Sonnet LXVI.

“Tir’d with all these, for restful death I cry”

TIR’D with all these, for restful death I cry   
As to behold desert a beggar born,   
And needy nothing trimm’d in jollity,   
And purest faith unhappily forsworn,   
And gilded honour shamefully misplac’d,            5
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,     10
And simple truth miscall’d simplicity,   
And captive good attending captain ill:   
  Tir’d with all these, from these would I be gone,   
  Save that, to die, I leave my love alone.   

Sonnet LXVII.

“Ah! wherefore with infection should he live”

AH! wherefore with infection should he live   
And with his presence grace impiety,   
That sin by him advantage should achieve,   
And lace itself with his society?   
Why should false painting imitate his cheek,            5
And steel 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,   
Beggar’d of blood to blush through lively veins?     10
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.   

Sonnet LXVIII.

“Thus is his cheek the map of days outworn”

THUS is his cheek the map of days outworn   
When beauty liv’d 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,            5
The right of sepulchres, were shorn away,   
To live a second life on second head;   
Ere beauty’s dead fleece made another gay:   
In him those holy antique hours are seen,   
Without all ornament, itself and true,     10
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.   

Sonnet LXIX.

“Those parts of thee that the world’s eye doth view”

THOSE parts of thee that the world’s eye doth view   
Want nothing that the thought of hearts can mend;   
All tongues—the voice of souls—give thee that due,   
Uttering bare truth, even so as foes commend.   
Thy outward thus with outward praise is crown’d;            5
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;     10
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.

Sonnet LXX.

“That thou art blam’d shall not be thy defect”

THAT thou art blam’d 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            5
Thy worth the greater, being woo’d of time;   
For canker vice the sweetest buds doth love,   
And thou present’st a pure unstained prime.   
Thou hast pass’d by the ambush of young days,   
Either not assail’d, or victor being charg’d;     10
Yet this thy praise cannot be so thy praise,   
To tie up envy evermore enlarg’d:   
  If some suspect of ill mask’d not thy show,   
  Then thou alone kingdoms of hearts shouldst owe.   

Sonnet LXXI.

“No longer mourn for me when I am dead”

NO longer mourn for me when I am dead   
Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell   
Give warning to the world that I am fled   
From this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell:   
Nay, if you read this line, remember not            5
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,     10
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.   

Sonnet LXXII.

“O! lest the world should task you to recite”

O! LEST the world should task you to recite   
What merit lived in me, that you should love   
After my death,—dear love, forget me quite,   
For you in me can nothing worthy prove;   
Unless you would devise some virtuous lie,            5
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,     10
My name be buried where my body is,   
And live no more to shame nor me nor you.   
  For I am sham’d by that which I bring forth,   
  And so should you, to love things nothing worth.   

Sonnet LXXIII.

“That time of year thou mayst in me behold”

THAT time of year thou mayst in me behold   
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang   
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,   
Bare ruin’d choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.   
In me thou see’st the twilight of such day            5
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 see’st the glowing of such fire,   
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,     10
As the death-bed whereon it must expire   
Consum’d with that which it was nourish’d by.   
  This thou perceiv’st, which makes thy love more strong,   
  To love that well which thou must leave ere long.   

Sonnet LXXIV.

“But be contented: when that fell arrest”

BUT be contented: when that fell arrest   
Without all bail shall carry me away,   
My life hath in this line some interest,   
Which for memorial still with thee shall stay.   
When thou reviewest this, thou dost review            5
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;     10
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.   

Sonnet LXXV.

“So are you to my thoughts as food to life”

SO are you to my thoughts as food to life   
Or as sweet-season’d 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            5
Doubting the filching age will steal his treasure;   
Now counting best to be with you alone,   
Then better’d that the world may see my pleasure:   
Sometime, all full with feasting on your sight,   
And by and by clean starved for a look;     10
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.