inherit heaven's graces, And husband nature's riches from expense; They are the lords and owners of their faces, Others but stewards of their excellence. The summer's flow'r is to the summer sweet, Though to itself it only live and die, But if that flow'r with base infection meet, The basest weed outbraves his dignity: For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds; Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds. , , , __ , , ; , , - , , - ; - , _ _ {**}. , , , , - , - . {* 94 , , , . , 1-10 , , 11-14 , . , - , . ** 7-8 , , , "their" 8, "" - " ".} , , , , , , , , , , - , , , . , , , ; , . . , , , , , , , , , , , - - . , . , , , , . , . . 95 How sweet and lovely dost thou make the shame Which, like a canker in the fragrant rose, Doth spot the beauty of thy budding name! in what sweets dost thou thy sins inclose! That tongue that tells the story of thy days (Making lascivious comments on thy sport) Cannot dispraise, but in a kind of praise, Naming thy name, blesses an ill report. what a mansion have those vices got Which for their habitation chose out thee, Where beauty's veil doth cover every blot, And all things turns to fair that eyes can see! Take heed (dear heart) of this large privilege: The hardest knife ill used doth lose its edge. , , , ! , ! , - , - __ , _ _ . , , , - ! , __ , : , , . ! , , , . , , , . , ! ! - : . . , , , , - ! , , , . , , , , . , : , , - . . 96 Some say thy fault is youth, some wantonness, Some say thy grace is youth and gentle sport; Both grace and faults are loved of more and less: Thou mak'st faults graces that to thee resort. As on a finger of a throned queen The basest jewel will be well esteemed, So are those errors that in thee are seen To truths translated, and for true things deemed. How many lambs might the stern wolf betray, If like a lamb he could his looks translate! How many gazers mightst thou lead away, If thou wouldst use the strength of all thy state! But do not so; I love thee in such sort, As thou being mine, mine is thy good report. , - , - , __ , . ; , . , , , - . , ! _ _ , , ! : , __ - . , ; , . , , - . , , ! ! ! - . . , ; - , - . ; . , ! , ! ! - . . . 97 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 every where! And yet this time removed was summer's time, The teeming autumn big with rich increase, Bearing the wanton burthen of the prime, Like widowed wombs after their lords' decease: Yet this abundant issue seem'd to me But hope of orphans, and unfathered fruit, For summer and his pleasures wait on thee, And thou away, the very birds are mute; Or if they sing, 'tis with so dull a cheer That leaves look pale, dreading the winter's near. , __ ! , ! __ ! , , - , {*} ; {**} , , , , , , , , , . {* - : "widowed wombs", : " ". ** . : "... , ".} , ! , ! , ! , , , , , . : , - . , , . . , ! , , . , , , ; , , . . , , . . , . . 98 From you have I been absent in the spring, When proud-pied April (dressed in all his trim) Hath put a spirit of youth in every thing, That heavy Saturn laughed and leapt with him. Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell Of different flowers in odour and in hue, Could make me any summer's story tell, Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew: Nor did I wonder at the lily's white, Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose; They were but sweet, but figures of delight, Drawn after you, you pattern of all those. Yet seemed it winter still, and, you away, As with your shadow I with these did play. , - - - , __ {*} , , , , {**} , . , ; , , , _ _ - . , , , {***}, . {* , , . ** . *** . 53.} , -. , . , , , , . . , - . , , . . , - , . , : , , . , , , , . - , : . . 99 {*} The forward violet thus did I chide: 'Sweet thief, whence didst thou steal thy sweet that smells, If not from my love's breath? The purple pride 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 eat him up to death. More flowers I noted, yet I none could see But sweet or colour it had stol'n from thee. : " , , ? , , " {**}. _, _ , . {***}, , , , , , . , , . {* 99, , , . ** . , , 5 , , , . , , , . *** : "on thorns did stand" - , " ". "thorns" ().} : , , , ? , , . - , - , . , , , , . : . . : "! ; - , ". : " - ". , . : , ; - ; , , - . , . . 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 pow'r 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 every where. Give my love fame faster than Time wastes life; So thou prevent'st his scythe and crooked knife. __, , , ? {*} - , , ? , , , ; , , . , , , __, ; , , . , , . {* , (. "poet's rage" 17, 11).} , , ? , ? , - ? , , , . , , , , . . , ? , , , , , . : ? , . , . . 101 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. , {*}, ? , __ . , , , : " , ; _ _ , ; , "? , , ? , , __ . , ; , , , . {* . 2 14.} , - , , , : - , . , , : "! , , - "? , , , , - , , . - . . ! , ? , - . , , , - ? , ? , . ! , . . 102 My love is strength'ned, though more weak in seeming; I love not less, though less the show appear: That love is merchandised whose rich esteeming The owner's tongue doth publish every where. 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 his 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 burthens 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. , ; , ; , . , , {*} , , - , , _ _, {**} , __, __ , , [ ], . , , , . {* , "" . ** , (), "his" () "her" ().} , , , . , , , , , : , , , - , , , . . , ; , : , . , , , - , , . , , , , . , . . 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. 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. , , , , , __ - . , __ __ , - _ _ . , , - . , , {*}, __ ; , , , [], [ ], ; , _ _: , , __ . {* - "figure", "" "".} , . , , . , , , - - . , , , , , , , . , , . . , , , . . , , , - . , , , , , , . , . . 105 Let not my love be call'd idolatry, Nor my beloved 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 to-day, to-morrow 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,