Mine eye hath play'd the painter, and hath stell'd Thy beauty's form in table of my heart; My body is the frame wherein 'tis held, And pérspective it is best painter's art. For through the painter must you see his skill, To find where your true image pictur'd lies; Which in my bosom's shop is hanging still, That hath his windows glazèd 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.
Let those who are in favour with their stars Of public honour and proud titles boast, Whilst I, whom fortune of such triumph bars, Unlook'd for joy in that I honour most. Great princes' favourites their fair leaves spread But as the marigold at the sun's eye; And in themselves their pride lies burièd, For at a frown they in their glory die. The painful warrior famousèd for fight, (7) After a thousand victories once foil'd, Is from the book of honour razèd quite, And all the rest forgot for which he toil'd: Then happy I, that love and am belov'd Where I may not remove nor be remov'd.
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 soul's thought, all naked, will bestow it; Till whatsoever star that guides my moving, Points on me graciously with fair aspéct, And puts apparel on my tatter'd loving, To show me worthy of thy(8) sweet respect: Then may I dare to boast how I do love thee; Till then not show my head where thou mayst prove me.
Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed, The dear repose for limbs with travel tir'd; But then begins a journey in my head, To work my mind, when body's work 's expir'd: 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 soul's imaginary sight Presents thy(9) 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.
How can I, then, return in happy plight, That am debarr'd the benefit of rest? When day's oppression is not eas'd by night, But day by night, and night by day, oppress'd? And each, though enemies to either's reign, Do in consent shake hands to torture me; The one by toil, the other to complain How far I toil, still farther off from thee. I tell the day, to please him, thou art bright, And dost him grace when clouds do blot the heaven : So flatter I the swart-complexion'd night; When sparkling stars twire not, thou gild'st the even. But day doth daily draw my sorrows longer, And night doth nightly make grief's strength seem
When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes, I all alone beweep my outcast state,
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries, And look upon myself, and curse my fate, Wishing me like to one more rich in hope, Featur'd like him, like him with friends possess'd, Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope, With what I most enjoy contented least; Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising, Haply I think on thee, and then my state, Like to the lark at break of day arising From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate; For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings, That then I scorn to change my state with kings.
When to the sessions of sweet silent thought I summon up remembrance of things past, I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought, And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste: Then can I drown an eye, unus'd to flow, For precious friends hid in death's dateless night, And weep afresh love's long-since-cancell'd woe, And moan th' expense of many a vanish'd sight: Then can I grieve at grievances foregone, And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er The sad account of fore-bemoanèd moan, Which I new pay as if not paid before.
But if the while I think on thee, dear friend, All losses are restor'd, and sorrows end.
Thy bosom is endearèd with all hearts, Which I by lacking have supposèd dead; And there reigns love, and all love's loving parts, And all those friends which I thought burièd. How many a holy and obsequious tear Hath dear-religious love(11) stol'n from mine eye, As interest of the dead, which now appear But things remov'd, that hidden in thee(12) 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.
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 deceasèd lover, - Compare them with the bettering 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."
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 fórlorn world his visage hide, Stealing unseen to west with this disgrace: (13) 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.
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