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diff --git a/files/shakespeare.txt b/files/shakespeare.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9e7b599 --- /dev/null +++ b/files/shakespeare.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2469 @@ +THE SONNETS + +by William Shakespeare + +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, +Thy self 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. + +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. + +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. + +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 thy self alone, +Thou of thy self 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 used lives th' executor to be. + +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'er-snowed and bareness every where: +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. + +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 thy self 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. + +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, thy self out-going in thy noon: +Unlooked on diest unless thou get a son. + +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-tuned 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'. + +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. + +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. + +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 thee 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. + +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. + +O that you were your self, but love you are +No longer yours, than you your self 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 +Your self again after your self'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. + +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. + +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, +Cheered 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. + +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 blessed 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. + +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 stretched metre of an antique song. +But were some child of yours alive that time, +You should live twice in it, and in my rhyme. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 my self, 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. + +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 burthen of mine own love's might: +O let my looks 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. + +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 glazed with thine eyes: +Now see what good turns eyes for eyes have done, +Mine eyes have drawn thy shape, and thine for me +Are windows to my breast, where-through the sun +Delights to peep, to gaze therein on thee; +Yet eyes this cunning want to grace their art, +They draw but what they see, know not the heart. + +Let those who are in favour with their stars, +Of public honour and proud titles boast, +Whilst I whom fortune of such triumph bars +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 buried, +For at a frown they in their glory die. +The painful warrior famoused for fight, +After a thousand victories once foiled, +Is from the book of honour razed 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. + +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. + +Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed, +The dear respose for limbs with travel tired, +But then begins a journey in my head +To work my mind, when body's work's expired. +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 my self, no quiet find. + +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 + +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 my self 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 my self 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. + +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-bemoaned 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. + +Thy bosom is endeared with all hearts, +Which I by lacking have supposed dead, +And there reigns love and all love's loving parts, +And all those friends which I thought buried. +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. + +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 deceased 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'. + +Full many a glorious morning have I seen, +Flatter the mountain tops with sovereign eye, +Kissing with golden face the meadows green; +Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy: +Anon permit the basest clouds to ride, +With ugly rack on his celestial face, +And from the 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. + +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. + + + +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, +My self 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. + +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 bewailed 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. + +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 crowned 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. + +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 thy self the thanks if aught in me, +Worthy perusal stand against thy sight, +For who's so dumb that cannot write to thee, +When thou thy self 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. + +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. + +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 greater wrong, than hate's known injury. +Lascivious grace, in whom all ill well shows, +Kill me with spites yet we must not be foes. + +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. + +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. + +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 blessed 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. + +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. + +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. + +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 side this title is impanelled +A quest of thoughts, all tenants to the heart, +And by their verdict is determined +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. + +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, +Thy self 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. + +How careful was I when I took my way, +Each trifle under truest bars to thrust, +That to my use it might unused 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. + +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 desert, +And this my hand, against my self 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. + +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. + +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 winged 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. + +So am I as the rich whose blessed key, +Can bring him to his sweet up-locked 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 placed 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. +Blessed are you whose worthiness gives scope, +Being had to triumph, being lacked to hope. + +What is your substance, whereof are you made, +That millions of strange shadows on you tend? +Since every one, 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 blessed 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! +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 perfumed tincture of the roses, +Hang on such thorns, and play as wantonly, +When summer's breath their masked 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. + +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 your self arise, +You live in this, and dwell in lovers' eyes. + +Sweet love renew thy force, be it not said +Thy edge should blunter be than appetite, +Which but to-day by feeding is allayed, +To-morrow sharpened in his former might. +So love be thou, although to-day thou fill +Thy hungry eyes, even till they wink with fulness, +To-morrow see again, and do not kill +The spirit of love, with a perpetual dulness: +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. +Or call it winter, which being full of care, +Makes summer's welcome, thrice more wished, more rare. + +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 nought +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. + +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. + +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 composed wonder of your frame, +Whether we are mended, or whether better they, +Or whether revolution be the same. +O sure I am the wits of former days, +To subjects worse have given admiring praise. + +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, +Crooked 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. + +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. + +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 my self indeed +beated and chopt with tanned antiquity, +Mine own self-love quite contrary I read: +Self, so self-loving were iniquity. +'Tis thee (my self) that for my self I praise, +Painting my age with beauty of thy days. + +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. + +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-rased, +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. + +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. + +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 disabled +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. + +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. + +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, it self 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. + +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, +Uttering 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. + + + +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 unstained 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. + + + +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. + + + +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 deceased 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. + + + +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. + + + +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 remembered, +The worth of that, is that which it contains, +And that is this, and this with thee remains. + + + +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, +Sometime all full with feasting on your sight, +And by and by clean starved 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. + + + +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. + + + +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 mouthed 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. + + + +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 learned'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 graced be. +But thou art all my art, and dost advance +As high as learning, my rude ignorance. + + + +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 thy self dost pay. + + + +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. + + + +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 entombed 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. + + + +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 strained 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. + + + +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 your self 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. + + + +Who is it that says most, which can say more, +Than this rich praise, that you alone, are you? +In whose confine immured 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 admired every where. +You to your beauteous blessings add a curse, +Being fond on praise, which makes your praises worse. + + + +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 refined 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. + + + +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 astonished. +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. + + + +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. +Thy self 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. + + + +When thou shalt be disposed to set me light, +And place my merit in the eye of scorn, +Upon thy side, against my self 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 my self I do, +Doing thee vantage, double-vantage me. +Such is my love, to thee I so belong, +That for thy right, my self will bear all wrong. + + + +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 desired 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 beloved name no more shall dwell, +Lest I (too much profane) should do it wronk: +And haply of our old acquaintance tell. +For thee, against my self I'll vow debate, +For I must ne'er love him whom thou dost hate. + + + +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. + + + +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 wretchcd make. + + + +But do thy worst to steal thy self away, +For term of life thou art assured 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 blessed-fair that fears no blot? +Thou mayst be false, and yet I know it not. + + + +So shall I live, supposing thou art true, +Like a deceived 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. + + + +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, +Unmoved, cold, and to temptation slow: +They rightly do inherit heaven's graces, +And husband nature's riches from expense, +Tibey 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 it self, 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. + + + +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. + + + +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 throned 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. + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +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 condemned 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. + + + +Where art thou Muse that thou forget'st so long, +To speak of that which gives thee all thy might? +Spend'st thou thy fury on some worthless song, +Darkening thy power to lend base subjects light? +Return forgetful Muse, and straight redeem, +In gentle numbers time so idly spent, +Sing to the ear that doth thy lays esteem, +And gives thy pen both skill and argument. +Rise resty Muse, my love's sweet face survey, +If time have any wrinkle graven there, +If any, be a satire to decay, +And make time's spoils despised everywhere. +Give my love fame faster than Time wastes life, +So thou prevent'st his scythe, and crooked knife. + + + +O truant Muse what shall be thy amends, +For thy neglect of truth in beauty dyed? +Both truth and beauty on my love depends: +So dost thou too, and therein dignified: +Make answer Muse, wilt thou not haply say, +'Truth needs no colour with his colour fixed, +Beauty no pencil, beauty's truth to lay: +But best is best, if never intermixed'? +Because he needs no praise, wilt thou be dumb? +Excuse not silence so, for't lies in thee, +To make him much outlive a gilded tomb: +And to be praised of ages yet to be. +Then do thy office Muse, I teach thee how, +To make him seem long hence, as he shows now. + + + +My love is strengthened though more weak in seeming, +I love not less, though less the show appear, +That love is merchandized, whose rich esteeming, +The owner's tongue doth publish every where. +Our love was new, and then but in the spring, +When I was wont to greet it with my lays, +As Philomel in summer's front doth sing, +And stops her pipe in growth of riper days: +Not that the summer is less pleasant now +Than when her mournful hymns did hush the night, +But that wild music burthens every bough, +And sweets grown common lose their dear delight. +Therefore like her, I sometime hold my tongue: +Because I would not dull you with my song. + + + +Alack what poverty my muse brings forth, +That having such a scope to show her pride, +The argument all bare is of more worth +Than when it hath my added praise beside. +O blame me not if I no more can write! +Look in your glass and there appears a face, +That over-goes my blunt invention quite, +Dulling my lines, and doing me disgrace. +Were it not sinful then striving to mend, +To mar the subject that before was well? +For to no other pass my verses tend, +Than of your graces and your gifts to tell. +And more, much more than in my verse can sit, +Your own glass shows you, when you look in it. + + + +To me fair friend you never can be old, +For as you were when first your eye I eyed, +Such seems your beauty still: three winters cold, +Have from the forests shook three summers' pride, +Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn turned, +In process of the seasons have I seen, +Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burned, +Since first I saw you fresh which yet are green. +Ah yet doth beauty like a dial hand, +Steal from his figure, and no pace perceived, +So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand +Hath motion, and mine eye may be deceived. +For fear of which, hear this thou age unbred, +Ere you were born was beauty's summer dead. + + + +Let not my love be called idolatry, +Nor my beloved as an idol show, +Since all alike my songs and praises be +To one, of one, still such, and ever so. +Kind is my love to-day, to-morrow kind, +Still constant in a wondrous excellence, +Therefore my verse to constancy confined, +One thing expressing, leaves out difference. +Fair, kind, and true, is all my argument, +Fair, kind, and true, varying to other words, +And in this change is my invention spent, +Three themes in one, which wondrous scope affords. +Fair, kind, and true, have often lived alone. +Which three till now, never kept seat in one. + + + +When in the chronicle of wasted time, +I see descriptions of the fairest wights, +And beauty making beautiful old rhyme, +In praise of ladies dead, and lovely knights, +Then in the blazon of sweet beauty's best, +Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow, +I see their antique pen would have expressed, +Even such a beauty as you master now. +So all their praises are but prophecies +Of this our time, all you prefiguring, +And for they looked but with divining eyes, +They had not skill enough your worth to sing: +For we which now behold these present days, +Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise. + + + +Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul, +Of the wide world, dreaming on things to come, +Can yet the lease of my true love control, +Supposed as forfeit to a confined doom. +The mortal moon hath her eclipse endured, +And the sad augurs mock their own presage, +Incertainties now crown themselves assured, +And peace proclaims olives of endless age. +Now with the drops of this most balmy time, +My love looks fresh, and death to me subscribes, +Since spite of him I'll live in this poor rhyme, +While he insults o'er dull and speechless tribes. +And thou in this shalt find thy monument, +When tyrants' crests and tombs of brass are spent. + + + +What's in the brain that ink may character, +Which hath not figured to thee my true spirit, +What's new to speak, what now to register, +That may express my love, or thy dear merit? +Nothing sweet boy, but yet like prayers divine, +I must each day say o'er the very same, +Counting no old thing old, thou mine, I thine, +Even as when first I hallowed thy fair name. +So that eternal love in love's fresh case, +Weighs not the dust and injury of age, +Nor gives to necessary wrinkles place, +But makes antiquity for aye his page, +Finding the first conceit of love there bred, +Where time and outward form would show it dead. + + + +O never say that I was false of heart, +Though absence seemed my flame to qualify, +As easy might I from my self depart, +As from my soul which in thy breast doth lie: +That is my home of love, if I have ranged, +Like him that travels I return again, +Just to the time, not with the time exchanged, +So that my self bring water for my stain, +Never believe though in my nature reigned, +All frailties that besiege all kinds of blood, +That it could so preposterously be stained, +To leave for nothing all thy sum of good: +For nothing this wide universe I call, +Save thou my rose, in it thou art my all. + + + +Alas 'tis true, I have gone here and there, +And made my self a motley to the view, +Gored mine own thoughts, sold cheap what is most dear, +Made old offences of affections new. +Most true it is, that I have looked on truth +Askance and strangely: but by all above, +These blenches gave my heart another youth, +And worse essays proved thee my best of love. +Now all is done, have what shall have no end, +Mine appetite I never more will grind +On newer proof, to try an older friend, +A god in love, to whom I am confined. +Then give me welcome, next my heaven the best, +Even to thy pure and most most loving breast. + + + +O for my sake do you with Fortune chide, +The guilty goddess of my harmful deeds, +That did not better for my life provide, +Than public means which public manners breeds. +Thence comes it that my name receives a brand, +And almost thence my nature is subdued +To what it works in, like the dyer's hand: +Pity me then, and wish I were renewed, +Whilst like a willing patient I will drink, +Potions of eisel 'gainst my strong infection, +No bitterness that I will bitter think, +Nor double penance to correct correction. +Pity me then dear friend, and I assure ye, +Even that your pity is enough to cure me. + + + +Your love and pity doth th' impression fill, +Which vulgar scandal stamped upon my brow, +For what care I who calls me well or ill, +So you o'er-green my bad, my good allow? +You are my all the world, and I must strive, +To know my shames and praises from your tongue, +None else to me, nor I to none alive, +That my steeled sense or changes right or wrong. +In so profound abysm I throw all care +Of others' voices, that my adder's sense, +To critic and to flatterer stopped are: +Mark how with my neglect I do dispense. +You are so strongly in my purpose bred, +That all the world besides methinks are dead. + + + +Since I left you, mine eye is in my mind, +And that which governs me to go about, +Doth part his function, and is partly blind, +Seems seeing, but effectually is out: +For it no form delivers to the heart +Of bird, of flower, or shape which it doth latch, +Of his quick objects hath the mind no part, +Nor his own vision holds what it doth catch: +For if it see the rud'st or gentlest sight, +The most sweet favour or deformed'st creature, +The mountain, or the sea, the day, or night: +The crow, or dove, it shapes them to your feature. +Incapable of more, replete with you, +My most true mind thus maketh mine untrue. + + + +Or whether doth my mind being crowned with you +Drink up the monarch's plague this flattery? +Or whether shall I say mine eye saith true, +And that your love taught it this alchemy? +To make of monsters, and things indigest, +Such cherubins as your sweet self resemble, +Creating every bad a perfect best +As fast as objects to his beams assemble: +O 'tis the first, 'tis flattery in my seeing, +And my great mind most kingly drinks it up, +Mine eye well knows what with his gust is 'greeing, +And to his palate doth prepare the cup. +If it be poisoned, 'tis the lesser sin, +That mine eye loves it and doth first begin. + + + +Those lines that I before have writ do lie, +Even those that said I could not love you dearer, +Yet then my judgment knew no reason why, +My most full flame should afterwards burn clearer, +But reckoning time, whose millioned accidents +Creep in 'twixt vows, and change decrees of kings, +Tan sacred beauty, blunt the sharp'st intents, +Divert strong minds to the course of alt'ring things: +Alas why fearing of time's tyranny, +Might I not then say 'Now I love you best,' +When I was certain o'er incertainty, +Crowning the present, doubting of the rest? +Love is a babe, then might I not say so +To give full growth to that which still doth grow. + + + +Let me not to the marriage of true minds +Admit impediments, love is not love +Which alters when it alteration finds, +Or bends with the remover to remove. +O no, it is an ever-fixed mark +That looks on tempests and is never shaken; +It is the star to every wand'ring bark, +Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken. +Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks +Within his bending sickle's compass come, +Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, +But bears it out even to the edge of doom: +If this be error and upon me proved, +I never writ, nor no man ever loved. + + + +Accuse me thus, that I have scanted all, +Wherein I should your great deserts repay, +Forgot upon your dearest love to call, +Whereto all bonds do tie me day by day, +That I have frequent been with unknown minds, +And given to time your own dear-purchased right, +That I have hoisted sail to all the winds +Which should transport me farthest from your sight. +Book both my wilfulness and errors down, +And on just proof surmise, accumulate, +Bring me within the level of your frown, +But shoot not at me in your wakened hate: +Since my appeal says I did strive to prove +The constancy and virtue of your love. + + + +Like as to make our appetite more keen +With eager compounds we our palate urge, +As to prevent our maladies unseen, +We sicken to shun sickness when we purge. +Even so being full of your ne'er-cloying sweetness, +To bitter sauces did I frame my feeding; +And sick of welfare found a kind of meetness, +To be diseased ere that there was true needing. +Thus policy in love t' anticipate +The ills that were not, grew to faults assured, +And brought to medicine a healthful state +Which rank of goodness would by ill be cured. +But thence I learn and find the lesson true, +Drugs poison him that so feil sick of you. + + + +What potions have I drunk of Siren tears +Distilled from limbecks foul as hell within, +Applying fears to hopes, and hopes to fears, +Still losing when I saw my self to win! +What wretched errors hath my heart committed, +Whilst it hath thought it self so blessed never! +How have mine eyes out of their spheres been fitted +In the distraction of this madding fever! +O benefit of ill, now I find true +That better is, by evil still made better. +And ruined love when it is built anew +Grows fairer than at first, more strong, far greater. +So I return rebuked to my content, +And gain by ills thrice more than I have spent. + + + +That you were once unkind befriends me now, +And for that sorrow, which I then did feel, +Needs must I under my transgression bow, +Unless my nerves were brass or hammered steel. +For if you were by my unkindness shaken +As I by yours, y'have passed a hell of time, +And I a tyrant have no leisure taken +To weigh how once I suffered in your crime. +O that our night of woe might have remembered +My deepest sense, how hard true sorrow hits, +And soon to you, as you to me then tendered +The humble salve, which wounded bosoms fits! +But that your trespass now becomes a fee, +Mine ransoms yours, and yours must ransom me. + + + +'Tis better to be vile than vile esteemed, +When not to be, receives reproach of being, +And the just pleasure lost, which is so deemed, +Not by our feeling, but by others' seeing. +For why should others' false adulterate eyes +Give salutation to my sportive blood? +Or on my frailties why are frailer spies, +Which in their wills count bad what I think good? +No, I am that I am, and they that level +At my abuses, reckon up their own, +I may be straight though they themselves be bevel; +By their rank thoughts, my deeds must not be shown +Unless this general evil they maintain, +All men are bad and in their badness reign. + + + +Thy gift, thy tables, are within my brain +Full charactered with lasting memory, +Which shall above that idle rank remain +Beyond all date even to eternity. +Or at the least, so long as brain and heart +Have faculty by nature to subsist, +Till each to razed oblivion yield his part +Of thee, thy record never can be missed: +That poor retention could not so much hold, +Nor need I tallies thy dear love to score, +Therefore to give them from me was I bold, +To trust those tables that receive thee more: +To keep an adjunct to remember thee +Were to import forgetfulness in me. + + + +No! Time, thou shalt not boast that I do change, +Thy pyramids built up with newer might +To me are nothing novel, nothing strange, +They are but dressings Of a former sight: +Our dates are brief, and therefore we admire, +What thou dost foist upon us that is old, +And rather make them born to our desire, +Than think that we before have heard them told: +Thy registers and thee I both defy, +Not wond'ring at the present, nor the past, +For thy records, and what we see doth lie, +Made more or less by thy continual haste: +This I do vow and this shall ever be, +I will be true despite thy scythe and thee. + + + +If my dear love were but the child of state, +It might for Fortune's bastard be unfathered, +As subject to time's love or to time's hate, +Weeds among weeds, or flowers with flowers gathered. +No it was builded far from accident, +It suffers not in smiling pomp, nor falls +Under the blow of thralled discontent, +Whereto th' inviting time our fashion calls: +It fears not policy that heretic, +Which works on leases of short-numbered hours, +But all alone stands hugely politic, +That it nor grows with heat, nor drowns with showers. +To this I witness call the fools of time, +Which die for goodness, who have lived for crime. + + + +Were't aught to me I bore the canopy, +With my extern the outward honouring, +Or laid great bases for eternity, +Which proves more short than waste or ruining? +Have I not seen dwellers on form and favour +Lose all, and more by paying too much rent +For compound sweet; forgoing simple savour, +Pitiful thrivers in their gazing spent? +No, let me be obsequious in thy heart, +And take thou my oblation, poor but free, +Which is not mixed with seconds, knows no art, +But mutual render, only me for thee. +Hence, thou suborned informer, a true soul +When most impeached, stands least in thy control. + + + +O thou my lovely boy who in thy power, +Dost hold Time's fickle glass his fickle hour: +Who hast by waning grown, and therein show'st, +Thy lovers withering, as thy sweet self grow'st. +If Nature (sovereign mistress over wrack) +As thou goest onwards still will pluck thee back, +She keeps thee to this purpose, that her skill +May time disgrace, and wretched minutes kill. +Yet fear her O thou minion of her pleasure, +She may detain, but not still keep her treasure! +Her audit (though delayed) answered must be, +And her quietus is to render thee. + + + +In the old age black was not counted fair, +Or if it were it bore not beauty's name: +But now is black beauty's successive heir, +And beauty slandered with a bastard shame, +For since each hand hath put on nature's power, +Fairing the foul with art's false borrowed face, +Sweet beauty hath no name no holy bower, +But is profaned, if not lives in disgrace. +Therefore my mistress' eyes are raven black, +Her eyes so suited, and they mourners seem, +At such who not born fair no beauty lack, +Slandering creation with a false esteem, +Yet so they mourn becoming of their woe, +That every tongue says beauty should look so. + + + +How oft when thou, my music, music play'st, +Upon that blessed wood whose motion sounds +With thy sweet fingers when thou gently sway'st +The wiry concord that mine ear confounds, +Do I envy those jacks that nimble leap, +To kiss the tender inward of thy hand, +Whilst my poor lips which should that harvest reap, +At the wood's boldness by thee blushing stand. +To be so tickled they would change their state +And situation with those dancing chips, +O'er whom thy fingers walk with gentle gait, +Making dead wood more blest than living lips, +Since saucy jacks so happy are in this, +Give them thy fingers, me thy lips to kiss. + + + +Th' expense of spirit in a waste of shame +Is lust in action, and till action, lust +Is perjured, murd'rous, bloody full of blame, +Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust, +Enjoyed no sooner but despised straight, +Past reason hunted, and no sooner had +Past reason hated as a swallowed bait, +On purpose laid to make the taker mad. +Mad in pursuit and in possession so, +Had, having, and in quest, to have extreme, +A bliss in proof and proved, a very woe, +Before a joy proposed behind a dream. +All this the world well knows yet none knows well, +To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell. + + + +My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun, +Coral is far more red, than her lips red, +If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun: +If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head: +I have seen roses damasked, red and white, +But no such roses see I in her cheeks, +And in some perfumes is there more delight, +Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks. +I love to hear her speak, yet well I know, +That music hath a far more pleasing sound: +I grant I never saw a goddess go, +My mistress when she walks treads on the ground. +And yet by heaven I think my love as rare, +As any she belied with false compare. + + + +Thou art as tyrannous, so as thou art, +As those whose beauties proudly make them cruel; +For well thou know'st to my dear doting heart +Thou art the fairest and most precious jewel. +Yet in good faith some say that thee behold, +Thy face hath not the power to make love groan; +To say they err, I dare not be so bold, +Although I swear it to my self alone. +And to be sure that is not false I swear, +A thousand groans but thinking on thy face, +One on another's neck do witness bear +Thy black is fairest in my judgment's place. +In nothing art thou black save in thy deeds, +And thence this slander as I think proceeds. + + + +Thine eyes I love, and they as pitying me, +Knowing thy heart torment me with disdain, +Have put on black, and loving mourners be, +Looking with pretty ruth upon my pain. +And truly not the morning sun of heaven +Better becomes the grey cheeks of the east, +Nor that full star that ushers in the even +Doth half that glory to the sober west +As those two mourning eyes become thy face: +O let it then as well beseem thy heart +To mourn for me since mourning doth thee grace, +And suit thy pity like in every part. +Then will I swear beauty herself is black, +And all they foul that thy complexion lack. + + + +Beshrew that heart that makes my heart to groan +For that deep wound it gives my friend and me; +Is't not enough to torture me alone, +But slave to slavery my sweet'st friend must be? +Me from my self thy cruel eye hath taken, +And my next self thou harder hast engrossed, +Of him, my self, and thee I am forsaken, +A torment thrice three-fold thus to be crossed: +Prison my heart in thy steel bosom's ward, +But then my friend's heart let my poor heart bail, +Whoe'er keeps me, let my heart be his guard, +Thou canst not then use rigour in my gaol. +And yet thou wilt, for I being pent in thee, +Perforce am thine and all that is in me. + + + +So now I have confessed that he is thine, +And I my self am mortgaged to thy will, +My self I'll forfeit, so that other mine, +Thou wilt restore to be my comfort still: +But thou wilt not, nor he will not be free, +For thou art covetous, and he is kind, +He learned but surety-like to write for me, +Under that bond that him as fist doth bind. +The statute of thy beauty thou wilt take, +Thou usurer that put'st forth all to use, +And sue a friend, came debtor for my sake, +So him I lose through my unkind abuse. +Him have I lost, thou hast both him and me, +He pays the whole, and yet am I not free. + + + +Whoever hath her wish, thou hast thy will, +And 'Will' to boot, and 'Will' in over-plus, +More than enough am I that vex thee still, +To thy sweet will making addition thus. +Wilt thou whose will is large and spacious, +Not once vouchsafe to hide my will in thine? +Shall will in others seem right gracious, +And in my will no fair acceptance shine? +The sea all water, yet receives rain still, +And in abundance addeth to his store, +So thou being rich in will add to thy will +One will of mine to make thy large will more. +Let no unkind, no fair beseechers kill, +Think all but one, and me in that one 'Will.' + + + +If thy soul check thee that I come so near, +Swear to thy blind soul that I was thy 'Will', +And will thy soul knows is admitted there, +Thus far for love, my love-suit sweet fulfil. +'Will', will fulfil the treasure of thy love, +Ay, fill it full with wills, and my will one, +In things of great receipt with case we prove, +Among a number one is reckoned none. +Then in the number let me pass untold, +Though in thy store's account I one must be, +For nothing hold me, so it please thee hold, +That nothing me, a something sweet to thee. +Make but my name thy love, and love that still, +And then thou lov'st me for my name is Will. + + + +Thou blind fool Love, what dost thou to mine eyes, +That they behold and see not what they see? +They know what beauty is, see where it lies, +Yet what the best is, take the worst to be. +If eyes corrupt by over-partial looks, +Be anchored in the bay where all men ride, +Why of eyes' falsehood hast thou forged hooks, +Whereto the judgment of my heart is tied? +Why should my heart think that a several plot, +Which my heart knows the wide world's common place? +Or mine eyes seeing this, say this is not +To put fair truth upon so foul a face? +In things right true my heart and eyes have erred, +And to this false plague are they now transferred. + + + +When my love swears that she is made of truth, +I do believe her though I know she lies, +That she might think me some untutored youth, +Unlearned in the world's false subtleties. +Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me young, +Although she knows my days are past the best, +Simply I credit her false-speaking tongue, +On both sides thus is simple truth suppressed: +But wherefore says she not she is unjust? +And wherefore say not I that I am old? +O love's best habit is in seeming trust, +And age in love, loves not to have years told. +Therefore I lie with her, and she with me, +And in our faults by lies we flattered be. + + + +O call not me to justify the wrong, +That thy unkindness lays upon my heart, +Wound me not with thine eye but with thy tongue, +Use power with power, and slay me not by art, +Tell me thou lov'st elsewhere; but in my sight, +Dear heart forbear to glance thine eye aside, +What need'st thou wound with cunning when thy might +Is more than my o'erpressed defence can bide? +Let me excuse thee, ah my love well knows, +Her pretty looks have been mine enemies, +And therefore from my face she turns my foes, +That they elsewhere might dart their injuries: +Yet do not so, but since I am near slain, +Kill me outright with looks, and rid my pain. + + + +Be wise as thou art cruel, do not press +My tongue-tied patience with too much disdain: +Lest sorrow lend me words and words express, +The manner of my pity-wanting pain. +If I might teach thee wit better it were, +Though not to love, yet love to tell me so, +As testy sick men when their deaths be near, +No news but health from their physicians know. +For if I should despair I should grow mad, +And in my madness might speak ill of thee, +Now this ill-wresting world is grown so bad, +Mad slanderers by mad ears believed be. +That I may not be so, nor thou belied, +Bear thine eyes straight, though thy proud heart go wide. + + + +In faith I do not love thee with mine eyes, +For they in thee a thousand errors note, +But 'tis my heart that loves what they despise, +Who in despite of view is pleased to dote. +Nor are mine cars with thy tongue's tune delighted, +Nor tender feeling to base touches prone, +Nor taste, nor smell, desire to be invited +To any sensual feast with thee alone: +But my five wits, nor my five senses can +Dissuade one foolish heart from serving thee, +Who leaves unswayed the likeness of a man, +Thy proud heart's slave and vassal wretch to be: +Only my plague thus far I count my gain, +That she that makes me sin, awards me pain. + + + +Love is my sin, and thy dear virtue hate, +Hate of my sin, grounded on sinful loving, +O but with mine, compare thou thine own state, +And thou shalt find it merits not reproving, +Or if it do, not from those lips of thine, +That have profaned their scarlet ornaments, +And sealed false bonds of love as oft as mine, +Robbed others' beds' revenues of their rents. +Be it lawful I love thee as thou lov'st those, +Whom thine eyes woo as mine importune thee, +Root pity in thy heart that when it grows, +Thy pity may deserve to pitied be. +If thou dost seek to have what thou dost hide, +By self-example mayst thou be denied. + + + +Lo as a careful huswife runs to catch, +One of her feathered creatures broke away, +Sets down her babe and makes all swift dispatch +In pursuit of the thing she would have stay: +Whilst her neglected child holds her in chase, +Cries to catch her whose busy care is bent, +To follow that which flies before her face: +Not prizing her poor infant's discontent; +So run'st thou after that which flies from thee, +Whilst I thy babe chase thee afar behind, +But if thou catch thy hope turn back to me: +And play the mother's part, kiss me, be kind. +So will I pray that thou mayst have thy Will, +If thou turn back and my loud crying still. + + + +Two loves I have of comfort and despair, +Which like two spirits do suggest me still, +The better angel is a man right fair: +The worser spirit a woman coloured ill. +To win me soon to hell my female evil, +Tempteth my better angel from my side, +And would corrupt my saint to be a devil: +Wooing his purity with her foul pride. +And whether that my angel be turned fiend, +Suspect I may, yet not directly tell, +But being both from me both to each friend, +I guess one angel in another's hell. +Yet this shall I ne'er know but live in doubt, +Till my bad angel fire my good one out. + + + +Those lips that Love's own hand did make, +Breathed forth the sound that said 'I hate', +To me that languished for her sake: +But when she saw my woeful state, +Straight in her heart did mercy come, +Chiding that tongue that ever sweet, +Was used in giving gentle doom: +And taught it thus anew to greet: +'I hate' she altered with an end, +That followed it as gentle day, +Doth follow night who like a fiend +From heaven to hell is flown away. +'I hate', from hate away she threw, +And saved my life saying 'not you'. + +Poor soul the centre of my sinful earth, +My sinful earth these rebel powers array, +Why dost thou pine within and suffer dearth +Painting thy outward walls so costly gay? +Why so large cost having so short a lease, +Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend? +Shall worms inheritors of this excess +Eat up thy charge? is this thy body's end? +Then soul live thou upon thy servant's loss, +And let that pine to aggravate thy store; +Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross; +Within be fed, without be rich no more, +So shall thou feed on death, that feeds on men, +And death once dead, there's no more dying then. + +My love is as a fever longing still, +For that which longer nurseth the disease, +Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill, +Th' uncertain sickly appetite to please: +My reason the physician to my love, +Angry that his prescriptions are not kept +Hath left me, and I desperate now approve, +Desire is death, which physic did except. +Past cure I am, now reason is past care, +And frantic-mad with evermore unrest, +My thoughts and my discourse as mad men's are, +At random from the truth vainly expressed. +For I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright, +Who art as black as hell, as dark as night. + +O me! what eyes hath love put in my head, +Which have no correspondence with true sight, +Or if they have, where is my judgment fled, +That censures falsely what they see aright? +If that be fair whereon my false eyes dote, +What means the world to say it is not so? +If it be not, then love doth well denote, +Love's eye is not so true as all men's: no, +How can it? O how can love's eye be true, +That is so vexed with watching and with tears? +No marvel then though I mistake my view, +The sun it self sees not, till heaven clears. +O cunning love, with tears thou keep'st me blind, +Lest eyes well-seeing thy foul faults should find. + +Canst thou O cruel, say I love thee not, +When I against my self with thee partake? +Do I not think on thee when I forgot +Am of my self, all-tyrant, for thy sake? +Who hateth thee that I do call my friend, +On whom frown'st thou that I do fawn upon, +Nay if thou lour'st on me do I not spend +Revenge upon my self with present moan? +What merit do I in my self respect, +That is so proud thy service to despise, +When all my best doth worship thy defect, +Commanded by the motion of thine eyes? +But love hate on for now I know thy mind, +Those that can see thou lov'st, and I am blind. + +O from what power hast thou this powerful might, +With insufficiency my heart to sway, +To make me give the lie to my true sight, +And swear that brightness doth not grace the day? +Whence hast thou this becoming of things ill, +That in the very refuse of thy deeds, +There is such strength and warrantise of skill, +That in my mind thy worst all best exceeds? +Who taught thee how to make me love thee more, +The more I hear and see just cause of hate? +O though I love what others do abhor, +With others thou shouldst not abhor my state. +If thy unworthiness raised love in me, +More worthy I to be beloved of thee. + +Love is too young to know what conscience is, +Yet who knows not conscience is born of love? +Then gentle cheater urge not my amiss, +Lest guilty of my faults thy sweet self prove. +For thou betraying me, I do betray +My nobler part to my gross body's treason, +My soul doth tell my body that he may, +Triumph in love, flesh stays no farther reason, +But rising at thy name doth point out thee, +As his triumphant prize, proud of this pride, +He is contented thy poor drudge to be, +To stand in thy affairs, fall by thy side. +No want of conscience hold it that I call, +Her love, for whose dear love I rise and fall. + +In loving thee thou know'st I am forsworn, +But thou art twice forsworn to me love swearing, +In act thy bed-vow broke and new faith torn, +In vowing new hate after new love bearing: +But why of two oaths' breach do I accuse thee, +When I break twenty? I am perjured most, +For all my vows are oaths but to misuse thee: +And all my honest faith in thee is lost. +For I have sworn deep oaths of thy deep kindness: +Oaths of thy love, thy truth, thy constancy, +And to enlighten thee gave eyes to blindness, +Or made them swear against the thing they see. +For I have sworn thee fair: more perjured I, +To swear against the truth so foul a be. + +Cupid laid by his brand and fell asleep, +A maid of Dian's this advantage found, +And his love-kindling fire did quickly steep +In a cold valley-fountain of that ground: +Which borrowed from this holy fire of Love, +A dateless lively heat still to endure, +And grew a seeting bath which yet men prove, +Against strange maladies a sovereign cure: +But at my mistress' eye Love's brand new-fired, +The boy for trial needs would touch my breast, +I sick withal the help of bath desired, +And thither hied a sad distempered guest. +But found no cure, the bath for my help lies, +Where Cupid got new fire; my mistress' eyes. + +The little Love-god lying once asleep, +Laid by his side his heart-inflaming brand, +Whilst many nymphs that vowed chaste life to keep, +Came tripping by, but in her maiden hand, +The fairest votary took up that fire, +Which many legions of true hearts had warmed, +And so the general of hot desire, +Was sleeping by a virgin hand disarmed. +This brand she quenched in a cool well by, +Which from Love's fire took heat perpetual, +Growing a bath and healthful remedy, +For men discased, but I my mistress' thrall, +Came there for cure and this by that I prove, +Love's fire heats water, water cools not love. + + + THE END diff --git a/src/gen_chain.c b/src/gen_chain.c index 0ad13d1..252debf 100644 --- a/src/gen_chain.c +++ b/src/gen_chain.c @@ -1,14 +1,14 @@ #include <stdio.h> #include <time.h> +#define WALK_LEN 1000000 +#define SAVE_TO_FILE_ON_WALK "files/in.txt" #define PRINT_ITEM_FREQUENCY // #define PRINT_ON_WALK -#define SAVE_TO_FILE_ON_WALK "files/in.txt" -#define WALK_LEN 10000 #define ITEM_CAP 3 -int ITEMS = 3; +int ITEMS = 3; double chain[ITEM_CAP][ITEM_CAP] = { { 0.2, 0.6, 0.2 }, { 0.3, 0.0, 0.7 }, @@ -1,33 +1,52 @@ -// ----------------- OPTIONS ----------------- // -#define FILE_PATH "files/in.txt" +#define WALK_LEN 200 +// #define FILE_PATH "files/in.txt" +#define FILE_PATH "files/shakespeare.txt" // #define FILE_PATH "files/south-park-the-aristocrats.txt" -#define WALK_LEN 100000 - -#define PRINT_CHAIN -#define PRINT_ITEM_FREQUENCY -// #define PRINT_ON_WALK -// #define SAVE_TO_FILE_ON_WALK "out.txt" -// --------------- END OPTIONS --------------- // +// #define PRINT_CHAIN +// #define PRINT_ITEM_FREQUENCY +#define PRINT_ON_WALK #include <stdio.h> +#include <stdlib.h> #include <time.h> -#define ITEM_CAP 1024 -int ITEMS = 0; +#define ITEM_CAP 4000 +#include "markov.h" +int ITEMS = 0; double chain[ITEM_CAP][ITEM_CAP] = {0}; char item_names[ITEM_CAP][64] = {0}; -#include "markov.h" +void set_stack(); int main(void) { + set_stack(); + srand(time(NULL)); generate_chain(); + take_walk(); #ifdef PRINT_CHAIN print_chain(); #endif - take_walk(); return 0; } + +// for stack +#include <sys/resource.h> +void set_stack() +{ + const rlim_t kStackSize = 64L * 1024L * 1024L; // min stack size = 64 Mb + struct rlimit rl; + int result; + + if(getrlimit(RLIMIT_STACK, &rl) == 0) { + if (rl.rlim_cur < kStackSize) { + rl.rlim_cur = kStackSize; + + if((result = setrlimit(RLIMIT_STACK, &rl)) != 0) + fprintf(stderr, "setrlimit returned result = %d\n", result); + } + } +} diff --git a/src/markov.h b/src/markov.h index 1c95775..ca879f3 100644 --- a/src/markov.h +++ b/src/markov.h @@ -7,20 +7,28 @@ #include <string.h> #include <ctype.h> +#ifndef WALK_LEN +#define WALK_LEN 0 +#endif + +#ifndef FILE_PATH +#define FILE_PATH "" +#endif + +#ifndef ITEM_CAP +#define ITEM_CAP 1024 +#endif + extern int ITEMS; extern double chain[][ITEM_CAP]; extern char item_names[][64]; void generate_chain() { - char *file_path = NULL; - #ifdef FILE_PATH - file_path = FILE_PATH; - #endif - - FILE *fp = fopen(file_path, "r"); + printf("%s\n", FILE_PATH); + FILE *fp = fopen(FILE_PATH, "r"); if(!fp) { - fprintf(stderr, "ERROR: Could not open file %s\n", file_path); + fprintf(stderr, "ERROR: Could not open file %s\n", FILE_PATH); exit(EXIT_FAILURE); } @@ -33,7 +41,8 @@ void generate_chain() { if(ch != ' ' && ch != ',' && ch != '"' && ch != '\n' && ch != '[' && ch != ']' && - ch != '!' && ch != '?' && ch != '.') { + ch != '!' && ch != '?' && ch != '.' && + ch != ';' && ch != ':') { word[strlen(word)] = tolower(ch); continue; } @@ -49,6 +58,7 @@ void generate_chain() if(item == ITEMS) { ITEMS++; + assert(ITEMS <= ITEM_CAP); strcpy(item_names[item], word); } @@ -60,7 +70,8 @@ void generate_chain() manage_cur_item: if(ch == '\n' || ch == '[' || ch == ']' || - ch == '!' || ch == '?' || ch == '.') + ch == '!' || ch == '?' || ch == '.' || + ch == ';' || ch == ':') cur_item = -1; memset(word, 0, sizeof(word)); |