Shakespeare's Sonnets by William Shakespeare (books suggested by elon musk .txt) đ
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.'
IX
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
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- Author: William Shakespeare
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But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feedâst thy lightâs 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 worldâs fresh ornament,
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content,
And tender churl makâst waste in niggarding:
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the worldâs due, by the grave and thee.
II
When forty winters shall besiege thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beautyâs field,
Thy youthâs proud livery so gazed on now,
Will be a tatterâd 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 deservâd thy beautyâs use,
If thou couldst answer âThis fair child of mine
Shall sum my count, and make my old excuse,â
Proving his beauty by succession thine!
This were to be new made when thou art old,
And see thy blood warm when thou feelâst it cold.
III
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 unearâd 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 motherâs 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, rememberâd not to be,
Die single and thine image dies with thee.
IV
Unthrifty loveliness, why dost thou spend
Upon thy self thy beautyâs legacy?
Natureâs 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 thâ executor to be.
V
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 oâer-snowed and bareness every where:
Then were not summerâs distillation left,
A liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass,
Beautyâs effect with beauty were bereft,
Nor it, nor no remembrance what it was:
But flowers distillâd, though they with winter meet,
Leese but their show; their substance still lives sweet.
VI
Then let not winterâs ragged hand deface,
In thee thy summer, ere thou be distillâd:
Make sweet some vial; treasure thou some place
With beautyâs treasure ere it be self-killâd.
That use is not forbidden usury,
Which happies those that pay the willing loan;
Thatâs 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 refigurâd thee:
Then what could death do if thou shouldst depart,
Leaving thee living in posterity?
Be not self-willâd, for thou art much too fair
To be deathâs conquest and make worms thine heir.
VII
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 climbâd 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, âfore duteous, now converted are
From his low tract, and look another way:
So thou, thyself outgoing in thy noon:
Unlookâd, on diest unless thou get a son.
VIII
Music to hear, why hearâst thou music sadly?
Sweets with sweets war not, joy delights in joy:
Why lovâst thou that which thou receivâst not gladly,
Or else receivâst 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: âThou single wilt prove none.â
IX
Is it for fear to wet a widowâs eye,
That thou consumâst 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 childrenâs eyes, her husbandâs shape in mind:
Look! what an unthrift in the world doth spend
Shifts but his place, for still the world enjoys it;
But beautyâs 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 murdârous shame commits.
X
For shame! deny that thou bearâst love to any,
Who for thy self art so unprovident.
Grant, if thou wilt, thou art belovâd of many,
But that thou none lovâst is most evident:
For thou art so possessâd with murderous hate,
That âgainst thy self thou stickâst 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 lodgâd than gentle love?
Be, as thy presence is, gracious and kind,
Or to thyself at least kind-hearted prove:
Make thee another self for love of me,
That beauty still may live in thine or thee.
XI
As fast as thou shalt wane, so fast thou growâst,
In one of thine, from that which thou departest;
And that fresh blood which youngly thou bestowâst,
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 endowâd, she gave thee more;
Which bounteous gift thou shouldst in bounty cherish:
She carvâd thee for her seal, and meant thereby,
Thou shouldst print more, not let that copy die.
XII
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 oâer with white;
When lofty trees I see barren of leaves,
Which erst from heat did canopy the herd,
And summerâs 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 âgainst Timeâs scythe can make defence
Save breed, to brave him when he takes thee hence.
XIII
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
Yourself again, after yourselfâs 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 winterâs day
And barren rage of deathâs eternal cold?
O! none but unthrifts. Dear my love, you know,
You had a father: let your son say so.
XIV
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 seasonsâ 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 âTruth and beauty shall together thrive,
If from thyself, to store thou wouldst convertâ;
Or else of thee this I prognosticate:
âThy end is truthâs and beautyâs doom and date.â
XV
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.
XVI
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, Timeâs 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 yourself, keeps yourself still,
And you must live, drawn by your own sweet skill.
XVII
Who will believe my verse in time to come,
If it were fillâd 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 âThis poet lies;
Such heavenly touches neâer touchâd earthly faces.â
So should my papers, yellowâd with their age,
Be scornâd, like old men of less truth than tongue,
And your true rights be termâd a poetâs rage
And stretched metre of an antique song:
But were some child of yours alive that time,
You should live twice,âin it, and in my rhyme.
XVIII
Shall I compare thee to a summerâs day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summerâs lease hath all too short a date:
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his
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