THE SONNETS by William Shakespeare (莎翁十四行诗集) 中

XXXI

Thy bosom is endeared with all hearts, Which I by lacking have

supposed dead; And there reigns Love, and all Love's loving parts, And all

those friends which I thought buried. How many a holy and obsequious

tear Hath dear religious love stol'n from mine eye, As interest of the dead,

which now appear But things remov'd that hidden in thee lie! Thou art the

grave where buried love doth live, Hung with the trophies of my lovers

gone, Who all their parts of me to thee did give, That due of many now is

thine alone: Their images I lov'd, I view in thee, And thou--all they--hast

all the all of me.

XXXII

If thou survive my well-contented day, When that churl Death my

bones with dust shall cover And shalt by fortune once more re-survey

These poor rude lines of thy deceased lover, Compare them with the

bett'ring of the time, And though they be outstripp'd by every pen, Reserve

them for my love, not for their rhyme, Exceeded by the height of happier

men. O! then vouchsafe me but this loving thought: 'Had my friend's Muse

grown with this growing age, A dearer birth than this his love had brought,

To march in ranks of better equipage: But since he died and poets better

prove, Theirs for their style I'll read, his for his love'.

XXXIII

Full many a glorious morning have I seen Flatter the mountain tops

with sovereign eye, Kissing with golden face the meadows green, Gilding

pale streams with heavenly alchemy; Anon permit the basest clouds to ride

With ugly rack on his celestial face, And from the forlorn world his visage

hide, Stealing unseen to west with this disgrace: Even so my sun one early

morn did shine, With all triumphant splendour on my brow; But out! alack!

he was but one hour mine, The region cloud hath mask'd him from me

now. Yet him for this my love no whit disdaineth; Suns of the world may

stain when heaven's sun staineth.

XXXIV

Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day, And make me travel

forth without my cloak, To let base clouds o'ertake me in my way, Hiding

thy bravery in their rotten smoke? 'Tis not enough that 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: The 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.

XXXV

No more be griev'd 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, Myself 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 myself 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.

XXXVI

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.

XXXVII

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 despis'd,

Whilst that this shadow doth such substance give That I in thy abundance

am suffic'd, 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!

XXXVIII

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.

XXXIX

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.

XL

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 blam'd, if thou thy self deceivest By wilful taste of what thyself

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.

XLI

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 assail'd; And when a woman

woos, what woman's son Will sourly leave her till he have prevail'd? 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.

XLII

That thou hast her it is not all my grief, And yet it may be said I loved

her dearly; That she hath thee is of my wailing chief, A loss in love that

touches me more nearly. Loving offenders thus I will excuse ye: Thou dost

love her, because thou know'st I love her; And for my sake even so doth

she abuse me, Suffering my friend for my sake to approve her. If I lose

thee, my loss is my love's gain, And losing her, my friend hath found that

loss; Both find each other, and I lose both twain, And both for my sake lay

on me this cross: But here's the joy; my friend and I are one; Sweet flattery!

then she loves but me alone.

XLIII

When most I wink, then do mine eyes best see, For all the day they

view things unrespected; But when I sleep, in dreams they look on thee,

And darkly bright, are bright in dark directed. Then thou, whose shadow

shadows doth make bright, How would thy shadow's form form happy

show To the clear day with thy much clearer light, When to unseeing eyes

thy shade shines so! How would, I say, mine eyes be blessed made By

looking on thee in the living day, When in dead night thy fair imperfect

shade Through heavy sleep on sightless eyes doth stay! All days are nights

to see till I see thee, And nights bright days when dreams do show thee

me.

XLIV

If the dull substance of my flesh were thought, Injurious distance

should not stop my way; For then despite of space I would be brought,

From limits far remote, where thou dost stay. No matter then although my

foot did stand Upon the farthest earth remov'd from thee; For nimble

thought can jump both sea and land, As soon as think the place where he

would be. But, ah! thought kills me that I am not thought, To leap large

lengths of miles when thou art gone, But that so much of earth and water

wrought, I must attend, time's leisure with my moan; Receiving nought by

elements so slow But heavy tears, badges of either's woe.

XLV

The other two, slight air, and purging fire Are both with thee, wherever

I abide; The first my thought, the other my desire, These present-absent

with swift motion slide. For when these quicker elements are gone In

tender embassy of love to thee, My life, being made of four, with two

alone Sinks down to death, oppress'd with melancholy; Until life's

composition be recur'd By those swift messengers return'd from thee, Who

even but now come back again, assur'd, Of thy fair health, recounting it to

me: This told, I joy; but then no longer glad, I send them back again, and

straight grow sad.

XLVI

Mine eye and heart are at a mortal war, How to divide the conquest of

thy sight; Mine eye my heart thy picture's sight would bar, My heart mine

eye the freedom of that right. My heart doth plead that thou in him dost

lie,-- A closet never pierc'd with crystal eyes-- But the defendant doth that

plea deny, And says in him thy fair appearance lies. To side this title is

impannelled A quest of thoughts, all tenants to the heart; And by their

verdict is determined The clear eye's moiety, and the dear heart's part: As

thus; mine eye's due is thy outward part, And my heart's right, thy inward

love of heart.

XLVII

Betwixt mine eye and heart a league is took, And each doth good turns

now unto the other: When that mine eye is famish'd for a look, Or heart in

love with sighs himself doth smother, With my love's picture then my eye

doth feast, And to the painted banquet bids my heart; Another time mine

eye is my heart's guest, And in his thoughts of love doth share a part: So,

either by thy picture or my love, Thy self away, art present still with me;

For thou not farther than my thoughts canst move, And I am still with

them, and they with thee; Or, if they sleep, thy picture in my sight Awakes

my heart, to heart's and eye's delight.

XLVIII

How careful was I when I took my way, Each trifle under truest bars to

thrust, That to my use it might unused stay From hands of falsehood, in

sure wards of trust! But thou, to whom my jewels trifles are, Most worthy

comfort, now my greatest grief, Thou best of dearest, and mine only care,

Art left the prey of every vulgar thief. Thee have I not lock'd up in any

chest, Save where thou art not, though I feel thou art, Within the gentle

closure of my breast, From whence at pleasure thou mayst come and part;

And even thence thou wilt be stol'n I fear, For truth proves thievish for a

prize so dear.

XLIX

Against that time, if ever that time come, When I shall see thee frown

on my defects, When as thy love hath cast his utmost sum, Call'd to that

audit by advis'd respects; Against that time when thou shalt strangely pass,

And scarcely greet me with that sun, thine eye, When love, converted from

the thing it was, Shall reasons find of settled gravity; Against that time do

I ensconce me here, Within the knowledge of mine own desert, And this

my hand, against my self uprear, To guard the lawful reasons on thy part:

To leave poor me thou hast the strength of laws, Since why to love I can

allege no cause.

L

How heavy do I journey on the way, When what I seek, my weary

travel's end, Doth teach that ease 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 lov'd 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.

LI

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 n: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.'

LII

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 imprison'd

pride. Blessed are you whose worthiness gives scope, Being had, to

triumph; being lacked, to hope.

LIII

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.

LIV

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 unwoo'd, 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.

LV

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, besmear'd 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 yourself arise, You live

in this, and dwell in lovers' eyes.

LVI

Sweet love, renew thy force; be it not said Thy edge should blunter be

than appetite, Which but to-day by feeding is allay'd, 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.

LVII

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 a fool is love, that in your will, Though you do

anything, he thinks no ill.

LVIII

That god forbid, that made me first your slave, I should in thought

control your times of pleasure, Or at your hand the account of hours to

crave, Being your vassal, bound to stay your leisure! O! let me suffer,

being at your beck, The imprison'd absence of your liberty; And patience,

tame to sufferance, bide each check, Without accusing you of injury. Be

where you list, your charter is so strong That you yourself may privilage

your time To what you will; to you it doth belong Yourself to pardon of

self-doing crime. I am to wait, though waiting so be hell, Not blame your

pleasure be it ill or well.

LIX

If there be nothing new, but that which is Hath been before, how are

our brains beguil'd, Which labouring for invention bear amiss The second

burthen of a former child! O! that record could with a backward look,

Even of five hundred courses of the sun, Show me your image in some

antique book, Since mind at first in character was done! That I might see

what the old world could say To this composed wonder of your frame;

Wh'r we are mended, or wh'r better they, Or whether revolution be the

same. O! sure I am the wits of former days, To subjects worse have given

admiring praise.

LX

Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore, So do our minutes

hasten to their end; Each changing place with that which goes before, In

sequent toil all forwards do contend. Nativity, once in the main of light,

Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crown'd, Crooked eclipses 'gainst his

glory fight, And Time that gave doth now his gift confound. Time doth

transfix the flourish set on youth And delves the parallels in beauty's brow,

Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth, And nothing stands but for his

scythe to mow: And yet to times in hope, my verse shall stand. Praising

thy worth, despite his cruel hand.

LXI

Is it thy will, thy image should keep open My heavy eyelids to the

weary night? Dost thou desire my slumbers should be broken, While

shadows like to thee do mock my sight? Is it thy spirit that thou send'st

from thee So far from home into my deeds to pry, To find out shames and

idle hours in me, The scope and tenure of thy jealousy? O, no! thy love,

though much, is not so great: It is my love that keeps mine eye awake:

Mine own true love that doth my rest defeat, To play the watchman ever

for thy sake: For thee watch I, whilst thou dost wake elsewhere, From me

far off, with others all too near.

LXII

Sin of self-love possesseth all mine eye And all my soul, and all my

every part; And for this sin there is no remedy, It is so grounded inward in

my heart. Methinks no face so gracious is as mine, No shape so true, no

truth of such account; And for myself mine own worth do define, As I all

other in all worths surmount. But when my glass shows me myself indeed

Beated and chopp'd with tanned antiquity, Mine own self-love quite

contrary I read; Self so self-loving were iniquity. 'Tis thee,--myself,--that

for myself I praise, Painting my age with beauty of thy days.

LXIII

Against my love shall be as I am now, With Time's injurious hand

crush'd and o'erworn; When hours have drain'd his blood and fill'd his

brow With lines and wrinkles; when his youthful morn Hath travell'd on to

age's steepy night; And all those beauties whereof now he's king Are

vanishing, or vanished out of sight, Stealing away the treasure of his

spring; For such a time do I now fortify Against confounding age's cruel

knife, That he shall never cut from memory My sweet love's beauty,

though my lover's life: His beauty shall in these black lines be seen, And

they shall live, and he in them still green.

LXIV

When I have seen by Time's fell hand defac'd The rich-proud cost of

outworn buried age; When sometime lofty towers I see down-raz'd, And

brass eternal slave to mortal rage; When I have seen the hungry ocean gain

Advantage on the kingdom of the shore, And the firm soil win of the

watery main, Increasing store with loss, and loss with store; When I have

seen such interchange of state, Or state itself confounded, to decay; Ruin

hath taught me thus to ruminate-- That Time will come and take my love

away. This thought is as a death which cannot choose But weep to have,

that which it fears to lose.

LXV

Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea, But sad mortality

o'ersways their power, How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea, Whose

action is no stronger than a flower? O! how shall summer's honey breath

hold out, Against the wrackful siege of battering days, When rocks

impregnable are not so stout, Nor gates of steel so strong but Time decays?

O fearful meditation! where, alack, Shall Time's best jewel from Time's

chest lie hid? Or what strong hand can hold his swift foot back? Or who

his spoil of beauty can forbid? O! none, unless this miracle have might,

That in black ink my love may still shine bright.

LXVI

Tired with all these, for restful death I cry, As to behold desert a

beggar born, And needy nothing trimm'd in jollity, And purest faith

unhappily forsworn, And gilded honour shamefully misplac'd, And maiden

virtue rudely strumpeted, And right perfection wrongfully disgrac'd, And

strength by limping sway disabled And art made tongue-tied by authority,

And folly--doctor-like--controlling skill, And simple truth miscall'd

simplicity, And captive good attending captain ill: Tir'd with all these,

from these would I be gone, Save that, to die, I leave my love alone.

LXVII

Ah! wherefore with infection should he live, And with his presence

grace impiety, That sin by him advantage should achieve, And lace itself

with his society? Why should false painting imitate his cheek, And steel

dead seeming of his living hue? Why should poor beauty indirectly seek

Roses of shadow, since his rose is true? Why should he live, now Nature

bankrupt is, Beggar'd of blood to blush through lively veins? For she hath

no exchequer now but his, And proud of many, lives upon his gains. O!

him she stores, to show what wealth she had In days long since, before

these last so bad.

LXVIII

Thus is his cheek the map of days outworn, When beauty lived and

died as flowers do now, Before these bastard signs of fair were born, Or

durst inhabit on a living brow; Before the golden tresses of the dead, The

right of sepulchres, were shorn away, To live a second life on second head;

Ere beauty's dead fleece made another gay: In him those holy antique

hours are seen, Without all ornament, itself and true, Making no summer

of another's green, Robbing no old to dress his beauty new; And him as for

a map doth Nature store, To show false Art what beauty was of yore.

LXIX

Those parts of thee that the world's eye doth view Want nothing that

the thought of hearts can mend; All tongues--the voice of souls--give thee

that due, Uttering bare truth, even so as foes commend. Thy outward thus

with outward praise is crown'd; But those same tongues, that give thee so

thine own, In other accents do this praise confound By seeing farther than

the eye hath shown. They look into the beauty of thy mind, And that in

guess they measure by thy deeds; Then--churls--their thoughts, although

their eyes were kind, To thy fair flower add the rank smell of weeds: But

why thy odour matcheth not thy show, The soil is this, that thou dost

common grow.

LXX

That thou art blam'd shall not be thy defect, For slander's mark was

ever yet the fair; The ornament of beauty is suspect, A crow that flies in

heaven's sweetest air. So thou be good, slander doth but approve Thy

worth the greater being woo'd of time; For canker vice the sweetest buds

doth love, And thou present'st a pure unstained prime. Thou hast passed by

the ambush of young days Either not assail'd, or victor being charg'd; Yet

this thy praise cannot be so thy praise, To tie up envy, evermore enlarg'd,

If some suspect of ill mask'd not thy show, Then thou alone kingdoms of

hearts shouldst owe.

LXXI

No longer mourn for me when I am dead Than you shall hear the surly

sullen bell Give warning to the world that I am fled From this vile world

with vilest worms to dwell: Nay, if you read this line, remember not The

hand that writ it, for I love you so, That I in your sweet thoughts would be

forgot, If thinking on me then should make you woe. O! if,--I say you look

upon this verse, When I perhaps compounded am with clay, Do not so

much as my poor name rehearse; But let your love even with my life

decay; Lest the wise world should look into your moan, And mock you

with me after I am gone.

LXXII

O! lest the world should task you to recite What merit lived in me, that

you should love After my death,--dear love, forget me quite, For you in me

can nothing worthy prove; Unless you would devise some virtuous lie, To

do more for me than mine own desert, And hang more praise upon

deceased I Than niggard truth would willingly impart: O! lest your true

love may seem false in this That you for love speak well of me untrue, My

name be buried where my body is, And live no more to shame nor me nor

you. For I am shamed by that which I bring forth, And so should you, to

love things nothing worth.

LXXIII

That time of year thou mayst in me behold When yellow leaves, or

none, or few, do hang Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,

Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang. In me thou see'st the

twilight of such day As after sunset fadeth in the west; Which by and by

black night doth take away, Death's second self, that seals up all in rest. In

me thou see'st the glowing of such fire, That on the ashes of his youth doth

lie, As the death-bed, whereon it must expire, Consum'd with that which it

was nourish'd by. This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong,

To love that well, which thou must leave ere long.

LXXIV

But be contented: when that fell arrest Without all bail shall carry me

away, My life hath in this line some interest, Which for memorial still with

thee shall stay. When thou reviewest this, thou dost review The very part

was consecrate to thee: The earth can have but earth, which is his due; My

spirit is thine, the better part of me: So then thou hast but lost the dregs of

life, The prey of worms, my body being dead; The coward conquest of a

wretch's knife, Too base of thee to be remembered,. The worth of that is

that which it contains, And that is this, and this with thee remains.

LXXV

So are you to my thoughts as food to life, Or as sweet-season'd

showers are to the ground; And for the peace of you I hold such strife As

'twixt a miser and his wealth is found. Now proud as an enjoyer, and anon

Doubting the filching age will steal his treasure; Now counting best to be

with you alone, Then better'd that the world may see my pleasure:

Sometime all full with feasting on your sight, And by and by clean starved

for a look; Possessing or pursuing no delight, Save what is had, or must

from you be took. Thus do I pine and surfeit day by day, Or gluttoning on

all, or all away.

LXXVI

Why is my verse so barren of new pride, So far from variation or quick

change? Why with the time do I not glance aside To new-found methods,

and to compounds strange? Why write I still all one, ever the same, And

keep invention in a noted weed, That every word doth almost tell my name,

Showing their birth, and where they did proceed? O! know sweet love I

always write of you, And you and love are still my argument; So all my

best is dressing old words new, Spending again what is already spent: For

as the sun is daily new and old, So is my love still telling what is told.

LXXVII

Thy glass will show thee how thy beauties wear, Thy dial how thy

precious minutes waste; These vacant leaves thy mind's imprint will bear,

And of this book, this learning mayst thou taste. The wrinkles which thy

glass will truly show Of mouthed graves will give thee memory; Thou by

thy dial's shady stealth mayst know Time's thievish progress to eternity.

Look! what thy memory cannot contain, Commit to these waste blanks,

and thou shalt find Those children nursed, deliver'd from thy brain, To

take a new acquaintance of thy mind. These offices, so oft as thou wilt

look, Shall profit thee and much enrich thy book.

LXXVIII

So oft have I invoked thee for my Muse, And found such fair

assistance in my verse As every alien pen hath got my use And under thee

their poesy disperse. Thine eyes, that taught the dumb on high to sing And

heavy ignorance aloft to fly, Have added feathers to the learned's wing

And given grace a double majesty. Yet be most proud of that which I

compile, Whose influence is thine, and born of thee: In others' works thou

dost but mend the style, And arts with thy sweet graces graced be; But

thou art all my art, and dost advance As high as learning, my rude

ignorance.

LXXIX

Whilst I alone did call upon thy aid, My verse alone had all thy gentle

grace; But now my gracious numbers are decay'd, And my sick Muse doth

give an other place. I grant, sweet love, thy lovely argument Deserves the

travail of a worthier pen; Yet what of thee thy poet doth invent He robs

thee of, and pays it thee again. He lends thee virtue, and he stole that word

From thy behaviour; beauty doth he give, And found it in thy cheek: he

can afford No praise to thee, but what in thee doth live. Then thank him

not for that which he doth say, Since what he owes thee, thou thyself dost

pay.

LXXX

O! how I faint when I of you do write, Knowing a better spirit doth use

your name, And in the praise thereof spends all his might, To make me

tongue-tied speaking of your fame! But since your worth--wide as the

ocean is,-- The humble as the proudest sail doth bear, My saucy bark,

inferior far to his, On your broad main doth wilfully appear. Your

shallowest help will hold me up afloat, Whilst he upon your soundless

deep doth ride; Or, being wrack'd, I am a worthless boat, He of tall

building, and of goodly pride: Then if he thrive and I be cast away, The

worst was this,--my love was my decay.