William Shakespeare, 1564-1616 [1640], Poems: vvritten by Wil. Shake-speare. Gent (Printed... by Tho. Cotes, and are to be sold by Iohn Benson [etc.], London) [word count] [S11600].
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A Lovers affection though his Love prove unconstant. [Sonnet XCII / Sonnet XCIII / Sonnet XCIV / Sonnet XCV]
Bvt doe thy worst to steale thy selfe away,
For tearme of life thou art assured mine,
And life no longer then my love will stay,
For it depends upon that love of thine.
Then need I not to feare the worst of wrongs,
When in the least of them my life hath end,
I see, a better state to me belongs
Then that, which on my humour doth depend.
Thou canst not vex me with inconstant minde,
Since that my life on thy revolt doth lie,
Oh what a happy title doe I finde,
Happy to have thy love, happy to die!
But whats so blessed faire that feares no blot,
Thou maist be false, and yet I know it not.
So shall I live, supposing thou art true,
Like a deceived husband, so loves face
May still seeme love to me, though alter'd new:
Thy lookes with me, thy heart in other place.
For their can live no hatred in thine eye,
Therefore in that I cannot know thy change,
In manies lookes, the false hearts history
Is writ in moods and frounes and wrinckles strange.
-- --
But heaven in thy creation did decree,
That in thy face sweet love should ever dwell,
What ere thy thoughts, or thy hearts workings be,
Thy lookes should nothing thence, but sweetnesse tell.
How like Eves apple doth thy beautie grow,
If thy sweet vertue answer not thy show.
They that have power to hurt, and will doe none,
That doe not doe the thing, they most doe show,
Who moving others, are themselves as stone,
Vnmooved, cold, and to temptation slow:
They rightly doe inherit heavens graces,
And husband natures riches from expence,
They are the Lords and owners of their faces,
Others, but stewards of their excellence:
The sommers flower is to the sommer sweet,
Though to it selfe, it onely live and die,
But if that flower with base infection meete,
The basest weed out-braves his dignitie:
For sweetest things turne sowrest by their deeds,
Lillies that fester, smell farre worse then weeds.
How sweete and lovely dost thou make the shame,
Which like a canker in the fragrant Rose,
Doth spot the beautie of thy budding name?
Oh in what sweets doest thou thy sinnes inclose?
That tongue that tells the story of thy dayes,
(Making lascivious comments on thy sport)
Cannot dispraise, but in a kind of praise,
Naming thy name, blesses an ill report.
Oh what a mansion have those vices got,
Which for their habitation choose out thee,
Where beauties vaile doth cover every blot,
And all things turnes to faire, that eyes can see!
-- --
Take heede (deere heart) of this large priviledge,
The hardest knife ill us'd doth loose his edge.
William Shakespeare, 1564-1616 [1640], Poems: vvritten by Wil. Shake-speare. Gent (Printed... by Tho. Cotes, and are to be sold by Iohn Benson [etc.], London) [word count] [S11600].
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