, : , , ? , . , , __ __ ? , , ; ; [] , , _ _ - ! - . , , : , _ _ __ . {* - : "slow offence", : " ".} , , - . , , , . , , - , , . , - . . : , , , . - . , , , . ; , - : -, , . . 52 So am I as the rich whose blessed key Can bring him to his sweet up-locked treasure, The which he will not ev'ry hour survey, For blunting the fine point of seldom pleasure. Therefore are feasts so solemn and so rare, Since, seldom coming, in the long year set, Like stones of worth they thinly placed are, Or captain jewels in the carcanet. So is the time that keeps you as my chest, Or as the wardrobe which the robe doth hide, To make some special instant special blest, By new unfolding his imprisoned pride. Blessed are you whose worthiness gives scope, Being had, to triumph, being lacked, to hope. - , , , . __ , , , , . , {*} , , - , . , : _ _ - , - . {* , , "chest", "", "".} , . , , ; , , - . , - . , ! , - ! . , , , . - , ; . , - ; ! - . - , - . . 53 What is your substance, whereof are you made, That millions of strange shadows on you tend, Since every one hath, every one, one shade, And you, but one, can every shadow lend? Describe Adonis, and the counterfeit Is poorly imitated after you; On Helen's cheek all art of beauty set, And you in Grecian tires are painted new; Speak of the spring and foison of the year The one doth shadow of your beauty show, The other as your bounty doth appear, And you in every blessed shape we know. In all external grace you have some part, But you like none, none you, for constant heart. , , , - __ , , , ? {*} , __ ; __ __ [] , _, _ , . , __ , , - . , , , __, _ _, , . {* "" (substance) "" (shadow, shade) - , , , , , "", ("") .} , , , ? , . - , , . , , , , - , , . , , . . ? , . , - , , . , , . , - . . 54 how much more doth beauty beauteous seem By that sweet ornament which truth doth give! The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem For that sweet odour which doth in it live. The canker blooms have full as deep a dye As the perfumed tincture of the roses, Hang on such thorns, and play as wantonly, When summer's breath their masked buds discloses; But, for their virtue only is their show, They live unwooed, and unrespected fade, Die to themselves. Sweet roses do not so, Of their sweet deaths are sweetest odours made: And so of you, beauteous and lovely youth, When that shall vade, by verse distils your truth. , - []! {*} , - , . {**} , ; __ [] , ; , - , __ . : . , , _ _ {***}, . {* "truth" . 2 14. ** "canker bloom" (), , "canker" (, ). *** , "vade" "fade"; , "vadere" ().} , ! , , . , , . , , . , , , , : . , , . . , ! , , . , , , , , , . - , . - . , . . 55 Not marble nor the gilded monuments Of princes shall outlive this pow'rful rhyme, But you shall shine more bright in these contents Than unswept stone, besmeared with sluttish time. When wasteful war shall statues overturn, And broils root out the work of masonry, Nor Mars his sword nor war's quick fire shall burn The living record of your memory. 'Gainst death and all oblivious enmity Shall you pace forth; your praise shall still find room Even in the eyes of all posterity That wear this world out to the ending doom. So, till the Judgement that yourself arise, You live in this, and dwell in lovers' eyes. , , , , . _ _ , _ _, . ; , . , , , __ . , , . , . , - , . , , . . , . , . , , , , - . , . , , . , , , ! . 56 Sweet love, renew thy force, be it not said Thy edge should blunter be than appetite, Which but today by feeding is allayed, Tomorrow sharp'ned in his former might. So, love, be thou: although today thou fill Thy hungry eyes even till they wink with fullness, Tomorrow see again, and do not kill The spirit of love with a perpetual dullness: Let this sad int'rim like the ocean be Which parts the shore, where two contracted new Come daily to the banks, that when they see Return of love, more blest may be the view; As call it winter, which being full of care, Makes summers welcome, thrice more wished, more rare. , , , , , , __ , . , : , , _ _ , . __ , , , , ; , , , , , . , ! , , : , . ! , , , ! : - , . , . . , ! , , - , , ? , : , , . , , , , , . , - , . . 57 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. Nor dare I chide the world-without-end hour Whilst I (my sovereign) watch the clock for you, Nor think the bitterness of absence sour When you have bid your servant once adieu. Nor dare I question with my jealous thought Where you may be, or your affairs suppose, But like a sad slave stay and think of nought Save where you are how happy you make those. So true a fool is love that in your will (Though you do any thing) he thinks no ill. [], , __ ? , , _ _ , __ . , , , [ ], , . , , , , , , _ _ , , , , _ _. , , , . . : , . . - . "!" , , . , , , . - , , . , , . . , , , ? - , ? , ; , . , , . , , , . , , . . 58 That god forbid, that made me first your slave, I should in thought control your time of pleasure, Or at your hand th'account of hours to crave, Being your vassal bound to stay your leasure. let me suffer (being at your beck) Th'imprisoned absence of your liberty, And patience, tame to sufferance, bide each check, Without accusing you of injury. Be where you list, your charter is so strong That you yourself may priviledge your time To what you will; to you it doth belong Yourself to pardon of self-doing crime. I am to wait, though waiting so be hell, Not blame your pleasure, be it ill or well. {*}, , __ , , , _ _. , , , , - {**}, , , , . ; , , __ . , - , , . {* . ** - : "imprisoned absence of your liberty", : " ".} , , - , , . , - , - , - , , . . , . , , , . . , , , , - ! , , , , , . - . - . , - , . . 59 If there be nothing new, but that which is Hath been before, how are our brains beguiled, Which, labouring for invention, bear amiss The second burthen of a former child! that record could with a backward look, Even of five hundred courses of the sun, Show me your image in some antique book, Since mind at first in character was done, That I might see what the old world could say To this composed wonder of your frame: Whether we are mended, or whe'er better they, Or whether revolution be the same. sure I am the wits of former days To subjects worse have given admiring praise. __ , , , {*}, , , , , ! , , , - , __ , , , - : , __ , _ _ . , , . {* , , - .} , , , , . , , . , , . , , ! . , , , , , , , - , , , , . , , ; : ? ? , : - ! . 60 Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore, So do our minutes hasten to their end, Each changing place with that which goes before, In sequent toil all forwards do contend. Nativity, once in the main of light, Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crowned, Crooked eclipses 'gainst his glory fight, And Time that gave doth now his gift confound. Time does 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. And yet to times in hope my verse shall stand, Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand. , , , , , , - . , , , _ _, , , , , . , , , . , . , , , , . , , , , : , , - . ! . , , , . , , - , . , , - , . , . . 61 Is it thy will thy image should keep open My heavy eyelids to the weary night? Dost thou desire my slumbers should be broken, While shadows like to thee do mock my sight? Is it thy spirit that thou send'st from thee So far from home into my deeds to pry, To find out shames and idle hours in me, The scope and tenure of thy jealousy? no, thy love, though much, is not so great; It is my love that keeps mine eye awake, Mine own true love that doth my rest defeat, To play the watchman ever for thy sake. For thee watch I, whilst thou dost wake elsewhere, From me far off, with others all too near. ? , , , , ? , , , _ _ {*} ? : , , ; , , __ . , , , . {* -"tenure", , , "teno(u)r" (, ).} - ? , , , ? , , - , ? , , , - ! , , , . , , . . , ? , , , ? ! , . , , , , . : , , - . . 62 Sin of self-love possesseth all mine eye, And all my soul, and all my every part; And for this sin there is no remedy, It is so grounded inward in my heart. Methinks no face so gracious is as mine, No shape so true, no truth of such account, And for myself mine own worth do define, As I all other in all worths surmount. But when my glass shows me myself indeed, Beated and chopped with tanned antiquity, Mine own self-love quite contrary I read; Self so self-loving were iniquity. Tis thee (my self) that for myself I praise, Painting my age with beauty of thy days. , , . , , , , , , . _, _ , , {*}, , : ; - - , . {* , "chopped" "chapped" (, ).} - , , , , - . , , . - , . , , : , , . - . . . - . , , . , .