Are windows to my breast, where-through 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.

XXV.

Let those who are in favour with their stars,
Of public honour and proud titles boast,
Whilst I, whom fortune of such triumph bars,
Unlook'd for joy in that I honour most.
Great princes' favourites their fair leaves spread
But as the marigold at the sun's eye;
And in themselves their pride lies buried,
For at a frown they in their glory die.
The painful warrior famousèd for fight,
After a thousand victories once foil'd,
Is from the book of honour razèd quite,

And all the rest forgot for which he toil'd:
Then happy I, that love and am beloved,
Where I may not remove, nor be removed.

XXVI.

Lord of my love, to whom in vassalage
Thy merit hath my duty strongly knit,
To thee I send this written embassage,
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 conceit of thine

In thy soul's thought, all naked, will bestow it:
Till whatsoever star that guides by moving,
Points on me graciously with fair aspéct,
And puts apparel on my tatter'd 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 may'st prove me.

XXVII.

Weary with toil, I haste me 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 now.

Lo, thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind,
For thee, and for myself, no quiet find.

XXVIII.

How can I then return in happy plight,
That am debarr'd the benefit of rest?

When day's oppression is not eased by night,
But day by night and night by day oppress'd?
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 further 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-complexion'd night ;

When sparkling stars twire1 not, thou gild'st the

even.

1 Twire:' peep out.

But day doth daily draw my sorrows longer,
And night doth nightly make grief's length seem
stronger.

XXIX.

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 friends possess'd,
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 remember'd, such wealth brings, That then I scorn to change my state with kings.

XXX.

When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
I summon up remembrance of things past,
I sigh the lack of many a thing 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 1 night, And weep afresh love's long-since cancell'd woe, And moan the expense of 2 many a vanish'd

sight.

Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,

And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er

1 'Dateless:' endless.—2 Expense of:' passing away of, as what we spend is gone from us.

The sad account of fore-bemoaned 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.

XXXI.

Thy bosom is endeared with all hearts,

Which I by lacking have supposed dead;
And there reigns love and all love's loving parts,
And all those friends which I thought buried.
How many a holy and obsequious 1 tear

Hath dear religious love stolen 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 view in thee,
And thou (all they) hast all the all of me.

XXXII.

If thou survive my well contented day,

When that churl Death my bones with dust shall

cover,

And shalt by fortune once more re-survey

These poor rude lines of thy deceasèd lover, Compare them with the bettering of the time;

And though they be outstripp'd by every pen, Reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme, Exceeded by the height of happier men.

Oh 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.'

XXXIII.

Full many a glorious morning have I seen
Flatter the mountain tops with sovereign eye,
Kissing with golden face the meadows green,
Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchymy;
Anon permit the basest clouds to ride

With ugly rack1 on his celestial face,
And from the forlorn world his visage hide,
Stealing unseen to west with this disgrace:
Even so my sun one early morn did shine

With all triumphant splendour on my brow;
But out! alack! he was but one hour mine,

The region cloud hath mask'd him from me now. Yet him for this my love no whit disdaineth;

Suns of the world may stain, when heaven's sun staineth.2

XXXIV.

Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day,
And make me travel forth without my cloak,
To let base clouds o'ertake me in my way,
Hiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke?
'Tis not enough that through the cloud thou break,
To dry the rain on my storm-beaten face,
For no man well of such a salve can speak,

That heals the wound, and cures not the disgrace:
Nor can thy shame give physic to my grief;
Though thou repent, yet I have still the loss:

Rack:' vapours.-2 Stain' and 'staineth,' are here used with the signification of a verb neuter.