speak ill of thee, Now this ill-wresting world is grown so bad, Mad slanderers by mad ears