SHALL I compare thee to a Summers day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do
shake the darling buds of May,
And Summers lease hath all too short a date:
Sometime too hot the eye
of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimmd;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
chance or natures changing course untrimmd:
But thy eternal Summer shall not fade
Nor lose possession
of that fair thou owest;
Nor shall Death brag thou wanderest in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time
So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
WHEN, in disgrace with Fortune and mens 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,
Featured like him, like him with friends possest,
Desiring this mans art and that mans scope,
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 Heavens gate;
thy sweet love remembred 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 times waste:
Then can I drown an eye,
unused to flow,
For precious friends hid in deaths dateless night,
And weep afresh loves long-since-cancelld
And moan th expense of many a vanishd sight:
Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,
from woe to woe tell oer
The sad account of fore-bemoanàed moan,
Which I new pay as if not paid before.
if the while I think on thee, dear friend,
All losses are restored and sorrows end.
THY bosom is endearàed with all hearts
Which I, by lacking, have supposàed dead:
And there reigns Love,
and all Loves loving parts,
And all those friends which I thought buriàed.
How many a holy and obsequious
Hath dear religious love stoln from mine eye,
As interest of the dead!which now appear
removed 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:
images I loved I view in thee,
And thou, all they, hast all the all of me.
WHAT is your substance, whereof are you made,
That millions of strange shadows on you tend?
every one hath, every one, one shade,
And you, but one, can every shadow lend.
Describe Adonis, and
Is poorly imitated after you;
On Helens cheek all art of beauty set,
And you in Grecian
tires are painted new:
Speak of the spring and foison1 of the year,
The one doth shadow of your beauty
The other as your bounty doth appear;
And you in every blessàed shape we know.
In all external
grace you have some part,
But you like none, none you, for constant heart.
O HOW much more doth beauty beauteous seem
By that sweet ornament which truth doth give!
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 perfumàed tincture of the Roses,
Hang on such thorns, and play as wantonly
summers breath their maskàed buds discloses:
Butfor their virtue only is their show
They live unwood
and unrespected fade,
Die to themselves. Sweet Roses do not so;
Of their sweet deaths are sweetest