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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. |
68 |
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. |
69 |
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. |
70 |
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. |
71 |
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. |
72 |
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. |
73 |
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. |
74 |
But be contented when that fell arrest, |
Without all bail shall carry me away, |
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