Increpito veris violam fur dulcis, odorem
Vnde nisi ex dominae surripis ore meae?
Haec tibi sublucens tam molli purpura voltu
Heu male virgineo sanguine tincta rubet.'
Lilia de furto damnat tua palma, tuumque
Crinem in amaracina suspicor esse coma.
Stat rosa quaeque tremens in spinis, conscia culpae,
Huic pudor erubuit, palluit illa metu.
Tertia rubra albet binos furata colores,
Ac furtis animam iunxerat illa tuam.
Quod sceleris propter media florente iuventa
Illa rosa ultrici peste subesa perit.
Plus etiam vidi florum, nec in omnibus unum
Cui tua non species aut tuus esset odor.
O ubi, musa, diu latitas oblita canendi
Illius unde oritur vis tua, siqua, lyrae?
An furis in vili quo carmine? vilia rerum
Illustrans artem dedecorasne tuam?
Musa, redi, o nimium cantus oblita, piosque
Per numeros vanae damna repende morae.
Aurem adeas eius qui te desiderat, unde
Ingenium calamo materiamque trahis.
Surge, remissa, mei frontem scruteris amantis
Numquid ibi antiquae sculpserit hora notae.
Siquid tale vides, excanta protinus omne,
Vt spolia in risum temporis ista cadant.
Famam da citius quam tempore forma teratur,
Falciferique a te praevenietur opus.
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 fix'd;
Beauty no pencil, beauty's truth to lay;
But best is best, if never intermix'd'?
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.
My love is strengthen'd, 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 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.
Quod sileas una iunctas formamque fidemque,
Tu mihi poenarum quid, vaga musa, dabis?
Atque meo imprimis puero res utraque pendet,
Vnde quidem pendes ipsa, trahisque decus.
Musa refer; nullo, dices, sunt vera colore
Indiga, quippe illis est suus ipse color;
Nec calamis opus est ut formae gratia detur;
Pura sine immixtis optima cuncta placent.
Laude meus quod non egeat tu, musa, silebis?
Non excusari sic taciturna potes;
Vt multum superans auratis ille sepulcris,
Fulgeat in sera posteritate, tuum est.
Musa, tuum praesta; qualem nunc cernimus illum
Te doceo ad longam perpetuare diem.
Rarior indiciis, amor in me robore crevit,
Nec, minor ad speciem, me minus ille regit.
Mercis habes instar quando possessor amoris
Aestimat, ac volgo venditat, eius opes.
Cum novus esset amor vernoque in tempore noster,
Excipiebatur cantibus ille meis;
Sic veniente canit Philomela aestate, diesque
Cum maturuerint voce silebit avis.
Non quod adulta aestas sit eis insuavior horis
Cum noctem fletu mulserat illa suo;
Sed numeris sine lege istis nemus omne gravatum
Sentit, et illecebris dulcia trita carent.
Sic ego nonnunquam, velut illa, silentia servo,
Ne nimius tibi sit noster et ipse canor.
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 over-goes 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.
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 turn'd
In process of the seasons have I seen,
Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burn'd,
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.
Heu quam musa ferax est paupertatis, ibique
Qua fuit immensum gloria nacta locum;
Pluris, io, visa est communibus edita verbis
Materies, nullis laudibus aucta meis.
O non argueris tu me, quod nulla canendi
Vis mihi sit; speculum consule, voltus inest;
Voltus inest superans hoc nata in pectore sensa,
Ac versus hebetis causa, mihique rubor.
Sitne nefas igitur quod vis augere canendo
Laedere, praesertim quod fuit ante bonum?
Namque alium spectant finem mea carmina nullum
Quam decora et laudes enumerare tuas;
Pluraque, multo plura, meus quam versus habebit
Concipere, in speculi videris ipse vitro.
Pulcher, ut in prima cum lumina iunximus hora,
Te mihi non unquam rebor, amice, senem.
Ter bruma aestivos nemorum decussit honores,
Veris in autumnum ter rubuere comae,
Aprilem ter odorum exussit Iunius ignis,
Tot varias anni vidimus isse vices,
Cum memini primum te cernere, et ille virentis
Flos tuus aetatis nunc hodieque viret.
Ah, sed inobservata solet sua gratia formam
Linquere, ut occulto labitur umbra gradu;
Isque color fortasse tuus, dum stare videtur,
Motum habuit, visu decipiorque meo.
Quod metuens, o vos moneo, venientia saecla,
Flos hominum vestram fluxerat ante diem.
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