Shakespeare's Sonnets

by William Shakespeare

Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.

Thou art thy mother’s glass, and she in thee

The lovely gaze where every eye doth dwell Will play the tyrants to the very same

But flowers distill’d, though they with winter meet, Leese but their show; their substance still lives sweet.

Be not self-will’d, for thou art much too fair To be death’s conquest and make worms thine heir.

Music to hear, why hear’st thou music sadly?

Why lov’st thou that which thou receiv’st not gladly,

But beauty’s waste hath in the world an end, And, kept unus’d, the user so destroys it.

Shall hate be fairer lodg’d than gentle love?

That beauty still may live in thine or thee.

Not from the stars do I my judgment pluck; And yet methinks I have astronomy,

But from thine eyes my knowledge I derive, And constant stars in them I read such art As truth and beauty shall together thrive,

To give away yourself, keeps yourself still, And you must live, drawn by your own sweet skill.

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 ne’er touch’d earthly faces.”

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?

Yet, do thy worst, old Time; despite thy wrong, My love shall in my verse ever live young.

Mine be thy love and thy love’s use their treasure.

But then begins a journey in my head, To work my mind, when body’s work’s expir’d;

Save that my soul’s imaginary sight Presents thy shadow to my sightless view,

But day doth daily draw my sorrows longer, And night doth nightly make grief’s length seem stronger.

For thy sweet love remember’d such wealth brings That then I scorn to change my state with kings.

How many a holy and obsequious tear Hath dear religious love stolen from mine eye

Kissing with golden face the meadows green, Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy,

Suns of the world may stain when heaven’s sun staineth.

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.

O, how thy worth with manners may I sing When thou art all the better part of me?

To entertain the time with thoughts of love, Which time and thoughts so sweetly doth deceive,

All mine was thine, before thou hadst this more.

love knows it is a greater grief To bear love’s wrong than hate’s known injury.

All days are nights to see till I see thee, And nights bright days when dreams do show thee me.

The other two, slight air and purging fire Are both with thee, wherever I abide; The first my thought, the other my desire,

Mine eye and heart are at a mortal war How to divide the conquest of thy sight;

So, either by thy picture or my love, Thyself away, art present still with me;

Since why to love I can allege no cause.

On Helen’s cheek all art of beauty set, And you in Grecian tires are painted new.

So true a fool is love, that in your will, Though you do anything, he thinks no ill.

Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore, So do our minutes hasten to their end;

Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth And delves the parallels in beauty’s brow,

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?

Methinks no face so gracious is as mine,

’Tis thee, myself, that for myself I praise, Painting my age with beauty of thy days.

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.

O, none, unless this miracle have might, That in black ink my love may still shine bright.

The ornament of beauty is suspect, A crow that flies in heaven’s sweetest air.

for I love you so That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot If thinking on me then should make you woe.

When all the breathers of this world are dead; You still shall live—such virtue hath my pen—

I think good thoughts, whilst others write good words, And like unlettered clerk still cry “Amen” To every hymn that able spirit affords In polish’d form of well-refined pen.

Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing,

Thus have I had thee, as a dream doth flatter, In sleep a king, but waking no such matter.

With mine own weakness, being best acquainted, Upon thy part I can set down a story