collection of 154 sonnets by William Shakespeare, which covers themes such as the passage of time, love, beauty and mortality From Wikiquote, the free quote compendium
From fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might never die
II
When forty winters shall besiege thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery so gazed on now, Will be a tatter'd weed of small worth held
III
Look in thy glass and tell the face thou viewest Now is the time that face should form another
Die single and thine image dies with thee.
IV
Unthrifty loveliness, why dost thou spend Upon thy self thy beauty's legacy? Nature's bequest gives nothing, but doth lend, And being frank she lends to those are free
V
Flowers distill'd, though they with winter meet, Leese but their show; their substance still lives sweet.
VI
Be not self-will'd, for thou art much too fair To be death's 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
VIII
Music to hear, why hear'st thou music sadly? Sweets with sweets war not, joy delights in joy
IX
Beauty's waste hath in the world an end, And kept unused the user so destroys it.
X
For shame! deny that thou bear'st love to any, Who for thy self art so unprovident.
XI
Let those whom nature hath not made for store, Harsh, featureless, and rude, barrenly perish:
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 seasons' quality...
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...
XVI
To give away yourself, keeps yourself still, And you must live, drawn by your own sweet skill.
XVII
If I could write the beauty of your eyes, And in fresh numbers number all your graces, The age to come would say 'This poet lies
XVIII
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate
XIX
Devouring Time, blunt thou the lion's paws, And make the earth devour her own sweet brood; Pluck the keen teeth from the fierce tiger's jaws, And burn the long-liv'd phoenix, in her blood
Yet, do thy worst old Time: despite thy wrong, My love shall in my verse ever live young.
XXI
O! let me, true in love, but truly write, And then believe me, my love is as fair As any mother's child, though not so bright As those gold candles fix'd in heaven's air...
XXIII
O! learn to read what silent love hath writ: To hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit.
XXIX
For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings That then I scorn to change my state with kings.
XXX
But if the while I think on thee, dear friend, All losses are restor'd and sorrows end.
XXXI
Thy bosom is endeared with all hearts, Which I by lacking have supposed dead; And there reigns Love, and all Love's loving parts, And all those friends which I thought buried.
Their images I lov'd, I view in thee, And thou — all they — hast all the all of me.
XXXII
If thou survive my well-contented day, When that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover, And shalt by fortune once more re-survey These poor rude lines of thy deceased lover, Compare them with the bettering of the time, And though they be outstripp'd by every pen, Reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme, Exceeded by the height of happier men.
LVII
Being your slave, what should I do but tend Upon the hours and times of your desire? I have no precious time at all to spend, Nor services to do, till you require.
LX
Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth, And delves the parallels in beauty's brow, Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth, And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow
LXIV
This thought is as a death which cannot choose But weep to have, that which it fears to lose.
LXV
O! none, unless this miracle have might, That in black ink my love may still shine bright.
LXVI
Tired with all these, for restful death I cry
LXXI
No longer mourn for me when I am dead Then 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.
LXXIII
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 ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
LXXXIII
I impair not beauty being mute, When others would give life, and bring a tomb.
There lives more life in one of your fair eyes Than both your poets can in praise devise.
LXXXIV
Who is it that says most, which can say more, Than this rich praise, — that you alone, are you?
LXXXVII
Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing And like enough thou know’st thy estimate: The charter of thy worth gives thee releasing; My bonds in thee are all determinate.
XCI
And having thee, of all men's pride I boast: Wretched in this alone, that thou mayst take All this away and me most wretched make.
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 heaven's graces
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 December’s bareness everywhere!
CI
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
CII
My love is strengthen'd, though more weak in seeming; I love not less, though less the show appear; That love is merchandiz'd, whose rich esteeming, The owner's tongue doth publish every where.
CIV
To me, fair Friend, you never can be old, For as you were when first your eye I eyed Such seems your beauty still.
CVI
For we, which now behold these present days, Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise.
CVII
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 confin'd doom.
CVIII
What's in the brain, that ink may character, Which hath not figur'd to thee my true spirit?
CIX
For nothing this wide universe I call Save thou, my Rose; in it thou art my all.
CXV
Love is a babe, then might I not say so, To give full growth to that which still doth grow?
CXVI
If this be error and upon me prov'd, I never writ, nor no man ever lov'd.
CXXI
'Tis better to be vile than vile esteem'd, When not to be receives reproach of being; And the just pleasure lost, which is so deem'd Not by our feeling, but by others' seeing
CXXVII
In the old age black was not counted fair, Or if it were, it bore not beauty's name
CXXIX
The expense of spirit in a waste of shame Is lust in action
CXXX
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 grant I never saw a goddess go, — My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:
CXXXII
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.
CXXXIII
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?
CXXXV
Whoever hath her wish, thou hast thy 'Will,' And 'Will' to boot, and 'Will' in over-plus; More than enough am I that vex'd thee still, To thy sweet will making addition thus.
CXXXVIII
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 untutor'd youth, Unlearned in the world's false subtleties.
CXLI
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.
CXLV
'I hate', from hate away she threw, And sav'd my life, saying 'not you'.
CXLVI
Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth, [Fool'd by] these rebel powers that thee array, Why dost thou pine within and suffer dearth, Painting thy outward walls so costly gay?
CXLVII
Past cure I am, now Reason is past care, And frantic-mad with evermore unrest; My thoughts and my discourse as madmen's are, At random from the truth vainly express'd;
For I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright, Who art as black as hell, as dark as night.
CXLVIII
O! how can Love's eye be true, That is so vexed with watching and with tears? No marvel then, though I mistake my view; The sun itself sees not, till heaven clears.
CL
If thy unworthiness rais'd love in me, More worthy I to be belov'd of thee.
CLI
Love is too young to know what conscience is, Yet who knows not conscience is born of love?
CLII
For I have sworn thee fair; more perjur'd I, To swear against the truth so foul a lie!
CLIV
Love's fire heats water, water cools not love.
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