Shakespeare's Sonnets by William Shakespeare (books suggested by elon musk .txt) š
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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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 fillād up his line,
Then lacked I matter; that enfeebled mine.
LXXXVII
Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing,
And like enough thou knowāst 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 gavāst, thy own worth then not knowing,
Or me to whom thou gavāst 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.
LXXXVIII
When thou shalt be disposād to set me light,
And place my merit in the eye of scorn,
Upon thy side, against myself Iāll 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 concealād, wherein I am attainted;
That thou in losing me shalt win much glory:
And I by this will be a gainer too;
For bending all my loving thoughts on thee,
The injuries that to myself I do,
Doing thee vantage, double-vantage me.
Such is my love, to thee I so belong,
That for thy right, myself will bear all wrong.
LXXXIX
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 Iāll myself 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 wrong,
And haply of our old acquaintance tell.
For thee, against my self Iāll vow debate,
For I must neāer love him whom thou dost hate.
XC
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 āscapād this sorrow,
Come in the rearward of a conquerād woe;
Give not a windy night a rainy morrow,
To linger out a purposād 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 fortuneās might;
And other strains of woe, which now seem woe,
Comparād with loss of thee, will not seem so.
XCI
Some glory in their birth, some in their skill,
Some in their wealth, some in their bodyās 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 garmentsā costs,
Of more delight than hawks and horses be;
And having thee, of all menās pride I boast:
Wretched in this alone, that thou mayst take
All this away, and me most wretchcd make.
XCII
But do thy worst to steal thyself 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 whatās so blessed-fair that fears no blot?
Thou mayst be false, and yet I know it not.
XCIII
So shall I live, supposing thou art true,
Like a deceived husband; so loveās face
May still seem love to me, though alterād 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 manyās looks, the false heartās 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;
Whateāer thy thoughts, or thy heartās workings be,
Thy looks should nothing thence, but sweetness tell.
How like Eveās apple doth thy beauty grow,
If thy sweet virtue answer not thy show!
XCIV
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 heavenās graces,
And husband natureās riches from expense;
They are the lords and owners of their faces,
Others, but stewards of their excellence.
The summerās flower is to the summer sweet,
Though to itself, it only live and die,
But if that flower with base infection meet,
The basest weed outbraves his dignity:
For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds;
Lilies that fester, smell far worse than weeds.
XCV
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 beautyās 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-usād doth lose his edge.
XCVI
Some say thy fault is youth, some wantonness;
Some say thy grace is youth and gentle sport;
Both grace and faults are lovād of more and less:
Thou makāst faults graces that to thee resort.
As on the finger of a throned queen
The basest jewel will be well esteemād,
So are those errors that in thee are seen
To truths translated, and for true things deemād.
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.
XCVII
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 Decemberās bareness everywhere!
And yet this time removed was summerās time;
The teeming autumn, big with rich increase,
Bearing the wanton burden of the prime,
Like widowād wombs after their lordsā decease:
Yet this abundant issue seemād to me
But hope of orphans, and unfatherād fruit;
For summer and his pleasures wait on thee,
And, thou away, the very birds are mute:
Or, if they sing, ātis with so dull a cheer,
That leaves look pale, dreading the winterās near.
XCVIII
From you have I been absent in the spring,
When proud-pied April, dressād in all his trim,
Hath put a spirit of youth in every thing,
That heavy Saturn laughād and leapād with him.
Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell
Of different flowers in odour and in hue,
Could make me any summerās story tell,
Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew:
Nor did I wonder at the lilyās 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 seemād it winter still, and you away,
As with your shadow I with these did play.
XCIX
The forward violet thus did I chide:
Sweet thief, whence didst thou steal thy sweet that smells,
If not from my loveās breath? The purple pride
Which on thy soft cheek for complexion dwells
In my loveās veins thou hast too grossly dyād.
The lily I condemned for thy hand,
And buds of marjoram had stolān thy hair;
The roses fearfully on thorns did stand,
One blushing shame, another white despair;
A third, nor red nor white, had stolān of both,
And to his robbery had annexād 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 stolān from thee.
C
Where art thou Muse that thou forgetāst so long,
To speak of that which gives thee all thy might?
Spendāst 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 loveās sweet face survey,
If Time have any wrinkle graven there;
If any, be a satire to decay,
And make timeās spoils despised every where.
Give my love fame faster than Time wastes life,
So thou preventāst his scythe and crooked knife.
CI
O truant Muse what shall be thy amends
For thy neglect of truth in beauty dyād?
Both truth and beauty on my love depends;
So dost thou too, and therein dignified.
Make answer Muse: wilt thou not haply say,
āTruth needs no colour, with his colour fixād;
Beauty no pencil, beautyās truth to lay;
But best is best, if never intermixādā?
Because he needs no praise, wilt thou be dumb?
Excuse not silence so, forāt lies in thee
To make him much outlive a gilded tomb
And to be praisād of ages yet to be.
Then do thy office, Muse; I teach thee how
To make him seem long hence as he shows now.
CII
My love is strengthenād, though more weak in seeming;
I love not less, though less the show appear;
That love is merchandizād, whose rich esteeming,
The ownerās 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 summerās 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.
CIII
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
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