Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
This were to be new made when thou art old,
But if thou live, remember'd not to be,
Thy unused beauty must be tomb'd with thee,
But flowers distill'd though they with winter meet,
Be not self-will'd, for thou art much too fair
So thou, thyself out-going in thy noon,
Whose speechless song, being many, seeming one,
No love toward others in that bosom sits
Make thee another self, for love of me,
She carved thee for her seal, and meant thereby
And nothing 'gainst Time's scythe can make defence
O, none but unthrifts! Dear my love, you know
Or else of thee this I prognosticate:
And all in war with Time for love of you,
To give away yourself keeps yourself still,
But were some child of yours alive that time,
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
Yet, do thy worst, old Time: despite thy wrong,
But since she prick'd thee out for women's pleasure,
Let them say more than like of hearsay well;
Presume not on thy heart when mine is slain;
O, learn to read what silent love hath writ:
Yet eyes this cunning want to grace their art;
Then happy I, that love and am beloved
Then may I dare to boast how I do love thee;
Lo! thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind,
But day doth daily draw my sorrows longer
For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings
But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,
Their images I loved I view in thee,
But since he died and poets better prove,
Yet him for this my love no whit disdaineth;
Ah! but those tears are pearl which thy love sheds,
That I an accessary needs must be
But do not so; I love thee in such sort
Look, what is best, that best I wish in thee:
If my slight Muse do please these curious days,
And that thou teachest how to make one twain,
Lascivious grace, in whom all ill well shows,
Hers by thy beauty tempting her to thee,
But here's the joy; my friend and I are one;
All days are nights to see till I see thee,
Receiving nought by elements so slow
This told, I joy; but then no longer glad,
As thus; mine eye's due is thy outward part,
Or, if they sleep, thy picture in my sight
And even thence thou wilt be stol'n, I fear,
To leave poor me thou hast the strength of laws,
For that same groan doth put this in my mind;
Since from thee going he went wilful-slow,
Blessed are you, whose worthiness gives scope,
In all external grace you have some part,
And so of you, beauteous and lovely youth,
So, till the judgment that yourself arise,
Else call it winter, which being full of care
So true a fool is love that in your will,
I am to wait, though waiting so be hell;
O, sure I am, the wits of former days
And yet to times in hope my verse shall stand,
For thee watch I whilst thou dost wake elsewhere,
'Tis thee, myself, that for myself I praise,
His beauty shall in these black lines be seen,
This thought is as a death, which cannot choose
O, none, unless this miracle have might,
Tired with all these, from these would I be gone,
O, him she stores, to show what wealth she had
And him as for a map doth Nature store,
But why thy odour matcheth not thy show,
If some suspect of ill mask'd not thy show,
Lest the wise world should look into your moan
For I am shamed by that which I bring forth,
This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more strong,
The worth of that is that which it contains,
Thus do I pine and surfeit day by day,
For as the sun is daily new and old,
These offices, so oft as thou wilt look,
But thou art all my art and dost advance
Then thank him not for that which he doth say,
Then if he thrive and I be cast away,
You still shall live--such virtue hath my pen--
And their gross painting might be better used
There lives more life in one of your fair eyes
You to your beauteous blessings add a curse,
Then others for the breath of words respect,
But when your countenance fill'd up his line,
Thus have I had thee, as a dream doth flatter,
Such is my love, to thee I so belong,
For thee against myself I'll vow debate,
And other strains of woe, which now seem woe,
Wretched in this alone, that thou mayst take
But what's so blessed-fair that fears no blot?
How like Eve's apple doth thy beauty grow,
For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds;
Take heed, dear heart, of this large privilege;
But do not so; I love thee in such sort
Or, if they sing, 'tis with so dull a cheer
Yet seem'd it winter still, and, you away,
More flowers I noted, yet I none could see
Give my love fame faster than Time wastes life;
Then do thy office, Muse; I teach thee how
Therefore like her I sometime hold my tongue,
And more, much more, than in my verse can sit
For fear of which, hear this, thou age unbred;
'Fair, kind, and true,' have often lived alone,
For we, which now behold these present days,
And thou in this shalt find thy monument,
Finding the first conceit of love there bred
For nothing this wide universe I call,
Then give me welcome, next my heaven the best,
Pity me then, dear friend, and I assure ye
You are so strongly in my purpose bred
Incapable of more, replete with you,
If it be poison'd, 'tis the lesser sin
Love is a babe; then might I not say so,
If this be error and upon me proved,
Since my appeal says I did strive to prove
But thence I learn, and find the lesson true,
So I return rebuked to my content
But that your trespass now becomes a fee;
Unless this general evil they maintain,
To keep an adjunct to remember thee
This I do vow and this shall ever be;
To this I witness call the fools of time,
Hence, thou suborn'd informer! a true soul
Her audit, though delay'd, answer'd must be,
Yet so they mourn, becoming of their woe,
Since saucy jacks so happy are in this,
All this the world well knows; yet none knows well
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
In nothing art thou black save in thy deeds,
Then will I swear beauty herself is black
And yet thou wilt; for I, being pent in thee,
Him have I lost; thou hast both him and me:
Let no unkind, no fair beseechers kill;
Make but my name thy love, and love that still,
In things right true my heart and eyes have erred,
Therefore I lie with her and she with me,
Yet do not so; but since I am near slain,
That I may not be so, nor thou belied,
Only my plague thus far I count my gain,
If thou dost seek to have what thou dost hide,
So will I pray that thou mayst have thy 'Will,'
Yet this shall I ne'er know, but live in doubt,
'I hate' from hate away she threw,
So shalt thou feed on Death, that feeds on men,
For I have sworn thee fair and thought thee bright,
O cunning Love! with tears thou keep'st me blind,
But, love, hate on, for now I know thy mind;
If thy unworthiness raised love in me,
No want of conscience hold it that I call
For I have sworn thee fair; more perjured I,
But found no cure: the bath for my help lies
Came there for cure, and this by that I prove,