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;
When I perceive that men as plants increase,
Cheered and check'd even by the self-same 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 engraft you new.
But wherefore do not you a mightier way
Make war upon this bloody tyrant, Time?
And fortify yourself in your decay
With means more blessed than my barren rime?
Now stand you on the top of happy hours,
And many maiden gardens, yet unset,
With virtuous wish would bear you 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.
Cum memini innatum cunctis gignentibus esse
Vt breve per tempus stet suus ille vigor;
Vndique per mundum spectacula fluxa videri,
Quae super arcanis viribus astra notent;
Cum scio mortales herbarum crescere ritu
Laetificante uno, vel reprimente, Iove;
Suco luxuriare novo, decrescere adultos,
Mox vegeti floris nil retinere memor;
Talia miranti sortis spectacula fluxae,
Ante oculos tu stas, aurea forma, puer;
Has ubi damnosum tempus seniumque videntur
Consulere, an mutent iam tibi nocte diem.
Noster amor vero capit arma, et quas tibi tempus
Surripiet vires inseret ille novas.
Cur vero in tristem tempus crudele tyrannum
Bella magis valido non geris ipse modo?
O si decrepitos iacias munimina in annos
Hac sterili nostra prosperiora lyra!
Stas nunc in summum vectus felicibus horis,
Castaque virgineo despicis arva solo;
Casta, sed et vivos praebere volentia flores,
Plusque relaturos quam simulacra tui.
Viva figura tuam reparat sic denique vitam,
Quod calamo aut tabulis ars hodierna nequit,
Non decus externum, non intus acumina mentis,
Non te demum aliis ponere docta viris.
At dando tu te servas, dulcique necesse est
Tu vivas opera sculptus ab ipse tua.
Who will believe my verse in time to come,
If it were fill'd 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 touch'd earthly faces.'
So should my papers yellow'd with their age
Be scorn'd like old men of less truth than tongue,
And your true rights be term'd a poet's rage
And stretched metre of an antique song:
But were some child of yours alive that time,
You should live twice, in it and in
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 dimm'd;
And every fair from fair sometime declines
By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st;
Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st 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.
Si meus efferret merita in te maxima versus,
Quae fuit in sera posteritate fides ?
Scitque deus, multo deceat magis ille sepulcrum,
Sic tua vita in eo, famaque multa, latet.
Scribere si possim quae gratia luminis ista,
Ac vegeto in versu quodque referre decus,
Dicat posteritas 'o vatem falsa locutum !
Aetheria humanas haud tetigere genas.'
Sic faciat risum mea saeclis lutea charta,
Vt superans verum garrulitate senex;
Iusta etiam tua laus habeatur vana poetae
Fabula, vel prisci carminis ille tumor.
Sed tua si suboles illo sit tempore quaedam,
Bis vivas, in ea carminibusque meis.
An similem aestivae pingam te, care, diei?
Haud ita fit constans, haud ita pulchra dies.
Flabra novas agitant, Maio sua gaudia, frondes,
Ac brevis aestivam continet hora moram.
Sol, oculus caeli, nimiis fervoribus ardet
Interdum, aut hebes est aureus ille color;
Pulchraque declinant a pulchro, forte caduca,
Aut quia naturae lex ita flectit iter.
At tibi perpetua est, indeclinabilis, aestas,
Deciderit nulla flos tuus iste die;
Mors nihil ipsa suis de te iactabit in umbris
Carmine in aeterno dum sine fine vires;
Donec homo spirabit enim poteritque videre,
Vivit in hoc vitae carmine causa tuae.
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 thou fleets,
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.
A 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 prick'd thee out for women's pleasure, Mine be thy love and thy love's use their treasure.
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