William Shakespeare. Part I (Poems 1-99)

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    Biographical information
    William Shakespeare - Part I (Poems 1-99)
    William Shakespeare - Part II (Poems 100-185)

  1. Sonnet 1: From fairest creatures we desire increase
  2. Sonnet 2: When forty winters shall besiege thy brow
  3. Sonnet 3: Look in thy glass, and tell the face thou viewest
  4. Sonnet 4: Unthrifty loveliness, why dost thou spend
  5. Sonnet 5: Those hours, that with gentle work did frame
  6. Sonnet 6: Then let not winter's ragged hand deface
  7. Sonnet 7: Lo, in the orient when the gracious light
  8. Sonnet 8: Music to hear, why hear'st thou music sadly?
  9. Sonnet 9: Is it for fear to wet a widow's eye
  10. Sonnet 10: For shame, deny that thou bear'st love to any
  11. Sonnet 11: As fast as thou shalt wane, so fast thou grow'st
  12. Sonnet 12: When I do count the clock that tells the time
  13. Sonnet 13: O, that you were your self! But, love, you are
  14. Sonnet 14: Not from the stars do I my judgement pluck
  15. Sonnet 15: When I consider every thing that grows
  16. Sonnet 16: But wherefore do not you a mightier way
  17. Sonnet 17: Who will believe my verse in time to come
  18. Sonnet 18: Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
  19. Sonnet 19: Devouring Time blunt thou the lion's paws
  20. Sonnet 20: A woman's face with Nature's own hand painted
  21. Sonnet 21: So is it not with me as with that muse
  22. Sonnet 22: My glass shall not persuade me I am old
  23. Sonnet 23: As an unperfect actor on the stage
  24. Sonnet 24: Mine eye hath played the painter and hath stelled
  25. Sonnet 25: Let those who are in favour with their stars
  26. Sonnet 26: Lord of my love, to whom in vassalage
  27. Sonnet 27: Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed
  28. Sonnet 28: How can I then return in happy plight
  29. Sonnet 29: When in disgrace with Fortune and men's eyes
  30. Sonnet 30: When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
  31. Sonnet 31: Thy bosom is endearèd with all hearts
  32. Sonnet 32: If thou survive my well-contented day
  33. Sonnet 33: Full many a glorious morning have I seen
  34. Sonnet 34: Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day
  35. Sonnet 35: No more be grieved at that which thou hast done
  36. Sonnet 36: Let me confess that we two must be twain
  37. Sonnet 37: As a decrepit father takes delight
  38. Sonnet 38: How can my Muse want subject to invent
  39. Sonnet 39: O, how thy worth with manners may I sing
  40. Sonnet 40: Take all my loves, my love, yea, take them all
  41. Sonnet 41: Those pretty wrongs that liberty commits
  42. Sonnet 42: That thou hast her, it is not all my grief
  43. Sonnet 43: When most I wink, then do mine eyes best see
  44. Sonnet 44: If the dull substance of my flesh were thought
  45. Sonnet 45: The other two, slight air and purging fire
  46. Sonnet 46: Mine eye and heart are at a mortal war
  47. Sonnet 47: Betwixt mine eye and heart a league is took
  48. Sonnet 48: How careful was I, when I took my way
  49. Sonnet 49: Against that time, if ever that time come
  50. Sonnet 50: How heavy do I journey on the way
  51. Sonnet 51: Thus can my love excuse the slow offence
  52. Sonnet 52: So am I as the rich whose blessèd key
  53. Sonnet 53: What is your substance, whereof are you made
  54. Sonnet 54: O, how much more doth beauty beauteous seem
  55. Sonnet 55: Not marble, nor the gilded monuments
  56. Sonnet 56: Sweet love, renew thy force, be it not said
  57. Sonnet 57: Being your slave, what should I do but tend
  58. Sonnet 58: That god forbid, that made me first your slave
  59. Sonnet 59: If there be nothing new, but that which is
  60. Sonnet 60: Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore
  61. Sonnet 61: Is it thy will thy image should keep open
  62. Sonnet 62: Sin of self-love possesseth all mine eye
  63. Sonnet 63: Against my love shall be, as I am now
  64. Sonnet 64: When I have seen by Time's fell hand defaced
  65. Sonnet 65: Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea
  66. Sonnet 66: Tired with all these, for restful death I cry
  67. Sonnet 67: Ah, wherefore with infection should he live
  68. Sonnet 68: Thus is his cheek the map of days outworn
  69. Sonnet 69: Those parts of thee that the world's eye doth view
  70. Sonnet 70: That thou art blamed shall not be thy defect
  71. Sonnet 71: No longer mourn for me when I am dead
  72. Sonnet 72: O, lest the world should task you to recite
  73. Sonnet 73: That time of year thou mayst in me behold
  74. Sonnet 74: But be contented when that fell arrest
  75. Sonnet 75: So are you to my thoughts as food to life
  76. Sonnet 76: Why is my verse so barren of new pride?
  77. Sonnet 77: Thy glass will show thee how thy beauties wear
  78. Sonnet 78: So oft have I invoked thee for my Muse
  79. Sonnet 79: Whilst I alone did call upon thy aid
  80. Sonnet 80: O, how I faint when I of you do write
  81. Sonnet 81: Or I shall live your epitaph to make
  82. Sonnet 82: I grant thou wert not married to my Muse
  83. Sonnet 83: I never saw that you did painting need
  84. Sonnet 84: Who is it that says most, which can say more
  85. Sonnet 85: My tongue-tied Muse in manners holds her still
  86. Sonnet 86: Was it the proud full sail of his great verse
  87. Sonnet 87: Farewell! Thou art too dear for my possessing
  88. Sonnet 88: When thou shalt be disposed to set me light
  89. Sonnet 89: Say that thou didst forsake me for some fault
  90. Sonnet 90: Then hate me when thou wilt; if ever, now
  91. Sonnet 91: Some glory in their birth, some in their skill
  92. Sonnet 92: But do thy worst to steal thy self away
  93. Sonnet 93: So shall I live, supposing thou art true
  94. Sonnet 94: They that have power to hurt and will do none
  95. Sonnet 95: How sweet and lovely dost thou make the shame
  96. Sonnet 96: Some say thy fault is youth, some wantonness
  97. Sonnet 97: How like a winter hath my absence been
  98. Sonnet 98: From you have I been absent in the spring
  99. Sonnet 99: The forward violet thus did I chide




    Biographical information

      Name: William Shakespeare
      Place and date of birth: Stratford-upon-Avon, Warwickshire (England); April 26, 1564
      Place and date of death: Stratford-upon-Avon, Warwickshire (England); April 23, 1616 (aged 51)

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      Sonnet 1: From fairest creatures we desire increase

        From fairest creatures we desire increase,
        That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
        But as the riper should by time decease,
        His tender heir might bear his memory;
        But thou contracted to thine own bright eyes,
        Feed'st thy light's flame with self-substantial fuel,
        Making a famine where abundance lies,
        Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
        Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament,
        And only herald to the gaudy spring,
        Within thine own bud buriest thy content,
        And tender churl mak'st waste in niggarding.
        Pity the world, or else this glutton be:
        To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.

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      Sonnet 2: When forty winters shall besiege thy brow

        When forty winters shall besiege thy brow,
        And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
        Thy youth's proud livery so gazed on now,
        Will be a tattered weed of small worth held.
        Then being asked, where all thy beauty lies,
        Where all the treasure of thy lusty days,
        To say within thine own deep sunken eyes,
        Were an all-eating shame, and thriftless praise.
        How much more praise deserved thy beauty's use,
        If thou couldst answer, "This fair child of mine
        Shall sum my count, and make my old excuse,"
        Proving his beauty by succession thine.
        This were to be new made when thou art old,
        And see thy blood warm when thou feel'st it cold.

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      Sonnet 3: Look in thy glass, and tell the face thou viewest

        Look in thy glass, and tell the face thou viewest
        Now is the time that face should form another,
        Whose fresh repair if now thou not renewest,
        Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother.
        For where is she so fair whose uneared womb
        Disdains the tillage of thy husbandry?
        Or who is he so fond will be the tomb
        Of his self-love to stop posterity?
        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 remembered not to be,
        Die single, and thine image dies with thee.

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      Sonnet 4: Unthrifty loveliness, why dost thou spend

        Unthrifty loveliness, why dost thou spend
        Upon thy self thy beauty's legacy?
        Nature's bequest gives nothing, but doth lend,
        And being frank she lends to those are free.
        Then, beauteous niggard why dost thou abuse,
        The bounteous largess given thee to give?
        Profitless usurer, why dost thou use
        So great a sum of sums yet canst not live?
        For having traffic with thyself alone,
        Thou of thyself thy sweet self dost deceive.
        Then how when nature calls thee to be gone,
        What acceptable audit canst thou leave?
        Thy unused beauty must be tombed with thee,
        Which usèd, lives th' executor to be.

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      Sonnet 5: Those hours, that with gentle work did frame

        Those hours, that with gentle work did frame
        The lovely gaze where every eye doth dwell,
        Will play the tyrants to the very same
        And that unfair which fairly doth excel;
        For never-resting Time leads summer on
        To hideous winter and confounds him there,
        Sap checked with frost and lusty leaves quite gone,
        Beauty o'ersnowed and bareness everywhere.
        Then, were not summer's distillation left
        A liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass,
        Beauty's effect with beauty were bereft,
        Nor it nor no remembrance what it was.
        But flowers distilled, though they with winter meet,
        Leese but their show; their substance still lives sweet.

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      Sonnet 6: Then let not winter's ragged hand deface

        Then let not winter's ragged hand deface
        In thee thy summer ere thou be distilled.
        Make sweet some vial; treasure thou some place
        With beauty's treasure ere it be self-killed.
        That use is not forbidden usury
        Which happies those that pay the willing loan;
        That's for thyself to breed another thee,
        Or ten times happier, be it ten for one,
        Ten times thy self were happier than thou art,
        If ten of thine ten times refigured thee;
        Then what could death do, if thou shouldst depart,
        Leaving thee living in posterity?
        Be not self-willed, for thou art much too fair
        To be death's conquest and make worms thine heir.

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      Sonnet 7: Lo, in the orient when the gracious light

        Lo, in the orient when the gracious light
        Lifts up his burning head, each under eye
        Doth homage to his new-appearing sight,
        Serving with looks his sacred majesty;
        And having climbed the steep-up heavenly hill,
        Resembling strong youth in his middle age,
        Yet mortal looks adore his beauty still,
        Attending on his golden pilgrimage;
        But when from highmost pitch, with weary car,
        Like feeble age, he reeleth from the day,
        The eyes, 'fore duteous, now converted are
        From his low tract and look another way.
        So thou, thyself outgoing in thy noon,
        Unlooked on diest, unless thou get a son.

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      Sonnet 8: Music to hear, why hear'st thou music sadly?

        Music to hear, why hear'st thou music sadly?
        Sweets with sweets war not, joy delights in joy.
        Why lov'st thou that which thou receiv'st not gladly,
        Or else receiv'st with pleasure thine annoy?
        If the true concord of well-tunèd sounds,
        By unions married, do offend thine ear,
        They do but sweetly chide thee, who confounds
        In singleness the parts that thou shouldst bear.
        Mark how one string, sweet husband to another,
        Strikes each in each by mutual ordering,
        Resembling sire and child and happy mother,
        Who, all in one, one pleasing note do sing;
        Whose speechless song being many, seeming one,
        Sings this to thee: "Thou single wilt prove none."

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      Sonnet 9: Is it for fear to wet a widow's eye

        Is it for fear to wet a widow's eye,
        That thou consum'st thy self in single life?
        Ah, if thou issueless shalt hap to die,
        The world will wail thee like a makeless wife.
        The world will be thy widow and still weep,
        That thou no form of thee hast left behind,
        When every private widow well may keep,
        By children's eyes, her husband's shape in mind.
        Look what an unthrift in the world doth spend
        Shifts but his place, for still the world enjoys it;
        But beauty's waste hath in the world an end,
        And kept unused the user so destroys it.
        No love toward others in that bosom sits
        That on himself such murd'rous shame commits.

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      Sonnet 10: For shame, deny that thou bear'st love to any

        For shame, deny that thou bear'st love to any
        Who for thy self art so unprovident.
        Grant, if thou wilt, thou art beloved of many,
        But that thou none lov'st is most evident;
        For thou art so possessed with murd'rous hate,
        That 'gainst thy self thou stick'st not to conspire,
        Seeking that beauteous roof to ruinate
        Which to repair should be thy chief desire.
        O, change thy thought, that I may change my mind!
        Shall hate be fairer lodged than gentle love?
        Be as thy presence is gracious and kind,
        Or to thy self at least kind-hearted prove,
        Make thee another self, for love of me,
        That beauty still may live in thine or thee.

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      Sonnet 11: As fast as thou shalt wane, so fast thou grow'st

        As fast as thou shalt wane, so fast thou grow'st
        In one of thine, from that which thou departest,
        And that fresh blood which youngly thou bestow'st,
        Thou mayst call thine when thou from youth convertest.
        Herein lives wisdom, beauty, and increase;
        Without this folly, age, and cold decay,
        If all were minded so, the times should cease,
        And threescore year would make the world away.
        Let those whom Nature hath not made for store,
        Harsh, featureless, and rude, barrenly perish;
        Look whom she best endowed, she gave the more,
        Which bounteous gift thou shouldst in bounty cherish.
        She carved thee for her seal, and meant thereby,
        Thou shouldst print more, not let that copy die.

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      Sonnet 12: When I do count the clock that tells the time

        When I do count the clock that tells the time,
        And see the brave day sunk in hideous night;
        When I behold the violet past prime,
        And sable curls all silvered o'er with white;
        When lofty trees I see barren of leaves
        Which erst from heat did canopy the herd,
        And summer's green all girded up in sheaves
        Borne on the bier with white and bristly beard,
        Then of thy beauty do I question make
        That thou among the wastes of time must go,
        Since sweets and beauties do themselves forsake
        And die as fast as they see others grow;
        And nothing 'gainst Time's scythe can make defence
        Save breed, to brave him when he takes thee hence.

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      Sonnet 13: O, that you were your self! But, love, you are

        O, that you were your self! But, love, you are
        No longer yours than you yourself here live.
        Against this coming end you should prepare,
        And your sweet semblance to some other give.
        So should that beauty which you hold in lease
        Find no determination; then you were
        Yourself again after yourself's decease,
        When your sweet issue your sweet form should bear.
        Who lets so fair a house fall to decay,
        Which husbandry in honour might uphold
        Against the stormy gusts of winter's day
        And barren rage of death's eternal cold?
        O, none but unthrifts! Dear my love, you know,
        You had a father; let your son say so.

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      Sonnet 14: Not from the stars do I my judgement pluck

        Not from the stars do I my judgement pluck,
        And yet methinks I have astronomy—
        But not to tell of good or evil luck,
        Of plagues, of dearths, or seasons' quality;
        Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell,
        'Pointing to each his thunder, rain, and wind,
        Or say with princes if it shall go well
        By oft predict that I in heaven find.
        But from thine eyes my knowledge I derive,
        And, constant stars, in them I read such art
        As truth and beauty shall together thrive
        If from thy self to store thou wouldst convert;
        Or else of thee this I prognosticate:
        Thy end is truth's and beauty's doom and date.

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      Sonnet 15: When I consider every thing that grows

        When I consider every thing that grows
        Holds in perfection but a little moment.
        That this huge stage presenteth nought but shows
        Whereon the stars in secret influence comment.
        When I perceive that men as plants increase,
        Cheerèd and checked even by the self-same sky,
        Vaunt in their youthful sap, at height decrease,
        And wear their brave state out of memory;
        Then the conceit of this inconstant stay,
        Sets you most rich in youth before my sight,
        Where wasteful Time debateth with decay
        To change your day of youth to sullied night;
        And all in war with Time for love of you,
        As he takes from you, I engraft you new.

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      Sonnet 16: But wherefore do not you a mightier way

        But wherefore do not you a mightier way
        Make war upon this bloody tyrant, Time,
        And fortify your self in your decay
        With means more blessèd than my barren rhyme?
        Now stand you on the top of happy hours,
        And many maiden gardens yet unset,
        With virtuous wish would bear you living flowers,
        Much liker than your painted counterfeit:
        So should the lines of life that life repair
        Which this, Time's pencil, or my pupil pen
        Neither in inward worth nor outward fair
        Can make you live your self in eyes of men.
        To give away your self keeps your self still,
        And you must live drawn by your own sweet skill.

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      Sonnet 17: Who will believe my verse in time to come

        Who will believe my verse in time to come
        If it were filled with your most high deserts?
        Though yet heaven knows it is but as a tomb
        Which hides your life, and shows not half your parts:
        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 touched earthly faces."
        So should my papers, yellowed with their age,
        Be scorned like old men of less truth than tongue,
        And your true rights be termed a poet's rage,
        And stretchèd metre of an antique song.
        But were some child of yours alive that time,
        You should live twice, in it and in my rhyme.

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      Sonnet 18: Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?

        Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
        Thou art more lovely and more temperate.
        Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
        And summer's lease hath all too short a date.
        Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
        And often is his gold complexion dimmed;
        And every fair from fair sometime declines,
        By chance, or nature's changing course untrimmed.
        But thy eternal summer shall not fade
        Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st;
        Nor shall death brag thou wand'rest in his shade,
        When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st,
        So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
        So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

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      Sonnet 19: Devouring Time blunt thou the lion's paws

        Devouring Time blunt thou the lion's paws,
        And make the earth devour her own sweet brood,
        Pluck the keen teeth from the fierce tiger's jaws,
        And burn the long-lived phoenix, in her blood,
        Make glad and sorry seasons as thou fleet'st,
        And do whate'er thou wilt swift-footed Time
        To the wide world and all her fading sweets.
        But I forbid thee one most heinous crime:
        O carve not with thy hours my love's fair brow,
        Nor draw no lines there with thine antique pen,
        Him in thy course untainted do allow,
        For beauty's pattern to succeeding men.
        Yet do thy worst old Time: despite thy wrong,
        My love shall in my verse ever live young.

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      Sonnet 20: A woman's face with Nature's own hand painted

        A woman's face with Nature's own hand painted
        Hast thou, the master-mistress of my passion;
        A woman's gentle heart, but not acquainted
        With shifting change, as is false women's fashion;
        An eye more bright than theirs, less false in rolling,
        Gilding the object whereupon it gazeth;
        A man in hue, all hues in his controlling,
        Which steals men's eyes and women's souls amazeth.
        And for a woman wert thou first created,
        Till Nature, as she wrought thee, fell a-doting,
        And by addition me of thee defeated,
        By adding one thing to my purpose nothing.
        But since she pricked thee out for women's pleasure,
        Mine be thy love and thy love's use their treasure.

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      Sonnet 21: So is it not with me as with that muse

        So is it not with me as with that muse,
        Stirred by a painted beauty to his verse,
        Who heaven it self for ornament doth use
        And every fair with his fair doth rehearse,
        Making a couplement of proud compare
        With sun and moon, with earth and sea's rich gems,
        With April's first-born flowers, and all things rare
        That heaven's air in this huge rondure hems.
        O, let me, true in love, but truly write,
        And then, believe me, my love is as fair
        As any mother's child, though not so bright
        As those gold candles fixed in heaven's air.
        Let them say more that like of hearsay well;
        I will not praise that purpose not to sell.

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      Sonnet 22: My glass shall not persuade me I am old

        My glass shall not persuade me I am old
        So long as youth and thou are of one date;
        But when in thee Time's furrows I behold,
        Then look I death my days should expiate.
        For all that beauty that doth cover thee
        Is but the seemly raiment of my heart,
        Which in thy breast doth live, as thine in me.
        How can I then be elder than thou art?
        O, therefore, love, be of thyself so wary
        As I not for myself, but for thee will,
        Bearing thy heart, which I will keep so chary
        As tender nurse her babe from faring ill.
        Presume not on thy heart when mine is slain;
        Thou gav'st me thine, not to give back again.

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      Sonnet 23: As an unperfect actor on the stage

        As an unperfect actor on the stage
        Who with his fear is put beside his part,
        Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage,
        Whose strength's abundance weakens his own heart,
        So I, for fear of trust, forget to say
        The perfect ceremony of love's rite,
        And in mine own love's strength seem to decay,
        O'ercharged with burden of mine own love's might.
        O, let my books be then the eloquence
        And dumb presagers of my speaking breast,
        Who plead for love, and look for recompense
        More than that tongue that more hath more expressed.
        O, learn to read what silent love hath writ,
        To hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit.

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      Sonnet 24: Mine eye hath played the painter and hath stelled

        Mine eye hath played the painter and hath stelled
        Thy beauty's form in table of my heart;
        My body is the frame wherein 'tis held,
        And perspective it is best painter's art.
        For through the painter must you see his skill
        To find where your true image pictured 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.

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      Sonnet 25: Let those who are in favour with their stars

        Let those who are in favour with their stars
        Of public honour and proud titles boast,
        Whilst I, whom fortune of such triumph bars,
        Unlooked 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,
        After a thousand victories once foiled,
        Is from the book of honour razèd quite,
        And all the rest forgot for which he toiled.
        Then happy I that love and am beloved
        Where I may not remove nor be removed.

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      Sonnet 26: Lord of my love, to whom in vassalage

        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 aspect,
        And puts apparel on my tattered loving
        To show me worthy of thy sweet respect.
        Then may I dare to boast how I do love thee;
        Till then not show my head where thou mayst prove me.

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      Sonnet 27: Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed

        Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed,
        The dear respose for limbs with travel tirèd;
        But then begins a journey in my head
        To work my mind, when body's work's expirèd.
        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 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.

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      Sonnet 28: How can I then return in happy plight

        How can I then return in happy plight
        That am debarred the benefit of rest?
        When day's oppression is not eased by night,
        But day by night, and night by day oppressed?
        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-complexioned 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 length seem stronger.

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      Sonnet 29: When in disgrace with Fortune and men's eyes

        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,
        Featured like him, like him with friends possessed,
        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 remembered such wealth brings
        That then I scorn to change my state with kings.

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      Sonnet 30: When to the sessions of sweet silent thought

        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, unused to flow,
        For precious friends hid in death's dateless night,
        And weep afresh love's long since cancelled woe,
        And moan th' expense of many a vanished 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 restored and sorrows end.

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      Sonnet 31: Thy bosom is endearèd with all hearts

        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 stol'n from mine eye
        As interest of the dead, which now appear
        But things 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.
        Their images I loved, I view in thee,
        And thou, all they, hast all the all of me.

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      Sonnet 32: If thou survive my well-contented day

        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 bett'ring of the time,
        And though they be outstripped 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."

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      Sonnet 33: Full many a glorious morning have I seen

        Full many a glorious morning have I seen
        Flatter the mountaintops 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 masked 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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      Sonnet 34: Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day

        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 brav'ry 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.
        Th' 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.

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      Sonnet 35: No more be grieved at that which thou hast done

        No more be grieved 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 my self 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.

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      Sonnet 36: Let me confess that we two must be twain

        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 bewailèd 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.

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      Sonnet 37: As a decrepit father takes delight

        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 crownèd sit,
        I make my love engrafted to this store.
        So then I am not lame, poor, nor despised,
        Whilst that this shadow doth such substance give
        That I in thy abundance am sufficed
        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!

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      Sonnet 38: How can my Muse want subject to invent

        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 thyself the thanks, if aught in me
        Worthy perusal stand against thy sight,
        For who's so dumb that cannot write to thee,
        When thou thyself 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.

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      Sonnet 39: O, how thy worth with manners may I sing

        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!

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      Sonnet 40: Take all my loves, my love, yea, take them all

        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 blamed, if thou thy self deceivest
        By wilful taste of what thy self 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 love's wrong, than hate's known injury.
        Lascivious grace, in whom all ill well shows,
        Kill me with spites; yet we must not be foes.

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      Sonnet 41: Those pretty wrongs that liberty commits

        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 assailed;
        And when a woman woos, what woman's son
        Will sourly leave her till he have prevailed?
        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.

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      Sonnet 42: That thou hast her, it is not all my grief

        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,
        Suff'ring 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.

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      Sonnet 43: When most I wink, then do mine eyes best see

        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 blessèd 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.

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      Sonnet 44: If the dull substance of my flesh were thought

        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 removed 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.

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      Sonnet 45: The other two, slight air and purging fire

        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, oppressed with melancholy;
        Until life's composition be recured
        By those swift messengers returned from thee,
        Who even but now come back again, assured
        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.

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      Sonnet 46: Mine eye and heart are at a mortal war

        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 pierced with crystal eyes—
        But the defendant doth that plea deny,
        And says in him thy fair appearance lies.
        To 'cide this title is impanellèd
        A quest of thoughts, all tenants to the heart,
        And by their verdict is determinèd
        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.

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      Sonnet 47: Betwixt mine eye and heart a league is took

        Betwixt mine eye and heart a league is took,
        And each doth good turns now unto the other,
        When that mine eye is famished 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,
        Thyself, 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.

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      Sonnet 48: How careful was I, when I took my way

        How careful was I, when I took my way,
        Each trifle under truest bars to thrust,
        That to my use it might unusèd 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 locked 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.

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      Sonnet 49: Against that time, if ever that time come

        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,
        Called to that audit by advised 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 desart,
        And this my hand, against myself 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.

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      Sonnet 50: How heavy do I journey on the way

        How heavy do I journey on the way,
        When what I seek, my weary travel's end,
        Doth teach that case 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 loved 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.

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      Sonnet 51: Thus can my love excuse the slow offence

        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 wingèd speed no 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.

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      Sonnet 52: So am I as the rich whose blessèd key

        So am I as the rich whose blessèd key
        Can bring him to his sweet up-lockèd 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 placèd 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 imprisoned pride.
        Blessèd are you whose worthiness gives scope,
        Being had to triumph, being lacked to hope.

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      Sonnet 53: What is your substance, whereof are you made

        What is your substance, whereof are you made,
        That millions of strange shadows on you tend?
        Since everyone 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 blessèd shape we know.
        In all external grace you have some part,
        But you like none, none you, for constant heart.

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      Sonnet 54: O, how much more doth beauty beauteous seem

        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 perfumèd tincture of the roses,
        Hang on such thorns, and play as wantonly
        When summer's breath their maskèd buds discloses;
        But, for their virtue only is their show,
        They live unwooed 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.

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      Sonnet 55: Not marble, nor the gilded monuments

        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 besmeared 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.

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      Sonnet 56: Sweet love, renew thy force, be it not said

        Sweet love, renew thy force! Be it not said
        Thy edge should blunter be than appetite,
        Which but today by feeding is allayed,
        Tomorrow sharpened in his former might.
        So, love, be thou, although today thou fill
        Thy hungry eyes, even till they wink with fulness,
        Tomorrow see again, and do not kill
        The spirit of love with a perpetual dullness.
        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;
        As call it winter, which being full of care
        Makes summer's welcome thrice more wished, more rare.

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      Sonnet 57: Being your slave, what should I do but tend

        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 naught
        Save where you are, how happy you make those.
        So true a fool is love that in your will,
        Though you do any thing, he thinks no ill.

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      Sonnet 58: That god forbid, that made me first your slave

        That god forbid, that made me first your slave,
        I should in thought control your times of pleasure,
        Or at your hand th' account of hours to crave,
        Being your vassal bound to stay your leisure!
        O, let me suffer, being at your beck,
        Th' imprisoned 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 your self may privilage your time
        To what you will; to you it doth belong
        Your self to pardon of self-doing crime.
        I am to wait, though waiting so be hell,
        Not blame your pleasure, be it ill or well.

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      Sonnet 59: If there be nothing new, but that which is

        If there be nothing new, but that which is
        Hath been before, how are our brains beguiled,
        Which, labouring for invention bear amis
        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 composèd wonder of your frame;
        Whether we are mended, or whe'er better they,
        Or whether revolution be the same.
        O, sure I am the wits of former days
        To subjects worse have given admiring praise.

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      Sonnet 60: Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore

        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 crowned,
        Crookèd 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.

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      Sonnet 61: Is it thy will thy image should keep open

        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.

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      Sonnet 62: Sin of self-love possesseth all mine eye

        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 my self mine own worth do define,
        As I all other in all worths surmount.
        But when my glass shows me myself indeed
        Beated and chapped with tanned antiquity,
        Mine own self-love quite contrary I read;
        Self so self-loving were iniquity.
        'Tis thee, myself, that for my self I praise,
        Painting my age with beauty of thy days.

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      Sonnet 63: Against my love shall be, as I am now

        Against my love shall be, as I am now,
        With Time's injurious hand crushed and o'erworn;
        When hours have drained his blood and filled his brow
        With lines and wrinkles; when his youthful morn
        Hath travelled 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.

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      Sonnet 64: When I have seen by Time's fell hand defaced

        When I have seen by Time's fell hand defaced
        The rich-proud cost of outworn buried age;
        When sometime lofty towers I see down-razed
        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 it self 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.

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      Sonnet 65: Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea

        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 batt'ring 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.

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      Sonnet 66: Tired with all these, for restful death I cry

        Tired with all these, for restful death I cry,
        As to behold desert a beggar born,
        And needy nothing trimmed in jollity,
        And purest faith unhappily forsworn,
        And gilded honour shamefully misplaced,
        And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted,
        And right perfection wrongfully disgraced,
        And strength by limping sway disablèd
        And art made tongue-tied by authority,
        And folly doctor-like controlling skill,
        And simple truth miscalled simplicity,
        And captive good attending captain ill.
        Tired with all these, from these would I be gone,
        Save that to die, I leave my love alone.

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      Sonnet 67: Ah, wherefore with infection should he live

        Ah, wherefore with infection should he live,
        And with his presence grace impiety,
        That sin by him advantage should achieve,
        And lace it self with his society?
        Why should false painting imitate his cheek,
        And steal 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,
        Beggared 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.

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      Sonnet 68: Thus is his cheek the map of days outworn

        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.

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      Sonnet 69: Those parts of thee that the world's eye doth view

        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,
        Utt'ring bare truth, even so as foes commend.
        Thy outward thus with outward praise is crowned,
        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.

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      Sonnet 70: That thou art blamed shall not be thy defect

        That thou art blamed 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 wooed of time,
        For canker vice the sweetest buds doth love,
        And thou present'st a pure unstainèd prime.
        Thou hast passed by the ambush of young days,
        Either not assailed, or victor being charged;
        Yet this thy praise cannot be so thy praise,
        To tie up envy, evermore enlarged.
        If some suspect of ill masked not thy show,
        Then thou alone kingdoms of hearts shouldst owe.

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      Sonnet 71: No longer mourn for me when I am dead

        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.

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      Sonnet 72: O, lest the world should task you to recite

        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 deceasèd 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.

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      Sonnet 73: That time of year thou mayst in me behold

        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 ruined choirs where late the sweet birds sang.
        In me thou seest 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 seest the glowing of such fire
        That on the ashes of his youth doth lie
        As the death-bed whereon it must expire,
        Consumed with that which it was nourished by.
        This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong,
        To love that well which thou must leave ere long.

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      Sonnet 74: But be contented when that fell arrest

        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 rememberèd,
        The worth of that is that which it contains,
        And that is this, and this with thee remains.

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      Sonnet 75: So are you to my thoughts as food to life

        So are you to my thoughts as food to life,
        Or as sweet-seasoned 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 bettered that the world may see my pleasure;
        Sometimes all full with feasting on your sight,
        And by and by clean starvèd 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.

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      Sonnet 76: Why is my verse so barren of new pride?

        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.

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      Sonnet 77: Thy glass will show thee how thy beauties wear

        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 mouthèd 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, delivered 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.

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      Sonnet 78: So oft have I invoked thee for my Muse

        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 learnèd'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 gracèd be.
        But thou art all my art, and dost advance
        As high as learning my rude ignorance.

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      Sonnet 79: Whilst I alone did call upon thy aid

        Whilst I alone did call upon thy aid,
        My verse alone had all thy gentle grace,
        But now my gracious numbers are decayed,
        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.

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      Sonnet 80: O, how I faint when I of you do write

        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 wrecked, 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.

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      Sonnet 81: Or I shall live your epitaph to make

        Or I shall live your epitaph to make,
        Or you survive when I in earth am rotten,
        From hence your memory death cannot take,
        Although in me each part will be forgotten.
        Your name from hence immortal life shall have,
        Though I, once gone, to all the world must die;
        The earth can yield me but a common grave,
        When you entombèd in men's eyes shall lie.
        Your monument shall be my gentle verse,
        Which eyes not yet created shall o'er-read,
        And tongues to be your being shall rehearse
        When all the breathers of this world are dead.
        You still shall live—such virtue hath my pen—
        Where breath most breathes, even in the mouths of men.

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      Sonnet 82: I grant thou wert not married to my Muse

        I grant thou wert not married to my Muse,
        And therefore mayst without attaint o'erlook
        The dedicated words which writers use
        Of their fair subject, blessing every book.
        Thou art as fair in knowledge as in hue,
        Finding thy worth a limit past my praise,
        And therefore art enforced to seek anew
        Some fresher stamp of the time-bettering days.
        And do so, love, yet when they have devised
        What strainèd touches rhetoric can lend,
        Thou, truly fair, wert truly sympathized
        In true plain words by thy true-telling friend;
        And their gross painting might be better used
        Where cheeks need blood; in thee it is abused.

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      Sonnet 83: I never saw that you did painting need

        I never saw that you did painting need,
        And therefore to your fair no painting set;
        I found, or thought I found, you did exceed
        That barren tender of a poet's debt;
        And therefore have I slept in your report,
        That you yourself being extant well might show
        How far a modern quill doth come too short,
        Speaking of worth, what worth in you doth grow.
        This silence for my sin you did impute,
        Which shall be most my glory, being dumb,
        For I impair not beauty, being mute,
        When others would give life and bring a tomb.
        There lives more life in one of your fair eyes,
        Than both your poets can in praise devise.

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      Sonnet 84: Who is it that says most, which can say more

        Who is it that says most, which can say more,
        Than this rich praise -- that you alone are you,
        In whose confine immurèd is the store
        Which should example where your equal grew?
        Lean penury within that pen doth dwell
        That to his subject lends not some small glory;
        But he that writes of you, if he can tell
        That you are you, so dignifies his story.
        Let him but copy what in you is writ,
        Not making worse what nature made so clear,
        And such a counterpart shall fame his wit,
        Making his style admirèd everywhere.
        You to your beauteous blessings add a curse,
        Being fond on praise, which makes your praises worse.

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      Sonnet 85: My tongue-tied Muse in manners holds her still

        My tongue-tied Muse in manners holds her still,
        While comments of your praise, richly compiled,
        Reserve their character with golden quill,
        And precious phrase by all the Muses filed.
        I think good thoughts, whilst other write good words,
        And like unlettered clerk still cry "Amen"
        To every hymn that able spirit affords
        In polished form of well-refinèd pen.
        Hearing you praised, I say "'Tis so, 'tis true,"
        And to the most of praise add something more;
        But that is in my thought, whose love to you,
        Though words come hindmost, holds his rank before.
        Then others for the breath of words respect,
        Me for my dumb thoughts, speaking in effect.

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      Sonnet 86: Was it the proud full sail of his great verse

        Was it the proud full sail of his great verse,
        Bound for the prize of all-too-precious you,
        That did my ripe thoughts in my brain inhearse,
        Making their tomb the womb wherein they grew?
        Was it his spirit, by spirits taught to write
        Above a mortal pitch, that struck me dead?
        No, neither he, nor his compeers by night
        Giving him aid, my verse astonishèd.
        He nor that affable familiar ghost
        Which nightly gulls him with intelligence,
        As victors of my silence cannot boast;
        I was not sick of any fear from thence.
        But when your countenance filled up his line,
        Then lacked I matter, that enfeebled mine.

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      Sonnet 87: Farewell! Thou art too dear for my possessing

        Farewell! Thou art too dear for my possessing,
        And like enough thou know'st thy estimate,
        The charter of thy worth gives thee releasing;
        My bonds in thee are all determinate.
        For how do I hold thee but by thy granting,
        And for that riches where is my deserving?
        The cause of this fair gift in me is wanting,
        And so my patent back again is swerving.
        Thyself thou gav'st, thy own worth then not knowing,
        Or me, to whom thou gav'st it, else mistaking;
        So thy great gift upon misprision growing,
        Comes home again, on better judgement making.
        Thus have I had thee as a dream doth flatter,
        In sleep a king, but waking no such matter.

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      Sonnet 88: When thou shalt be disposed to set me light

        When thou shalt be disposed 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 concealed, 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.

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      Sonnet 89: Say that thou didst forsake me for some fault

        Say that thou didst forsake me for some fault,
        And I will comment upon that offence;
        Speak of my lameness, and I straight will halt,
        Against thy reasons making no defence.
        Thou canst not, love, disgrace me half so ill,
        To set a form upon desirèd change,
        As I'll my self disgrace, knowing thy will,
        I will acquaintance strangle and look strange,
        Be absent from thy walks and in my tongue
        Thy sweet belovèd name no more shall dwell,
        Lest I, too much profane, should do it wrong
        And haply of our old acquaintance tell.
        For thee against myself I'll vow debate,
        For I must ne'er love him whom thou dost hate.

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      Sonnet 90: Then hate me when thou wilt; if ever, now

        Then hate me when thou wilt; if ever, now;
        Now, while the world is bent my deeds to cross,
        join with the spite of fortune, make me bow,
        And do not drop in for an after-loss.
        Ah, do not, when my heart hath 'scaped this sorrow,
        Come in the rearward of a conquered woe;
        Give not a windy night a rainy morrow,
        To linger out a purposed overthrow.
        If thou wilt leave me, do not leave me last,
        When other petty griefs have done their spite,
        But in the onset come; so shall I taste
        At first the very worst of fortune's might,
        And other strains of woe, which now seem woe,
        Compared with loss of thee will not seem so.

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      Sonnet 91: Some glory in their birth, some in their skill

        Some glory in their birth, some in their skill,
        Some in their wealth, some in their body's force,
        Some in their garments though new-fangled ill,
        Some in their hawks and hounds, some in their horse;
        And every humour hath his adjunct pleasure,
        Wherein it finds a joy above the rest,
        But these particulars are not my measure;
        All these I better in one general best.
        Thy love is better than high birth to me,
        Richer than wealth, prouder than garments' costs,
        Of more delight than hawks and horses be;
        And having thee, of all men's pride I boast—
        Wretched in this alone, that thou mayst take,
        All this away and me most wretched make.

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      Sonnet 92: But do thy worst to steal thy self away

        But do thy worst to steal thy self away,
        For term of life thou art assurèd mine,
        And life no longer than thy love will stay,
        For it depends upon that love of thine.
        Then need I not to fear the worst of wrongs,
        When in the least of them my life hath end;
        I see a better state to me belongs
        Than that, which on thy humour doth depend.
        Thou canst not vex me with inconstant mind,
        Since that my life on thy revolt doth lie.
        O, what a happy title do I find,
        Happy to have thy love, happy to die!
        But what's so blessèd-fair that fears no blot?
        Thou mayst be false, and yet I know it not.

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      Sonnet 93: So shall I live, supposing thou art true

        So shall I live, supposing thou art true,
        Like a deceivèd husband; so love's face
        May still seem love to me, though altered new,
        Thy looks with me, thy heart in other place.
        For there can live no hatred in thine eye,
        Therefore in that I cannot know thy change.
        In many's looks, the false heart's history
        Is writ in moods and frowns and wrinkles strange,
        But heaven in thy creation did decree
        That in thy face sweet love should ever dwell;
        Whate'er thy thoughts, or thy heart's workings be,
        Thy looks should nothing thence but sweetness tell.
        How like Eve's apple doth thy beauty grow,
        If thy sweet virtue answer not thy show!

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      Sonnet 94: They that have power to hurt and will do none

        They that have power to hurt and will do none,
        That do not do the thing, they most do show,
        Who, moving others, are themselves as stone,
        Unmovèd, cold, and to temptation slow,
        They rightly do inherit heaven's graces,
        And husband nature's riches from expense;
        They are the lords and owners of their faces,
        Others, but stewards of their excellence.
        The summer's flower is to the summer sweet,
        Though to itself, it only live and die,
        But if that flower with base infection meet,
        The basest weed outbraves his dignity.
        For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds;
        Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds.

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      Sonnet 95: How sweet and lovely dost thou make the shame

        How sweet and lovely dost thou make the shame
        Which, like a canker in the fragrant rose,
        Doth spot the beauty of thy budding name!
        O, in what sweets dost thou thy sins enclose!
        That tongue that tells the story of thy days,
        Making lascivious comments on thy sport,
        Cannot dispraise, but in a kind of praise,
        Naming thy name, blesses an ill report.
        O, what a mansion have those vices got
        Which for their habitation chose out thee,
        Where beauty's veil doth cover every blot,
        And all things turns to fair that eyes can see!
        Take heed, dear heart, of this large privilege;
        The hardest knife ill-used doth lose his edge.

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      Sonnet 96: Some say thy fault is youth, some wantonness

        Some say thy fault is youth, some wantonness;
        Some say thy grace is youth and gentle sport;
        Both grace and faults are loved of more and less;
        Thou mak'st faults graces that to thee resort.
        As on the finger of a thronèd queen,
        The basest jewel will be well esteemed.
        So are those errors that in thee are seen
        To truths translated, and for true things deemed.
        How many lambs might the stern wolf betray,
        If like a lamb he could his looks translate!
        How many gazers mightst thou lead away,
        if thou wouldst use the strength of all thy state!
        But do not so; I love thee in such sort
        As thou being mine, mine is thy good report.

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      Sonnet 97: How like a winter hath my absence been

        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 everywhere!
        And yet this time removed was summer's time,
        The teeming autumn, big with rich increase,
        Bearing the wanton burden of the prime,
        Like widowed wombs after their lords' decease:
        Yet this abundant issue seemed to me
        But hope of orphans, and unfathered fruit,
        For summer and his pleasures wait on thee,
        And thou away, the very birds are mute.
        Or, if they sing, 'tis with so dull a cheer,
        That leaves look pale, dreading the winter's near.

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      Sonnet 98: From you have I been absent in the spring

        From you have I been absent in the spring,
        When proud-pied April, dressed in all his trim,
        Hath put a spirit of youth in every thing,
        That heavy Saturn laughed and leaped with him.
        Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell
        Of different flowers in odour and in hue
        Could make me any summer's story tell,
        Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew.
        Nor did I wonder at the lily's white,
        Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose;
        They were but sweet, but figures of delight
        Drawn after you, you pattern of all those.
        Yet seemed it winter still, and you away,
        As with your shadow I with these did play.

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      Sonnet 99: The forward violet thus did I chide

        The forward violet thus did I chide:
        "Sweet thief, whence didst thou steal thy sweet that smells,
        If not from my love's breath? The purple pride
        Which on thy soft check for complexion dwells
        In my love's veins thou hast too grossly dyed."
        The lily I condemnèd for thy hand,
        And buds of marjoram had stol'n thy hair;
        The roses fearfully on thorns did stand,
        One blushing shame, another white despair;
        A third, nor red, nor white, had stol'n of both,
        And to his robbery had annexed thy breath,
        But, for his theft, in pride of all his growth
        A vengeful canker eat him up to death.
        More flowers I noted, yet I none could see,
        But sweet or colour it had stol'n from thee.

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