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Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou art thy mother’s glass, and she in thee Calls back the lovely April of her prime; So thou through windows of thine age shalt see, Despite of wrinkles, this thy golden time. But if thou live, remember’d not to be, Die single, and thine image dies with thee.
Be not self-will’d, for thou art much too fair To be death’s conquest and make worms thine heir.
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.
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? Thou art more lovely and more temperate.
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
O, learn to read what silent love hath writ! To hear with eyes belongs to love’s fine wit.
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.
All days are nights to see till I see thee, And nights bright days when dreams do show thee me.
Mine eye and heart are at a mortal war How to divide the conquest of thy sight;
When thou shalt be dispos’d to set me light, And place my merit in the eye of scorn, Upon thy side, against myself I’ll fight, And prove thee virtuous, though thou art forsworn. With mine own weakness, being best acquainted, Upon thy part I can set down a story Of faults conceal’d, wherein I am attainted, That thou in losing me shalt win much glory. And I by this will be a gainer too; For bending all my loving thoughts on thee, The injuries that to myself I do, Doing thee vantage, double-vantage me. Such is my love, to thee I so belong, That for thy right, myself will bear all wrong.
O, what a happy title do I find, Happy to have thy love, happy to die! But what’s so blessed-fair that fears no blot? Thou mayst be false, and yet I know it not.
How like a winter hath my absence been From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year! What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen, What old December’s bareness every where!
Love is my sin, and thy dear virtue hate, Hate of my sin, grounded on sinful loving.
For I have sworn thee fair and thought thee bright Who art as black as hell, as dark as night.
