William Shakespeare (1564–1616)

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A

Accuse me thus: that I have scanted all

Against my loue shall be as I am now

Against that time (if euer that time come)

Ah, wherefore with infection should he liue

Alack, what poverty my Muse brings forth

Alas, ’tis true, I have gone here and there

As a decrepit father takes delight

As an vnperfect actor on the stage

As fast as thou shalt wane, so fast thou grow’st

A womans face with natures owne hande painted

B

Being your slaue what should I doe but tend

Beshrew that heart that makes my heart to groan

Betwixt mine eye and heart a league is tooke

Be wise as thou art cruel, do not press

But be contented when that fell arest

But do thy worst to steal thyself away

But wherefore do not you a mightier waie

C

Canst thou, O cruel, say I love thee not

Cupid laid by his brand, and fell asleep

D

Deuouring time, blunt thou the Lyons pawes

F

Farewell, thou art too dear for my possessing

Fear no more the heat o’ the sun

For shame deny that thou bear’st loue to any

From fairest creatures we desire increase

From off a hill whose concave womb reworded

From you have I been absent in the spring

Full many a glorious morning haue I seene

H

How can I then returne in happy plight

How can my Muse want subiect to inuent

How carefull was I when I tooke my way

How heauie doe I iourney on the way

How like a winter hath my absence been

How oft when thou, my music, music play’st

How sweet and lovely dost thou make the shame

I

If my dear love were but the child of state

If the dull substance of my flesh were thought

If there bee nothing new, but that which is

If thou suruiue my well contented daie

If thy soul check thee that I come so near

I grant thou wert not married to my Muse

I never saw that you did painting need

In faith, I do not love thee with mine eyes

In loving thee thou knowst I am forsworn

In the old age black was not counted fair

Is it for feare to wet a widdowes eye

Is it thy wil, thy Image should keepe open

L

Let me confesse that we two must be twaine

Let me not to the marriage of true minds

Let not my love be called idolatry

Let those who are in fauor with their stars

Like as the waues make towards the pibled shore

Like as, to make our appetites more keen

Lo, as a careful housewife runs to catch

Loe in the Orient when the gracious light

Looke in thy glasse and tell the face thou vewest

Lord of my loue, to whome in vassalage

Love is my sin, and thy dear virtue hate

Love is too young to know what conscience is

M

Mine eye and heart are at a mortall warre

Mine eye hath play’d the painter and hath stelld

Musick to heare, why hear’st thou musick sadly?

My glasse shall not perswade me I am ould

My love is as a fever, longing still

My love is strength’ned, though more weak in seeming

My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun

My tongue-tied Muse in manners holds her still

N

Noe Longer mourne for me when I am dead

No more bee greeu’d at that which thou hast done

Not from the stars do I my iudgement plucke

No! Time, thou shalt not boast that I do change

Not marble, nor the guilded monuments

Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul

O

O call not me to justify the wrong

O, for my sake do you with Fortune chide

O from what power hast thou this powerful might

Oh how much more doth beautie beautious seeme

Oh how thy worth with manners may I singe

O how I faint when I of you do write

O Least the world should taske you to recite

O me! What eyes hath Love put in my head

O never say that I was false of heart

Or I shall live, your epitaph to make

Or whether doth my mind, being crowned with you

O that you were your selfe, but, loue, you are

O thou my lovely Boy, who in thy power

O truant Muse, what shall be thy amends

P

Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth

S

Say that thou didst forsake me for some fault

Shall I compare thee to a Summers day?

Since brasse, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundlesse sea

Since I left you, mine eye is in my mind

Sinne of selfe-loue possesseth al mine eie

So am I as the rich whose blessed key

So are you to my thoughts as food to life

So is it not with me as with that Muse

Some glory in their birth, some in their skill

Some say thy fault is youth, some wantonness

So now I have confessed that he is thine

So oft haue I inuok’d thee for my Muse

So shall I live, supposing thou art true

Sweet loue renew thy force, be it not said

T

Take all my loues, my loue, yea take them all

That God forbid, that made me first your slaue

That thou are blam’d shall not be thy defect

That thou hast her it is not all my griefe

That time of yeeare thou maist in me behold

That you were once unkind befriends me now

The forward violet thus did I chide

The little Love-god lying once asleep

Then hate me when thou wilt, if ever, now

Then let not winters wragged hand deface

The other two, slight ayre, and purging fire

The poor soul sat sighing by a sycamore tree

Th’expense of spirit in a waste of shame

They that have power to hurt, and will do none

Thine eyes I love, and they, as pitying me

Those howers that with gentle worke did frame

Those lines that I before have writ do lie

Those lips that Love’s own hand did make

Those parts of thee that the worlds eye doth view

Those pretty wrongs that liberty commits

Thou art as tyrannous, so as thou art

Thou blind fool Love, what dost thou to mine eyes

Thus can my love excuse the slow offence

Thus is his cheeke the map of daies out-worne

Thy bosome is indeared with all hearts

Thy gift, thy tables, are within my brain

Thy glasse will shew thee how thy beauties were

Tis better to be vile than vile esteemed

To me, fair friend, you never can be old

Two loves I have, of comfort and despair

Tyr’d with all these for restfull death I cry

V

Vnthrifty louelinesse, why dost thou spend

W

Was it the proud full sail of his great verse

Weary with toyle, I hast me to my bed

Were’t aught to me I bore the canopy

What is your substance, whereof are you made

What potions have I drunk of Siren tears

What’s in the brain that ink may character

When fortie Winters shall beseige thy brow

When I consider euery thing that growes

When I doe count the clock that tels the time

When I haue seene by times fell hand defaced

When in disgrace with Fortune and mens eyes

When in the chronicle of wasted time

When most I winke, then doe mine eyes best see

When my loue sweares that she is made of truth

When thou shalt be disposed to set me light

When to the Sessions of sweet silent thought

Where art thou, Muse, that thou forget’st so long

Whilst I alone did call vpon thy ayde

Whoever hath her wish, thou hast thy Will

Who is it that says most? Which can say more

Who will beleeue my verse in time to come

Why didst thou promise such a beautious day

Why is my verse so barren of new pride

Y

Your love and pity doth th’impression fill