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William Shakespeare(莎士比亚)十四行诗

(2011-01-30 22:22:50)
标签:

富源

美的

时光

眼睛

我的心

文化

分类: 人文与历史

http://baike.baidu.com/view/830783.htm

译者:辜正坤

一    对天生的尤物我们要求蕃盛,  以便美的玫瑰永远不会枯死,  但开透的花朵既要及时凋零,  就应把记忆交给娇嫩的后嗣;  但你,只和你自己的明眸定情,  把自己当燃料喂养眼中的火焰,  和自己作对,待自己未免太狠,  把一片丰沃的土地变成荒田。  你现在是大地的清新的点缀,  又是锦绣阳春的唯一的前锋,   为什么把富源葬送在嫩蕊里,  温柔的鄙夫,要吝啬,反而浪用?  可怜这个世界吧,要不然,贪夫,  就吞噬世界的份,由你和坟墓。  

二  当四十个冬天围攻你的朱颜,  在你美的园地挖下深的战壕,  你青春的华服,那么被人艳羡,  将成褴褛的败絮,谁也不要瞧:  那时人若问起你的美在何处,  哪里是你那少壮年华的宝藏,  你说,“在我这双深陷的眼眶里,  是贪婪的羞耻,和无益的颂扬。”   你的美的用途会更值得赞美,  如果你能够说,“我这宁馨小童  将总结我的账,宽恕我的老迈,”   证实他的美在继承你的血统!  这将使你在衰老的暮年更生,  并使你垂冷的血液感到重温。  

三  照照镜子,告诉你那镜中的脸庞,  说现在这庞儿应该另造一副;  如果你不赶快为它重修殿堂,  就欺骗世界,剥掉母亲的幸福。  因为哪里会有女人那么淑贞  她那处女的胎不愿被你耕种?  哪里有男人那么蠢,他竟甘心  做自己的坟墓,绝自己的血统?  你是你母亲的镜子,在你里面  她唤回她的盛年的芳菲四月:  同样,从你暮年的窗你将眺见——   纵皱纹满脸——你这黄金的岁月。  但是你活着若不愿被人惦记,  就独自死去,你的肖像和你一起。   

四  俊俏的浪子,为什么把你那份  美的遗产在你自己身上耗尽?  造化的馈赠非赐予,她只出赁;  她慷慨,只赁给宽宏大量的人。  那么,美丽的鄙夫,为什么滥用  那交给你转交给别人的厚礼?  赔本的高利贷者,为什么浪用  那么一笔大款,还不能过日子?  因为你既然只和自己做买卖,  就等于欺骗你那妩媚的自我。  这样,你将拿什么账目去交代,  当造化唤你回到她怀里长卧?  你未用过的美将同你进坟墓;  用呢,就活着去执行你的遗嘱。  

五   那些时辰曾经用轻盈的细工  织就这众目共注的可爱明眸,  终有天对它摆出魔王的面孔,  把绝代佳丽剁成龙锺的老丑:  因为不舍昼夜的时光把盛夏  带到狰狞的冬天去把它结果;  生机被严霜窒息,绿叶又全下,  白雪掩埋了美,满目是赤裸裸:  那时候如果夏天尚未经提炼,  让它凝成香露锁在玻璃瓶里,  美和美的流泽将一起被截断,  美,和美的记忆都无人再提起:  但提炼过的花,纵和冬天抗衡,  只失掉颜色,却永远吐着清芬。  

六  那么,别让冬天嶙峋的手抹掉  你的夏天,在你未经提炼之前:  熏香一些瓶子;把你美的财宝  藏在宝库里,趁它还未及消散。  这样的借贷并不是违禁取利,  既然它使那乐意纳息的高兴;  这是说你该为你另生一个你,  或者,一个生十,就十倍地幸运;  十倍你自己比你现在更快乐,  如果你有十个儿子来重现你:  这样,即使你长辞,死将奈你何,  既然你继续活在你的后裔里?  别任性:你那么标致,何必甘心  做死的胜利品,让蛆虫做子孙。  

七  看,当普照万物的太阳从东方  抬起了火红的头,下界的眼睛  都对他初升的景象表示敬仰,  用目光来恭候他神圣的驾临;  然后他既登上了苍穹的极峰,  像精力饱满的壮年,雄姿英发,  万民的眼睛依旧膜拜他的峥嵘,  紧紧追随着他那疾驰的金驾。  但当他,像耄年拖着尘倦的车轮,  从绝顶颤巍巍地离开了白天,  众目便一齐从他下沉的足印  移开它们那原来恭顺的视线。  同样,你的灿烂的日中一消逝,  你就会悄悄死去,如果没后嗣。  

八  我的音乐,为何听音乐会生悲?  甜蜜不相克,快乐使快乐欢笑。  为何爱那你不高兴爱的东西,  或者为何乐于接受你的烦恼?  如果悦耳的声音的完美和谐  和亲挚的协调会惹起你烦忧,  它们不过委婉地责备你不该  用独奏窒息你心中那部合奏。  试看这一根弦,另一根的良人,  怎样融洽地互相呼应和振荡;  宛如父亲、儿子和快活的母亲,  它们联成了一片,齐声在欢唱。  它们的无言之歌都异曲同工  对你唱着:“你独身就一切皆空。”   

九  是否因为怕打湿你寡妇的眼,  你在独身生活里消磨你自己?  哦,如果你不幸无后离开人间,  世界就要哀哭你,像丧偶的妻。  世界将是你寡妇,她永远伤心  你生前没给她留下你的容貌;  其他的寡妇,靠儿女们的眼睛,  反能把良人的肖像在心里长保。  看吧,浪子在世上的种种浪费  只换了主人,世界仍然在享受;  但美的消耗在人间将有终尾:  留着不用,就等于任由它腐朽。  这样的心决不会对别人有爱,  既然它那么忍心把自己戕害。  

一○   羞呀,否认你并非不爱任何人,  对待你自己却那么欠缺绸缪。  承认,随你便,许多人对你钟情,  但说你并不爱谁,谁也要点头。  因为怨毒的杀机那么缠住你,  你不惜多方设计把自己戕害,  锐意摧残你那座峥嵘的殿宇,  你唯一念头却该是把它重盖。  哦,赶快回心吧,让我也好转意!  难道憎比温婉的爱反得处优?  你那么貌美,愿你也一样心慈,  否则至少对你自己也要温柔。  另造一个你吧,你若是真爱我,  让美在你儿子或你身上永活。  

一一  和你一样快地消沉,你的儿子,  也将一样快在世界生长起来;  你灌注给青春的这新鲜血液  仍将是你的,当青春把你抛开。  这里面活着智慧、美丽和昌盛;  没有这,便是愚蠢、衰老和腐朽:  人人都这样想,就要钟停漏尽,  六十年便足使世界化为乌有。  让那些人生来不配生育传宗,  粗鲁、丑陋和笨拙,无后地死去;  造化的至宠,她的馈赠也最丰,  该尽量爱惜她这慷慨的赐予:  她把你刻做她的印,意思是要  你多印几份,并非要毁掉原稿。  

一二  当我数着壁上报时的自鸣钟,  见明媚的白昼坠入狰狞的夜,  当我凝望着紫罗兰老了春容,   青丝的卷发遍洒着皑皑白雪;  当我看见参天的树枝叶尽脱,  它不久前曾荫蔽喘息的牛羊;  夏天的青翠一束一束地就缚,  带着坚挺的白须被舁上殓床;  于是我不禁为你的朱颜焦虑:  终有天你要加入时光的废堆,  既然美和芳菲都把自己抛弃,  眼看着别人生长自己却枯萎;  没什么抵挡得住时光的毒手,  除了生育,当他来要把你拘走。  

一三  哦,但愿你是你自己,但爱呀,你  终非你有,当你不再活在世上:  对这将临的日子你得要准备,  快交给别人你那俊秀的肖像。  这样,你所租赁的朱颜就永远  不会有满期;于是你又将变成  你自己,当你已经离开了人间,  既然你儿子保留着你的倩影。  谁肯让一座这样的华厦倾颓,  如果小心地看守便可以维护  它的光彩,去抵抗隆冬的狂吹  和那冷酷的死神无情的暴怒?  哦,除非是浪子;我爱呀,你知道  你有父亲;让你儿子也可自豪。  

一四  并非从星辰我采集我的推断;  可是我以为我也精通占星学,  但并非为了推算气运的通蹇,  以及饥荒、瘟疫或四时的风色;  我也不能为短促的时辰算命,  指出每个时辰的雷电和风雨,  或为国王占卜流年是否亨顺,  依据我常从上苍探得的天机。  我的术数只得自你那双明眸,  恒定的双星,它们预兆这吉祥:  只要你回心转意肯储蓄传后,  真和美将双双偕你永世其昌。  要不然关于你我将这样昭示:  你的末日也就是真和美的死。   

一五  当我默察一切活泼泼的生机  保持它们的芳菲都不过一瞬,  宇宙的舞台只搬弄一些把戏  被上苍的星宿在冥冥中牵引;  当我发觉人和草木一样蕃衍,  任同一的天把他鼓励和阻挠,  少壮时欣欣向荣,盛极又必反,  繁华和璀璨都被从记忆抹掉;  于是这一切奄忽浮生的征候  便把妙龄的你在我眼前呈列,  眼见残暴的时光与腐朽同谋,  要把你青春的白昼化作黑夜;  为了你的爱我将和时光争持:  他摧折你,我要把你重新接枝。  

一六  但是为什么不用更凶的法子  去抵抗这血淋淋的魔王——时光?  不用比我的枯笔吉利的武器,  去防御你的衰朽,把自己加强?  你现在站在黄金时辰的绝顶,  许多少女的花园,还未经播种,  贞洁地切盼你那绚烂的群英,  比你的画像更酷肖你的真容:  只有生命的线能把生命重描;  时光的画笔,或者我这枝弱管,  无论内心的美或外貌的姣好,  都不能使你在人们眼前活现。  献出你自己依然保有你自己,  而你得活着,靠你自己的妙笔。  

一七  未来的时代谁会相信我的诗,  如果它充满了你最高的美德?  虽然,天知道,它只是一座墓地  埋着你的生命和一半的本色。  如果我写得出你美目的流盼,  用清新的韵律细数你的秀妍,  未来的时代会说:“这诗人撒谎:  这样的天姿哪里会落在人间!”   于是我的诗册,被岁月所熏黄,  就要被人藐视,像饶舌的老头;  你的真容被诬作诗人的疯狂,  以及一支古歌的夸张的节奏:   但那时你若有个儿子在人世,  你就活两次:在他身上,在诗里。  

一八  我怎么能够把你来比作夏天?  你不独比它可爱也比它温婉:  狂风把五月宠爱的嫩蕊作践,  夏天出赁的期限又未免太短:  天上的眼睛有时照得太酷烈,  它那炳耀的金颜又常遭掩蔽:  被机缘或无常的天道所摧折,  没有芳艳不终于雕残或销毁。  但是你的长夏永远不会雕落,  也不会损失你这皎洁的红芳,  或死神夸口你在他影里漂泊,  当你在不朽的诗里与时同长。  只要一天有人类,或人有眼睛,  这诗将长存,并且赐给你生命。  

一九  饕餮的时光,去磨钝雄狮的爪,  命大地吞噬自己宠爱的幼婴,  去猛虎的颚下把它利牙拔掉,   焚毁长寿的凤凰,灭绝它的种,  使季节在你飞逝时或悲或喜;  而且,捷足的时光,尽肆意地摧残  这大千世界和它易谢的芳菲;  只有这极恶大罪我禁止你犯:  哦,别把岁月刻在我爱的额上,  或用古老的铁笔乱画下皱纹:  在你的飞逝里不要把它弄脏,  好留给后世永作美丽的典型。  但,尽管猖狂,老时光,凭你多狠,  我的爱在我诗里将万古长青。  

二○   你有副女人的脸,由造化亲手  塑就,你,我热爱的情妇兼情郎;  有颗女人的温婉的心,但没有  反复和变幻,像女人的假心肠;  眼睛比她明媚,又不那么造作,  流盼把一切事物都镀上黄金;  绝世的美色,驾御着一切美色,  既使男人晕眩,又使女人震惊。  开头原是把你当女人来创造:  但造化塑造你时,不觉着了迷,  误加给你一件东西,这就剥掉  我的权利——这东西对我毫无意义。  但造化造你既专为女人愉快,  让我占有,而她们享受,你的爱。  

二一  我的诗神①并不像那一位诗神  只知运用脂粉涂抹他的诗句,  连苍穹也要搬下来作妆饰品,  罗列每个佳丽去赞他的佳丽,  用种种浮夸的比喻作成对偶,  把他比太阳、月亮、海陆的瑰宝,  四月的鲜花,和这浩荡的宇宙  蕴藏在它的怀里的一切奇妙。  哦,让我既真心爱,就真心歌唱,  而且,相信我,我的爱可以媲美  任何母亲的儿子,虽然论明亮  比不上挂在天空的金色烛台。  谁喜欢空话,让他尽说个不穷;  我志不在出售,自用不着祷颂。  

二二  这镜子决不能使我相信我老,  只要大好韶华和你还是同年;  但当你脸上出现时光的深槽,  我就盼死神来了结我的天年。  因为那一切妆点着你的美丽  都不过是我内心的表面光彩;  我的心在你胸中跳动,正如你  在我的:那么,我怎会比你先衰?  哦,我的爱呵,请千万自己珍重,  像我珍重自己,乃为你,非为我。  怀抱着你的心,我将那么郑重,  像慈母防护着婴儿遭受病魔。  别侥幸独存,如果我的心先碎;  你把心交我,并非为把它收回。  

二三  仿佛舞台上初次演出的戏子  慌乱中竟忘记了自己的角色,  又像被触犯的野兽满腔怒气,  它那过猛的力量反使它胆怯;  同样,缺乏着冷静,我不觉忘掉  举行爱情的仪节的彬彬盛典,  被我爱情的过度重量所压倒,  在我自己的热爱中一息奄奄。  哦,请让我的诗篇做我的辩士,  替我把缠绵的衷曲默默诉说,  它为爱情申诉,并希求着赏赐,  多于那对你絮絮不休的狡舌:  请学会去读缄默的爱的情书,  用眼睛来听原属于爱的妙术。  

二四  我眼睛扮作画家,把你的肖像  描画在我的心版上,我的肉体  就是那嵌着你的姣颜的镜框,  而画家的无上的法宝是透视。  你要透过画家的巧妙去发见  那珍藏你的奕奕真容的地方;  它长挂在我胸内的画室中间,  你的眼睛却是画室的玻璃窗。  试看眼睛多么会帮眼睛的忙:  我的眼睛画你的像,你的却是  开向我胸中的窗,从那里太阳  喜欢去偷看那藏在里面的你。  可是眼睛的艺术终欠这高明:  它只能画外表,却不认识内心。  

二五  让那些人(他们既有吉星高照)  到处夸说他们的显位和高官,  至于我,命运拒绝我这种荣耀,  只暗中独自赏玩我心里所欢。  王公的宠臣舒展他们的金叶  不过像太阳眷顾下的金盏花,  他们的骄傲在自己身上消灭,  一蹙额便足雕谢他们的荣华。  转战沙场的名将不管多功高,  百战百胜后只要有一次失手,  便从功名册上被人一笔勾消,  毕生的勋劳只落得无声无臭:  那么,爱人又被爱,我多么幸福!  我既不会迁徙,又不怕被驱逐。  

二六  我爱情的至尊,你的美德已经  使我这藩属加强对你的拥戴,  我现在寄给你这诗当作使臣,  去向你述职,并非要向你炫才。  职责那么重,我又才拙少俊语,  难免要显得赤裸裸和她相见,  但望你的妙思,不嫌它太粗鄙,  在你灵魂里把它的赤裸裸遮掩;  因而不管什么星照引我前程,  都对我露出一副和悦的笑容,  把华服加给我这寒伧的爱情,  使我配得上你那缱绻的恩宠。  那时我才敢对你夸耀我的爱,  否则怕你考验我,总要躲起来。  

二七  精疲力竭,我赶快到床上躺下,  去歇息我那整天劳顿的四肢;  但马上我的头脑又整装出发,  以劳我的心,当我身已得休息。  因为我的思想,不辞离乡背井,  虔诚地趱程要到你那里进香,  睁大我这双沉沉欲睡的眼睛,  向着瞎子看得见的黑暗凝望;  不过我的灵魂,凭着它的幻眼,  把你的倩影献给我失明的双眸,  像颗明珠在阴森的夜里高悬,  变老丑的黑夜为明丽的白昼。  这样,日里我的腿,夜里我的心,  为你、为我自己,都得不着安宁。  

二八  那么,我怎么能够喜洋洋归来,  既然得不着片刻身心的安息?  当白天的压逼入夜并不稍衰,  只是夜继日、日又继夜地压逼?  日和夜平时虽事事各不相下,  却互相携手来把我轮流挫折,  一个用跋涉,一个却呶呶怒骂,  说我离开你更远,虽整天跋涉。  为讨好白天,我告它你是光明,  在阴云密布时你将把它映照。  我又这样说去讨黑夜的欢心:  当星星不眨眼,你将为它闪耀。  但天天白天尽拖长我的苦痛,  夜夜黑夜又使我的忧思转凶。  

二九  当我受尽命运和人们的白眼,  暗暗地哀悼自己的身世飘零,  徒用呼吁去干扰聋瞆的昊天,  顾盼着身影,诅咒自己的生辰,  愿我和另一个一样富于希望,  面貌相似,又和他一样广交游,  希求这人的渊博,那人的内行,  最赏心的乐事觉得最不对头;  可是,当我正要这样看轻自己,  忽然想起了你,于是我的精神,  便像云雀破晓从阴霾的大地  振翮上升,高唱着圣歌在天门:  一想起你的爱使我那么富有,  和帝王换位我也不屑于屈就。   

三○   当我传唤对已往事物的记忆  出庭于那馨香的默想的公堂,  我不禁为命中许多缺陷叹息,  带着旧恨,重新哭蹉跎的时光;  于是我可以淹没那枯涸的眼,  为了那些长埋在夜台的亲朋,  哀悼着许多音容俱渺的美艳,  痛哭那情爱久已勾消的哀痛:  于是我为过去的惆怅而惆怅,  并且一一细算,从痛苦到痛苦,  那许多呜咽过的呜咽的旧账,  仿佛还未付过,现在又来偿付。  但是只要那刻我想起你,挚友,  损失全收回,悲哀也化为乌有。  

三一  你的胸怀有了那些心而越可亲  (它们的消逝我只道已经死去);  原来爱,和爱的一切可爱部分,  和埋掉的友谊都在你怀里藏住。  多少为哀思而流的圣洁泪珠  那虔诚的爱曾从我眼睛偷取  去祭奠死者!我现在才恍然大悟  他们只离开我去住在你的心里。  你是座收藏已往恩情的芳冢,  满挂着死去的情人的纪念牌,  他们把我的馈赠尽向你呈贡,  你独自享受许多人应得的爱。  在你身上我瞥见他们的倩影,  而你,他们的总和,尽有我的心。  

三二  倘你活过我踌躇满志的大限,  当鄙夫“死神”用黄土把我掩埋,  偶然重翻这拙劣可怜的诗卷,  你情人生前写来献给你的爱,  把它和当代俊逸的新诗相比,  发觉它的词笔处处都不如人,  请保留它专为我的爱,而不是  为那被幸运的天才凌驾的韵。  哦,那时候就请赐给我这爱思:  “要是我朋友的诗神与时同长,  他的爱就会带来更美的产儿,  可和这世纪任何杰作同俯仰:  但他既死去,诗人们又都迈进,  我读他们的文采,却读他的心。”   

1   我们总愿美的物种繁衍昌盛.  好让美的玫瑰永远也不凋零。  纵然时序难逆,物壮必老,  自有年轻的子孙来一脉相承。  而你,却只与自己的明眸定婚,  焚身为火,好烧出眼中的光明。  你与自我为敌,作践可爱的自身,  有如在丰饶之乡偏造成满地饥民。  你是当今世界鲜美的装饰,  你是锦绣春光里报春的先行。  你用自己的花苞埋葬了自己的花精,  如慷慨的吝啬者用吝啬将血本赔尽。  可怜这个世界吧,你这贪得无厌之人,  不留遗嗣在世间,只落得萧条葬孤坟。  

2   四十个冬天将会围攻你的额头,  在你那美的田地上掘下浅槽深沟。  那时,你如今令人钦羡的青春华服  将不免价落千丈,寒伧而又鄙陋。  如有人问起,何处尚存你当年的美色,  或何处有遗芳可追录你往昔的风流,  你却只能说:“它们都在我深陷的眼眸。”   这回答是空洞的颂扬,徒令答者蒙羞。  但假如你能说:“这里有我美丽的孩子  可续我韶华春梦,免我老迈时的隐忧”,  那么孩子之美就是你自身美的明证,  你如这样使用美,方值得讴颂千秋。  如此,你纵然已衰老,美却会重生,  你纵然血已冰凉,也自会借体重温。  ……   

SONNET #1   by: William Shakespeare  FROM fairest creatures we desire increase,   That thereby beauty's rose might never die,   But as the riper should by time decease,   His tender heir might bear his memory;   But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,   Feed'st thy light's flame with self-substantial fuel,   Making a famine where abundance lies,   Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.   Thout that are now the world's fresh ornament   And only herald to the gaudy spring,   Within thine own bud buriest thy content   And, tender churl, mak'st waste in niggarding.   Pity the world, or else this glutton be,   To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.   

SONNET #2   by: William Shakespeare  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 tottered weed of small worth held:   Then being asked where all thy beauty lies,   Where all the treasure of thy lusty days,   To say within thine own deep-sunken eyes   Were an all-eating shame and thriftless praise.   How much more prasie deserved thy beauty's use   If thou couldst answer, 'This fair child of mine   Shall sum my count and make my old excuse,'   Proving his beauty by succession thine.   This were to be new made when thou art old   And see thy blood warm when thou feel'st cold.   

SONNET #3   by: William Shakespeare LOOK in thy glass, and tell the face thou viewest   Now is the time that face should form another,   Whose fresh repair if now thou renewest,   Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother.   For where is she so fair whose uneared womb   Disdains the tillage of thy husbandry?   Or who is he so fond will be the tomb   Of his self-love, to stop posterity?   Thou art thy mother's glass, and she in thee   Calls back the lovely April of her prime;   So thou through windows of thine age shalt see,   Despite of wrinkles, this thy golden time.   But if thou live rememb'red not to be,   Die single, and thine image dies with thee.     SONNET #4   by: William Shakespeare   

UNTHRIFTY loveliness, why dost thou spend   Upon thyself they beauty's legacy?   Nature's bequest gives nothing but doth lend,   And, being frank, she lends to those are free.   Then, beateous niggard, why dost thou abuse   The bounteous largess given thee to give?   Profitless userer, why dost thou use   So great a sum of sums, yet canst not live?   For, having traffic with thyself alone,   Thou of thyself thy sweet self dost deceive:   Then how, when Nature calls thee to be gone,   What acceptable audit canst thou leave?   Thy unused beauty must be tombed with thee,   Which, usèd, lives th' executor to be.   

SONNET #5   by: William Shakespeare   THOSE hours that with gentle work did frame   The lovely gaze where every eye doth dwell   Will play the tyrants to the very same   And that unfair which fairly doth excel;   For never-resting time leads summer on   To hideous winter and confounds him there,   Sap checked with frost and lusty leaves quite gone,   Beauty o'ersnowed and bareness everywhere.   Then, were not summer's distillation left   A liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass,   Beauty's effect with beauty were bereft,   Nor it nor no remembrance what it was:   But flowers distilled, though they with winter meet,   Leese but there snow; their substance still lives sweet.   

SONNET #6   by: William Shakespeare   THEN let not winter's ragged hand deface   In thee thy summer ere thou be distilled:   Make sweet some vial; treasure thou some place   With beauty's treasure ere it be self-killed.   That use is not forbidden usury   Which happies those that pay the willing loan;   That's for thyself to breed another thee,   Or ten times happier be it ten for one.   Ten times thyself were happier than thou art,   If ten of thine ten times refigured thee:   Then what could death do if thou shouldst depart,   Leaving thee living in posterity?   Be not self-willed, for thou art much too fair   To be death's conquest and make worms thine heir.   

SONNET #7   by: William Shakespeare   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;   And having climbed the steep-up heavenly hill,   Resembling strong yough in his middle age,   Yet mortal looks adore his beauty still,   Attending on his golden pilgrimage;   But when from highmost pitch, with weary car,   Like feeble age he reeleth from the day,   The eyes, fore duteous, now converted are   From his low tract and look another way:   So thou, thyself outgoing in thy noon,   Unlooked on diest unless thou get a son.   

SONNET #8   by: William Shakespeare   MUSIC to hear, why hear'st thou music sadly?   Sweets with sweets war not, joy delights in joy:   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-tunèd 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.'    SONNET #9   by: William Shakespeare   IS it for fear to wet a widow's eye   That thou consum'st thyself 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 in mind.   Look what an unthrift in the world doth spend   Shifts but his place, for still the world enjoys it;   But beauty's waste hath in the world an end,   And, kept unused, the user so destroys it:   No love toward others in that bosom sits   Than on himself such murd'rous shame commits   

SONNET #10   by: William Shakespeare   FOR shame, deny that thou bear'st love to any   Who for thyself art so unprovident:   Grant, if thou wilt, thou art beloved of many,   But that thou none lov'st is most evident;   For thou art so possessed with murd'rous hate   That 'gainst thyself thou stick'st not to conspire,   Seeking that beauteous roof to ruinate   Which to repair should be thy chief desire.   O, change thy thought, that I may change my mind;   Shall hate be fairer lodged than gentle love?   Be as thy presence is, gracious and kind,   Or to thyself at least kind-hearted prove:   Make thee another self for love of me,   That beauty still may live in thine or thee.   

SONNET #11   by: William Shakespeare   AS fast as thou shalt wane, so fast thou grow'st   In one of thine, from that which thou departest;   And that fresh blood which youngly thou bestow'st   Thou mayst call thine when thou from youth convertest.   Herein lives wisdom, beauty, and increase;   Without this, folly, age, and cold decay.   If all were minded so, the times should cease,   And threescore year would make the world away.   Let those whom Nature hath not made for store,   Harsh, featureless, and rude, barrenly perish:   Look whom she best endowed she gave the more,   Which bounteous gift thou shouldst in bounty cherish.   She carved thee for her seal, and meant thereby   Thou shouldst print more, not let that copy die.   

SONNET #12   by: William Shakespeare   WHEN I do count the clock that tells the time   And see the brave day sunk in hideous night,   When I behold the violet past prime   And sable curls all silvered o'er with white,   When lofty trees I see barren of leaves,   Which erst from heat did canopy the herd,   And summer's green all girded up in sheaves   Borne on the bier with white and bristly beard;   Then of thy beauty do I question make   That thou among the wastes of time must go,   Since sweets and beauties do themselves forsake   And die as fast as they see others grow;   And nothing 'gainst Time's scythe can make defense   Save breed, to brave him when he takes thee hence.   

SONNET #13   by: William Shakespeare   O , THAT you were yourself, but, love, you are   No longer yours than you yourself here live:   Against this coming end you should prepare,   And your sweet semblance to some other give.   So should that beauty which you hold in lease   Find no determination; then you were   Yourself again after yourself's decease   When your sweet issue your sweet form should bear.   Who lets so fair a house fall to decay,   Which husbandry in honor might uphold   Against the stormy gusts of winter's day   And barren rage of death's eternal cold?   O, none but unthrifts! Dear my love, you know   You had a father -- let your son say so.   

SONNET #14   by: William Shakespeare   NOT from the stars do I my judgment pluck,   And yet methinks I have astronomy;   But not to tell of good or evil luck,   Of plagues, of dearths, or season's quality;   Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell,   Pointing to each his thunder, rain, and wind,   Or say with princes if it shall go well   By oft predict that I in heaven find;   But from thine eyes my knowledge I derive,   And, constant stars, in them I read such art   As truth and beauty shall together thrive   If from thyself to store thou wouldst convert:   Or else of thee this I prognosticate,   Thy end is truth's and beauty's doom and date.   

SONNET #15   by: William Shakespeare   WHEN I consider everything that grows   Holds in perfection but a little moment,   That this huge stage presenteth nought but shows   Whereon the stars in secret influence comment;   When I perceive that men as plants increase,   Cheerèd and checked even by the selfsame sky,   Vaunt in their youthful sap, at height decrease,   And wear their brave state out of memory:   Then the conceit of this inconstant stay   Sets you most rich in youth before my sight,   Where wasteful Time debateth with Decay   To change your day of youth to sullied night;   And, all in war with Time for love of you,   As he takes from you, I ingraft you new.   

SONNET #16   by: William Shakespeare   BUT wherefore do not you a mightier way   Make war upon this bloody tyrant, Time?   And fortify yourself in your decay   With means more blessèd than my barren rime?   Now stand you on the top of happy hours,   And many maiden gardens, yet unset,   With virtuous wish would bear your living flowers,   Much liker than your painted counterfeit:   So should the lines of life that life repair   Which this time's pencil or my pupil pen,   Neither in inward worth nor outward fair   Can make you live yourself in eyes of men.   To give away yourself keeps yourself still,   And you must live, drawn by your own sweet skill.   "Sonnet #16" was originally published in Shake-speares Sonnets: Never before Imprinted (1609).  

SONNET #17   by: William Shakespeare   HO will believe my verse in time to come   If it were filled with your most high deserts?   Though yet, heaven knows, it is but as a tomb   Which hides your life and shows not half your parts.   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--   Such heavenly touches ne'er touched earthly faces.'   So should my papers, yellowed with their age,   Be scorned, like old men of less truth than tongue,   And your true rights be termed a poet's rage   And stretchèd metre of an antique song.   But were some child of yours alive that time,   You should live twice--in it and in my rime.   "Sonnet #17" was originally published in Shake-speares Sonnets: Never before Imprinted (1609).   

SONNET #18   by: William Shakespeare   Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?   Thou art more lovely and more temperate.   Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,   And summer's lease hath all too short a date.   Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,   And often is his gold complexion dimmed;   And every fair from fair sometime declines,   By chance, or nature's changing course, untrimmed:   But thy eternal summer shall not fade   Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st,   Nor shall Death brag thou wand'rest in his shade   When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st.   So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,   So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.   "Sonnet #18" was originally published in Shake-speares Sonnets: Never before Imprinted (1609).  

SONNET #19   by: William Shakespeare   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-lived phoenix in her blood;   Make glad and sorry seasons as they fleet'st,   And do whate'er thou wilt, swift-footed Time,   To the wide world and all her fading sweets,   But I forbid thee one most heinous crime:   O, carve not with thy hours my love's fair brow,   Nor draw no lines there with thine antique pen;   Him in thy course untainted do allow   For beauty's pattern to succeeding men.   Yet do thy worst, old Time: despite thy wrong,   My love shall in my verse ever live young.   "Sonnet #19" was originally published in Shake-speares Sonnets: Never before Imprinted (1609).   

SONNET #20   by: William Shakespeare (1564-1616)   WOMAN'S face, with Nature's own hand painted,   Hast thou, the master-mistress of my passion;   A woman's gentle heart, but not acquainted   With shifting change, as is false women's fashion;   An eye more bright than theirs, less false in rolling,   Gilding the object whereupon it gazeth;   A man in hue all hues in his controlling,   Which steals men's eyes and women's souls amazeth.   And for a woman wert thou first created,   Till Nature as she wrought thee fell a-doting,   And by addition me of thee defeated   By adding one thing to my purpose nothing.   But since she pricked thee out for women's pleasure,   Mine be thy love, and thy love's use their treasure.   "Sonnet #20" was originally published in Shake-speares Sonnets: Never before Imprinted (1609).   

SONNET #21   by: William Shakespeare (1564-1616)   O is it not with me as with that Muse   Stirred by a painted beauty to his verse,   Who heaven itself for ornament doth use   And every fair with his fair doth rehearse;   Making a couplement of proud compare   With sun and moon, with earth and sea's rich gems,   With April's first-born flowers, and all things rare   That heaven's airs in this huge rondure hems.   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 fixed in heaven's air:   Let them say more that like of hearsay well;   I will not praise that purpose not to sell.   "Sonnet #21" was originally published in Shake-speares Sonnets: Never before Imprinted (1609).   

SONNET #22   by: William Shakespeare (1564-1616)   MY glass shall not persuade me I am old   So long as youth and thou are of one date;   But when in thee time's furrows I behold,   Then look I death my days should expiate.   For all that beauty that doth cover thee   Is but the seemly raiment of my heart,   Which in they breast doth live, as thine in me:   How can I then be elder than thou art?   O therefore, love, be of thyself so wary   As I, not for myself, but for thee will,   Bearing thy heart, which I will keep so chary   As tender nurse her babe from faring ill.   Presume not on thy heart when mine is slain;   Thou gav'st me thine not to give back again.   "Sonnet #22" was originally published in Shake-speares Sonnets: Never before Imprinted (1609).   

SONNET #23   by: William Shakespeare (1564-1616)   AS an unperfect actor on the stage,   Who with his fear is put besides his part,   Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage,   Whose strength's abundance weakens his own heart;   So I, for fear of trust, forget to say   The perfect ceremony of love's rite,   And in mine own love's strength seem to decay,   O'ercharged with burden of mine own love's might.   O, let my books be then the eloquence   And dump presagers of my speaking breast,   Who plead for love, and look for recompense,   More than that tongue that more hath more expressed.   O, learn to read what silent love hath writ:   To hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit.   "Sonnet #23" was originally published in Shake-speares Sonnets: Never before Imprinted (1609).  

SONNET #24   by: William Shakespeare (1564-1616)   MINE eye hath played the painter and hath stelled   Thy beauty's form in table of my heart;   My body is the frame wherein 'tis held,   And perspective it is best painter's art.   For through the painter must you see his skill   To fine where your true image pictured lies,   Which in my bosom's shop is hanging still,   That hath his windows glazèd with thine eyes.   Now see what good turns eyes for eyes have done:   Mine eyes have drawn thy shape, and thine for me   Are windows to my breast, wherethrough the sun   Delights to peep, to gaze therein on thee.   Yet eyes this cunning want to grace their art;   They draw but what they see, know not the heart.   "Sonnet #24" was originally published in Shake-speares Sonnets: Never before Imprinted (1609).   

SONNET #25   by: William Shakespeare (1564-1616)   LET those who are in favor with their stars   Of public honor and proud titles boast,   Whilst I, whom fortune of such triumph bars,   Unlooked for joy in that I honor most.   Great princes' favorites their fair leaves spread   But as the marigold at the sun's eye;   And in themselves their pride lies burièd,   For at a frown they in their glory die.   The painful warrior famousèd for fight,   After a thousand victories once foiled,   Is from the book of honor rasèd quite,   And all the rest forgot for which he toiled.   Then happy I, that love and am beloved   Where I may not remove nor be removed.   "Sonnet #25" was originally published in Shake-speares Sonnets: Never before Imprinted (1609).   

SONNET #26   by: William Shakespeare (1564-1616)   LORD of my love, to whom in vassalage   Thy merit hath my duty strongly knit,   To thee I send this written ambassage   To witness duty, not to show my wit;   Duty so great, which wit so poor as mine   May make seem bare, in wanting words to show it,   But that I hope some good coneit of thine   In thy soul's thought, all naked, will bestow it;   Till whatsoever star that guides my moving   Points on me graciously with fair aspect,   And puts apparel on my tottered loving   To show me worthy of thy sweet respect:   Then may I dare to boast how I do love thee;   Till then not show my head where thou mayest prove me.   "Sonnet #26" was originally published in Shake-speares Sonnets: Never before Imprinted (1609).   

SONNET #27   by: William Shakespeare (1564-1616)   WEARY with toil, I haste to my bed,   The dear repose for limbs with travel tired,   But then begins a journey in my head   To work my mind when body's work's expired;   For then my thoughts, from far where I abide,   Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee,   And keep my drooping eyelids open wide,   Looking on darkness which the blind do see;   Save that my soul's imaginary sight   Presents thy shadow to my sightless view,   Which, like a jewel hung in ghastly night,   Makes black night beauteous and her old face new.   Lo, thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind,   For thee and for myself no quiet find.   "Sonnet #27" was originally published in Shake-speares Sonnets: Never before Imprinted (1609).   

SONNET #28   by: William Shakespeare (1564-1616)   HOW can I then return in happy plight   That am debarred the benefit of rest,   When day's oppression is not eased by night,   And each, though enemies to either's reign,   Do in consent shake hands to torture me,   The one by toil, the other to complain   How far I toil, still farther off from thee?   I tell the day, to please him, thou art bright   And dost him grace when clouds do blot the heaven;   So flatter I the swart-complexioned night,   When sparkling stars twire not, thou gild'st the even.   But day doth daily draw my sorrows longer,   And night doth nightly make grief's strength seem stronger.   "Sonnet #28" was originally published in Shake-speares Sonnets: Never before Imprinted (1609).   

SONNET #29   by: William Shakespeare (1564-1616)   WHEN, in disgrace with Fortune and men's eyes,   I all alone beweep my outcast state,   And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,   And look upon myself and curse my fate,   Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,   Featured like him, like him with friend's possessed,   Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope,   With what I most enjoy contented least;   Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,   Haply I think on thee, and then my state,   Like to the lark at break of day arising   From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate;   For thy sweet love rememb'red such wealth brings   That then I scorn to change my state with kings.   "Sonnet #29" was originally published in Shake-speares Sonnets: Never before Imprinted (1609).   

SONNET #30   by: William Shakespeare (1564-1616)   WHEN to the sessions of sweet silent thought   I summon up remembrance of things past,   I sigh the lack of many a thought I sought,   And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste:   Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow,   For precious friends hid in death's dateless night,   And weep afresh love's long since cancelled woe,   And moan th' expense of many a vanished sight.   Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,   And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er   The sad account of fore-bemoanèd moan,   Which I new pay as if not paid before.   But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,   All losses are restored and sorrows end.   "Sonnet #30" was originally published in Shake-speares Sonnets: Never before Imprinted (1609).  

SONNET #31   by: William Shakespeare (1564-1616)   THY bosom is endearèd with all hearts   Which I by lacking have supposèd dead;   And their reigns love, and all love's loving parts,   And all those friends which I thought burièd.   How many a holy and obsequious tear   Hath dear religious love stol'n from mine eye,   As interest of the dead, which now appear   But things removed that hidden in thee lie!   Thou art the grave where buried love doth live,   Hung with the trophies of my lovers gone,   Who all their parts of me to thee did give;   That due of many now is thine alone.   Their images I loved I vew in thee,   And thou, all they, hast all the all of me.   "Sonnet #31" was originally published in Shake-speares Sonnets: Never before Imprinted (1609).  

SONNET #32   by: William Shakespeare (1564-1616)   IF thou survive my well-contented day   When that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover,   And shalt by fortune once more resurvey   These poor rude lines of thy deceasèd lover,   Compare them with the bett-ring of the time,   And though they be outstripped by every pen,   Reserve them for my love, not for their rime,   Exceeded by the height of happier men.   O, then vouchsafe me but this loving thought:   'Had my friend's Muse grown with this growing age,   A dearer birth than this his love had brought   To march in ranks of better equipage;   But since he died, and poets better prove,   Theirs for their style I'll read, his for his love.'

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