Текст книги "William Shakespeare: The Complete Works 2nd Edition"

Автор книги: William Shakespeare

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Which on thy soft cheek for complexion dwells

In my love’s veins thou hast too grossly dyed.

The lily I condemned for thy hand,

And buds of marjoram had stol’n thy hair;

The roses fearfully on thorns did stand,

One blushing shame, another white despair;

A third, nor red nor white, had stol’n of both,

And to his robb’ry had annexed thy breath;

But for his theft in pride of all his growth

A vengeful canker ate him up to death.

More flowers I noted, yet I none could see

But sweet or colour it had stol’n from thee.

100

Where art thou, muse, that thou forget‘st so long

To speak of that which gives thee all thy might?

Spend’st thou thy fury on some worthless song,

Dark‘ning 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 love’s sweet face survey

If time have any wrinkle graven there.

If any, be a satire to decay

And make time’s spoils despised everywhere.

Give my love fame faster than time wastes life;

So, thou prevene’st his scythe and crooked knife.

101

O truant muse, what shall be thy amends

For thy neglect of truth in beauty dyed?

Both truth and beauty on my love depends;

So dost thou too, and therein dignified.

Make answer, muse. Wilt thou not haply say

‘Truth needs no colour with his colour fixed,

Beauty no pencil beauty’s truth to lay,

But best is best if never intermixed’?

Because he needs no praise wilt thou be dumb?

Excuse not silence so, for’t lies in thee

To make him much outlive a gilded tomb,

And to be praised of ages yet to be.

Then do thy office, muse; I teach thee how

To make him seem long hence as he shows now.

102

My love is strengthened, though more weak in seeming.

I love not less, though less the show appear.

That love is merchandized whose rich esteeming

The owner’s tongue doth publish everywhere.

Our love was new and then but in the spring

When I was wont to greet it with my lays,

As Philomel in summer’s 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 burdens 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.

103

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 it hath my added praise beside!

O blame me not if I no more can write!

Look in your glass and there appears a face

That overgoes my blunt invention quite,

Dulling my lines and doing me disgrace.

Were it not sinful then, striving to mend,

To mar the subject that before was well?—

For to no other pass my verses tend

Than of your graces and your gifts to tell;

And more, much more, than in my verse can sit

Your own glass shows you when you look in it.

104

To me, fair friend, you never can be old;

For as you were when first your eye I eyed,

Such seems your beauty still. Three winters cold

Have from the forests shook three summers’ pride;

Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn turned

In process of the seasons have I seen,

Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burned

Since first I saw you fresh, which yet are green.

Ah yet doth beauty, like a dial hand,

Steal from his figure and no pace perceived;

So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand,

Hath motion, and mine eye may be deceived.

For fear of which, hear this, thou age unbred:

Ere you were born was beauty’s summer dead.

105

Let not my love be called idolatry,

Nor my belovèd as an idol show,

Since all alike my songs and praises be

To one, of one, still such, and ever so.

Kind is my love today, tomorrow kind,

Still constant in a wondrous excellence.

Therefore my verse, to constancy confined,

One thing expressing, leaves out difference.

‘Fair, kind, and true’ is all my argument,

‘Fair, kind, and true’ varying to other words,

And in this change is my invention spent,

Three themes in one, which wondrous scope affords.

Fair, kind, and true have often lived alone,

Which three till now never kept seat in one.

106

When in the chronicle of wasted time

I see descriptions of the fairest wights,

And beauty making beautiful old rhyme

In praise of ladies dead and lovely knights;

Then in the blazon of sweet beauty’s best,

Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow,

I see their antique pen would have expressed

Even such a beauty as you master now.

So all their praises are but prophecies

Of this our time, all you prefiguring,

And for they looked but with divining eyes

They had not skill enough your worth to sing;

For we which now behold these present days

Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise.

107

Not mine own fears nor the prophetic soul

Of the wide world dreaming on things to come

Can yet the lease of my true love control,

Supposed as forfeit to a confined doom.

The mortal moon hath her eclipse endured,

And the sad augurs mock their own presage;

Incertainties now crown themselves assured,

And peace proclaims olives of endless age.

Now with the drops of this most balmy time

My love looks fresh, and death to me subscribes,

Since spite of him I’ll live in this poor rhyme

While he insults o’er dull and speechless tribes;

And thou in this shalt find thy monument

When tyrants’ crests and tombs of brass are spent.

108

What’s in the brain that ink may character

Which hath not figured to thee my true spirit?

What’s new to speak, what now to register,

That may express my love or thy dear merit?

Nothing, sweet boy; but yet like prayers divine

I must each day say o’er the very same,

Counting no old thing old, thou mine, I thine,

Even as when first I hallowed thy fair name.

So that eternal love in love’s fresh case

Weighs not the dust and injury of age,

Nor gives to necessary wrinkles place,

But makes antiquity for aye his page,

Finding the first conceit of love there bred

Where time and outward form would show it dead.

109

O never say that I was false of heart,

Though absence seemed my flame to qualify—

As easy might I from myself depart

As from my soul, which in thy breast doth lie.

That is my home of love. If I have ranged,

Like him that travels I return again,

Just to the time, not with the time exchanged,

So that myself bring water for my stain.

Never believe, though in my nature reigned

All frailties that besiege all kinds of blood,

That it could so preposterously be stained

To leave for nothing all thy sum of good;

For nothing this wide universe I call

Save thou my rose; in it thou art my all.

110

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

And made myself a motley to the view,

Gored mine own thoughts, sold cheap what is most dear,

Made old offences of affections new.

Most true it is that I have looked on truth

Askance and strangely. But, by all above,

These blenches gave my heart another youth,

And worse essays proved thee my best of love.

Now all is done, have what shall have no end;

Mine appetite I never more will grind

On newer proof to try an older friend,

A god in love, to whom I am confined.

Then give me welcome, next my heaven the best,

Even to thy pure and most most loving breast.

111

O, for my sake do you with fortune chide,

The guilty goddess of my harmful deeds,

That did not better for my life provide

Than public means which public manners breeds.

Thence comes it that my name receives a brand,

And almost thence my nature is subdued

To what it works in, like the dyer’s hand.

Pity me then, and wish I were renewed,

Whilst like a willing patient I will drink

Potions of eisel ’gainst my strong infection;

No bitterness that I will bitter think,

Nor double penance to correct correction.

Pity me then, dear friend, and I assure ye

Even that your pity is enough to cure me.

112

Your love and pity doth th‘impression fill

Which vulgar scandal stamped upon my brow;

For what care I who calls me well or ill,

So you o’er-green my bad, my good allow?

You are my all the world, and I must strive

To know my shames and praises from your tongue—

None else to me, nor I to none alive,

That my steeled sense or changes, right or wrong.

In so profound abyss I throw all care

Of others’ voices that my adder’s sense

To critic and to flatterer stopped are.

Mark how with my neglect I do dispense:

You are so strongly in my purpose bred

That all the world besides, methinks, they’re dead.

113

Since I left you mine eye is in my mind,

And that which governs me to go about

Doth part his function and is partly blind,

Seems seeing, but effectually is out;

For it no form delivers to the heart

Of bird, of flower, or shape which it doth latch.

Of his quick objects hath the mind no part,

Nor his own vision holds what it doth catch;

For if it see the rud‘st or gentlest sight,

The most sweet favour or deformèd’st creature,

The mountain or the sea, the day or night,

The crow or dove, it shapes them to your feature.

Incapable of more, replete with you,

My most true mind thus makes mine eye untrue.

114

Or whether doth my mind, being crowned with you,

Drink up the monarch’s plague, this flattery,

Or whether shall I say mine eye saith true,

And that your love taught it this alchemy,

To make of monsters and things indigest

Such cherubins as your sweet self resemble,

Creating every bad a perfect best

As fast as objects to his beams assemble?

O, ‘tis the first, ’tis flatt‘ry in my seeing,

And my great mind most kingly drinks it up.

Mine eye well knows what with his gust is ’greeing,

And to his palate doth prepare the cup.

If it be poisoned, ’tis the lesser sin

That mine eye loves it and doth first begin.

115

Those lines that I before have writ do lie,

Even those that said I could not love you dearer;

Yet then my judgement knew no reason why

My most full flame should afterwards burn clearer.

But reckoning time, whose millioned accidents

Creep in ‘twixt vows and change decrees of kings,

Tan sacred beauty, blunt the sharp’st intents,

Divert strong minds to th’ course of alt‘ring things—

Alas, why, fearing of time’s tyranny,

Might I not then say ‘Now I love you best‘,

When I was certain o’er incertainty,

Crowning the present, doubting of the rest?

Love is a babe; then might I not say so,

To give full growth to that which still doth grow.

116

Let me not to the marriage of true minds

Admit impediments. Love is not love

Which alters when it alteration finds,

Or bends with the remover to remove.

O no, it is an ever fixed mark

That looks on tempests and is never shaken;

It is the star to every wand’ring barque,

Whose worth’s unknown although his height be taken.

Love’s not time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks

Within his bending sickle’s compass come;

Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,

But bears it out even to the edge of doom.

If this be error and upon me proved,

I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

117

Accuse me thus: that I have scanted all

Wherein I should your great deserts repay,

Forgot upon your dearest love to call

Whereto all bonds do tie me day by day;

That I have frequent been with unknown minds,

And given to time your own dear-purchased right;

That I have hoisted sail to all the winds

Which should transport me farthest from your sight.

Book both my wilfulness and errors down,

And on just proof surmise accumulate;

Bring me within the level of your frown,

But shoot not at me in your wakened hate,

Since my appeal says I did strive to prove

The constancy and virtue of your love.

118

Like as, to make our appetites more keen,

With eager compounds we our palate urge;

As to prevent our maladies unseen

We sicken to shun sickness when we purge:

Even so, being full of your ne‘er cloying sweetness,

To bitter sauces did I frame my feeding,

And, sick of welfare, found a kind of meetness

To be diseased ere that there was true needing.

Thus policy in love, t’anticipate

The ills that were not, grew to faults assured,

And brought to medicine a healthful state

Which, rank of goodness, would by ill be cured.

But thence I learn, and find the lesson true:

Drugs poison him that so fell sick of you.

119

What potions have I drunk of siren tears

Distilled from limbecks foul as hell within,

Applying fears to hopes and hopes to fears,

Still losing when I saw myself to win!

What wretched errors hath my heart committed

Whilst it hath thought itself so blessed never!

How have mine eyes out of their spheres been fitted

In the distraction of this madding fever!

O benefit of ill! Now I find true

That better is by evil still made better,

And ruined love when it is built anew

Grows fairer than at first, more strong, far greater.

So I return rebuked to my content,

And gain by ills thrice more than I have spent.

120

That you were once unkind befriends me now,

And for that sorrow which I then did feel

Needs must I under my transgression bow,

Unless my nerves were brass or hammered steel.

For if you were by my unkindness shaken

As I by yours, you’ve past a hell of time,

And I, a tyrant, have no leisure taken

To weigh how once I suffered in your crime.

O that our night of woe might have remembered

My deepest sense how hard true sorrow hits,

And soon to you as you to me then tendered

The humble salve which wounded bosoms fits!

But that your trespass now becomes a fee;

Mine ransoms yours, and yours must ransom me.

121

’Tis better to be vile than vile esteemed

When not to be receives reproach of being,

And the just pleasure lost, which is so deemed

Not by our feeling but by others’ seeing.

For why should others’ false adulterate eyes

Give salutation to my sportive blood?

Or on my frailties why are frailer spies,

Which in their wills count bad what I think good?

No, I am that I am, and they that level

At my abuses reckon up their own.

I may be straight, though they themselves be bevel;

By their rank thoughts my deeds must not be shown,

Unless this general evil they maintain:

All men are bad and in their badness reign.

122

Thy gift, thy tables, are within my brain

Full charactered with lasting memory,

Which shall above that idle rank remain

Beyond all date, even to eternity;

Or at the least so long as brain and heart

Have faculty by nature to subsist,

Till each to razed oblivion yield his part

Of thee, thy record never can be missed.

That poor retention could not so much hold,

Nor need I tallies thy dear love to score;

Therefore to give them from me was I bold,

To trust those tables that receive thee more.

To keep an adjunct to remember thee

Were to import forgetfulness in me.

123

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

Thy pyramids built up with newer might

To me are nothing novel, nothing strange,

They are but dressings of a former sight.

Our dates are brief, and therefore we admire

What thou dost foist upon us that is old,

And rather make them born to our desire

Than think that we before have heard them told.

Thy registers and thee I both defy,

Not wond’ring at the present nor the past;

For thy records and what we see doth lie,

Made more or less by thy continual haste.

This I do vow, and this shall ever be:

I will be true despite thy scythe and thee.

124

If my dear love were but the child of state

It might for fortune’s bastard be unfathered,

As subject to time’s love or to time’s hate,

Weeds among weeds or flowers with flowers gathered.

No, it was builded far from accident;

It suffers not in smiling pomp, nor falls

Under the blow of thrallèd discontent

Whereto th’inviting time our fashion calls.

It fears not policy, that heretic

Which works on leases of short-numbered hours,

But all alone stands hugely politic,

That it nor grows with heat nor drowns with showers.

To this I witness call the fools of time,

Which die for goodness, who have lived for crime.

125

Were’t aught to me I bore the canopy,

With my extern the outward honouring,

Or laid great bases for eternity

Which proves more short than waste or ruining?

Have I not seen dwellers on form and favour

Lose all and more by paying too much rent,

For compound sweet forgoing simple savour,

Pitiful thrivers in their gazing spent?

No, let me be obsequious in thy heart,

And take thou my oblation, poor but free,

Which is not mixed with seconds, knows no art

But mutual render, only me for thee.

Hence, thou suborned informer! A true soul

When most impeached stands least in thy control.

126

O thou my lovely boy, who in thy power

Dost hold time’s fickle glass, his sickle-hour;

Who hast by waning grown, and therein show‘st

Thy lovers withering as thy sweet self grow’st—

If nature, sovereign mistress over wrack,

As thou goest onwards still will pluck thee back,

She keeps thee to this purpose: that her skill

May time disgrace, and wretched minutes kill.

Yet fear her, O thou minion of her pleasure!

She may detain but not still keep her treasure.

Her audit, though delayed, answered must be,

And her quietus is to render thee.

127

In the old age black was not counted fair,

Or if it were, it bore not beauty’s name;

But now is black beauty’s successive heir,

And beauty slandered with a bastard shame:

For since each hand hath put on nature’s power,

Fairing the foul with art’s false borrowed face,

Sweet beauty hath no name, no holy bower,

But is profaned, if not lives in disgrace.

Therefore my mistress’ eyes are raven-black,

Her brow so suited, and they mourners seem

At such who, not born fair, no beauty lack,

Sland’ring creation with a false esteem.

Yet so they mourn, becoming of their woe,

That every tongue says beauty should look so.

128

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

Upon that blessèd wood whose motion sounds

With thy sweet fingers when thou gently sway’st

The wiry concord that mine ear confounds,

Do I envy those jacks that nimble leap

To kiss the tender inward of thy hand

Whilst my poor lips, which should that harvest reap,

At the wood’s boldness by thee blushing stand!

To be so tickled they would change their state

And situation with those dancing chips

O’er whom thy fingers walk with gentle gait,

Making dead wood more blessed than living lips.

Since saucy jacks so happy are in this,

Give them thy fingers, me thy lips to kiss.

129

Th‘expense of spirit in a waste of shame

Is lust in action; and till action, lust

Is perjured, murd’rous, bloody, full of blame,

Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust,

Enjoyed no sooner but despised straight,

Past reason hunted, and no sooner had

Past reason hated as a swallowed bait

On purpose laid to make the taker mad;

Mad in pursuit and in possession so,

Had, having, and in quest to have, extreme;

A bliss in proof and proved, a very woe;

Before, a joy proposed; behind, a dream.

All this the world well knows, yet none knows well

To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell.

130

My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun;

Coral is far more red than her lips’ red.

If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;

If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.

I have seen roses damasked, red and white,

But no such roses see I in her cheeks;

And in some perfumes is there more delight

Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.

I love to hear her speak, yet well I know

That music hath a far more pleasing sound.

I grant I never saw a goddess go:

My mistress when she walks treads on the ground.

And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare

As any she belied with false compare.

131

Thou art as tyrannous so as thou art

As those whose beauties proudly make them cruel,

For well thou know’st to my dear doting heart

Thou art the fairest and most precious jewel.

Yet, in good faith, some say that thee behold

Thy face hath not the power to make love groan.

To say they err I dare not be so bold,

Although I swear it to myself alone;

And, to be sure that is not false I swear,

A thousand groans but thinking on thy face

One on another’s neck do witness bear

Thy black is fairest in my judgement’s place.

In nothing art thou black save in thy deeds,

And thence this slander, as I think, proceeds.

132

Thine eyes I love, and they, as pitying me—

Knowing thy heart torment me with disdain—

Have put on black, and loving mourners be,

Looking with pretty ruth upon my pain;

And truly, not the morning sun of heaven

Better becomes the gray cheeks of the east,

Nor that full star that ushers in the even

Doth half that glory to the sober west,

As those two mourning eyes become thy face.

O, let it then as well beseem thy heart

To mourn for me, since mourning doth thee grace,

And suit thy pity like in every part.

Then will I swear beauty herself is black,

And all they foul that thy complexion lack.

133

Beshrew that heart that makes my heart to groan

For that deep wound it gives my friend and me!

Is’t not enough to torture me alone,

But slave to slavery my sweet‘st friend must be?

Me from myself thy cruel eye hath taken,

And my next self thou harder hast engrossed.

Of him, myself, and thee I am forsaken—

A torment thrice threefold thus to be crossed.

Prison my heart in thy steel bosom’s ward,

But then my friend’s heart let my poor heart bail;

Whoe’er keeps me, let my heart be his guard;

Thou canst not then use rigour in my jail.

And yet thou wilt; for I, being pent in thee,

Perforce am thine, and all that is in me.

134

So, now I have confessed that he is thine,

And I myself am mortgaged to thy will,

Myself I’ll forfeit, so that other mine

Thou wilt restore to be my comfort still.

But thou wilt not, nor he will not be free,

For thou art covetous, and he is kind.

He learned but surety-like to write for me

Under that bond that him as fast doth bind.

The statute of thy beauty thou wilt take,

Thou usurer that putt’st forth all to use,

And sue a friend came debtor for my sake;

So him I lose through my unkind abuse.

Him have I lost; thou hast both him and me;

He pays the whole, and yet am I not free.

135

Whoever hath her wish, thou hast thy Will,

And Will to boot, and Will in overplus.

More than enough am I that vex thee still,

To thy sweet will making addition thus.

Wilt thou, whose will is large and spacious,

Not once vouchsafe to hide my will in thine?

Shall will in others seem right gracious,

And in my will no fair acceptance shine?

The sea, all water, yet receives rain still,

And in abundance addeth to his store;

So thou, being rich in Will, add to thy Will

One will of mine to make thy large Will more.

Let no unkind no fair beseechers kill;

Think all but one, and me in that one Will.

136

If thy soul check thee that I come so near,

Swear to thy blind soul that I was thy Will,

And will, thy soul knows, is admitted there;

Thus far for love my love-suit, sweet, fulfil.

Will will fulfil the treasure of thy love,

Ay, fill it full with wills, and my will one.

In things of great receipt with ease we prove

Among a number one is reckoned none.

Then in the number let me pass untold,

Though in thy store’s account I one must be;

For nothing hold me, so it please thee hold

That nothing me a something, sweet, to thee.

Make but my name thy love, and love that still,

And then thou lov’st me for my name is Will.

137

Thou blind fool love, what dost thou to mine eyes

That they behold and see not what they see?

They know what beauty is, see where it lies,

Yet what the best is take the worst to be.

If eyes corrupt by over-partial looks

Be anchored in the bay where all men ride,

Why of eyes’ falsehood hast thou forged hooks

Whereto the judgement of my heart is tied?

Why should my heart think that a several plot

Which my heart knows the wide world’s common place?—

Or mine eyes, seeing this, say this is not,

To put fair truth upon so foul a face?

In things right true my heart and eyes have erred,

And to this false plague are they now transferred.

138

When my love swears that she is made of truth

I do believe her though I know she lies,

That she might think me some untutored youth

Unlearned in the world’s false subtleties.

Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me young,

Although she knows my days are past the best,

Simply I credit her false-speaking tongue;

On both sides thus is simple truth suppressed.

But wherefore says she not she is unjust,

And wherefore say not I that I am old?

O, love’s best habit is in seeming trust,

And age in love loves not to have years told.

Therefore I lie with her, and she with me,

And in our faults by lies we flattered be.

139

O, call not me to justify the wrong

That thy unkindness lays upon my heart.

Wound me not with thine eye but with thy tongue;

Use power with power, and slay me not by art.

Tell me thou lov‘st elsewhere, but in my sight,

Dear heart, forbear to glance thine eye aside.

What need’st thou wound with cunning when thy

might

Is more than my o‘erpressed defence can bide?

Let me excuse thee: ‘Ah, my love well knows

Her pretty looks have been mine enemies,

And therefore from my face she turns my foes

That they elsewhere might dart their injuries.’

Yet do not so; but since I am near slain,

Kill me outright with looks, and rid my pain.

140

Be wise as thou art cruel; do not press

My tongue-tied patience with too much disdain,

Lest sorrow lend me words, and words express

The manner of my pity-wanting pain.

If I might teach thee wit, better it were,

Though not to love, yet, love, to tell me so—

As testy sick men when their deaths be near

No news but health from their physicians know.

For if I should despair I should grow mad,

And in my madness might speak ill of thee.

Now this ill-wresting world is grown so bad

Mad slanderers by mad ears believèd be.

That I may not be so, nor thou belied,

Bear thine eyes straight, though thy proud heart go

wide.

141

In faith, I do not love thee with mine eyes,

For they in thee a thousand errors note;

But ’tis my heart that loves what they despise,

Who in despite of view is pleased to dote.

Nor are mine ears with thy tongue’s tune delighted,

Nor tender feeling to base touches prone;

Nor taste nor smell desire to be invited

To any sensual feast with thee alone;

But my five wits nor my five senses can

Dissuade one foolish heart from serving thee,

Who leaves unswayed the likeness of a man,

Thy proud heart’s slave and vassal-wretch to be.

Only my plague thus far I count my gain:

That she that makes me sin awards me pain.

142

Love is my sin, and thy dear virtue hate,

Hate of my sin grounded on sinful loving.

O, but with mine compare thou thine own state,

And thou shalt find it merits not reproving;

Or if it do, not from those lips of thine

That have profaned their scarlet ornaments

And sealed false bonds of love as oft as mine,

Robbed others’ beds’ revenues of their rents.

Be it lawful I love thee as thou lov’st those

Whom thine eyes woo as mine importune thee.

Root pity in thy heart, that when it grows

Thy pity may deserve to pitied be.

If thou dost seek to have what thou dost hide,

By self example mayst thou be denied!

143

Lo, as a care-full housewife runs to catch

One of her feathered creatures broke away,

Sets down her babe and makes all swift dispatch

In pursuit of the thing she would have stay,

Whilst her neglected child holds her in chase,

Cries to catch her whose busy care is bent

To follow that which flies before her face,

Not prizing her poor infant’s discontent:

So runn’st thou after that which flies from thee,

Whilst I, thy babe, chase thee afar behind;

But if thou catch thy hope, turn back to me

And play the mother’s part: kiss me, be kind.

So will I pray that thou mayst have thy Will

If thou turn back and my loud crying still.

144

Two loves I have, of comfort and despair,

Which like two spirits do suggest me still.

The better angel is a man right fair,

The worser spirit a woman coloured ill.

To win me soon to hell my female evil

Tempteth my better angel from my side,

And would corrupt my saint to be a devil,

Wooing his purity with her foul pride;

And whether that my angel be turned fiend

Suspect I may, yet not directly tell;

But being both from me, both to each friend,

I guess one angel in another’s hell.

Yet this shall I ne’er know, but live in doubt

Till my bad angel fire my good one out.

145

Those lips that love’s own hand did make

Breathed forth the sound that said ‘I hate’

To me that languished for her sake;

But when she saw my woeful state,

Straight in her heart did mercy come,

Chiding that tongue that ever sweet

Was used in giving gentle doom,

And taught it thus anew to greet:

‘I hate’ she altered with an end

That followed it as gentle day

Doth follow night who, like a fiend,

From heaven to hell is flown away.

‘I hate’ from hate away she threw,

And saved my life, saying ‘not you.’

146

Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth,

these rebel powers that thee array;

Why dost thou pine within and suffer dearth,

Painting thy outward walls so costly gay?

Why so large cost, having so short a lease,

Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend?

Shall worms, inheritors of this excess,

Eat up thy charge? Is this thy body’s end?

Then, soul, live thou upon thy servant’s loss,

And let that pine to aggravate thy store.

Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross;

Within be fed, without be rich no more.

So shalt thou feed on death, that feeds on men,

And death once dead, there’s no more dying then.

147

My love is as a fever, longing still

For that which longer nurseth the disease,

Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill,

Th’uncertain sickly appetite to please.

My reason, the physician to my love,

Angry that his prescriptions are not kept,

Hath left me, and I desperate now approve

Desire is death, which physic did except.

Past cure I am, now reason is past care,

And frantic mad with evermore unrest. ro

My thoughts and my discourse as madmen’s are,

At random from the truth vainly expressed;

For I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright,

Who art as black as hell, as dark as night.

148

O me, what eyes hath love put in my head,

Which have no correspondence with true sight!

Or if they have, where is my judgement fled,

That censures falsely what they see aright?

If that be fair whereon my false eyes dote,

What means the world to say it is not so?

If it be not, then love doth well denote

Love’s eye is not so true as all men’s. No,

How can it, O, how can love’s eye be true,

That is so vexed with watching and with tears?