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Which erst from heat did canopy the herd |
And summer's green all girded up in sheaves |
Borne on the bier with white and bristly beard: |
Then of thy beauty do I question make |
That thou among the wastes of time must go, |
Since sweets and beauties do themselves forsake, |
And die as fast as they see others grow, |
And nothing 'gainst Time's scythe can make defence |
Save breed to brave him, when he takes thee hence. |
13 |
O that you were your self, but love you are |
No longer yours, than you your self here live, |
Against this coming end you should prepare, |
And your sweet semblance to some other give. |
So should that beauty which you hold in lease |
Find no determination, then you were |
Your self again after your self's decease, |
When your sweet issue your sweet form should bear. |
Who lets so fair a house fall to decay, |
Which husbandry in honour might uphold, |
Against the stormy gusts of winter's day |
And barren rage of death's eternal cold? |
O none but unthrifts, dear my love you know, |
You had a father, let your son say so. |
14 |
Not from the stars do I my judgement pluck, |
And yet methinks I have astronomy, |
But not to tell of good, or evil luck, |
Of plagues, of dearths, or seasons' quality, |
Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell; |
Pointing to each his thunder, rain and wind, |
Or say with princes if it shall go well |
By oft predict that I in heaven find. |
But from thine eyes my knowledge I derive, |
And constant stars in them I read such art |
As truth and beauty shall together thrive |
If from thy self, to store thou wouldst convert: |
Or else of thee this I prognosticate, |
Thy end is truth's and beauty's doom and date. |
15 |
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 checked 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. |
16 |
But wherefore do not you a mightier way |
Make war upon this bloody tyrant Time? |
And fortify your self in your decay |
With means more blessed than my barren rhyme? |
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 your self in eyes of men. |
To give away your self, keeps your self still, |
And you must live drawn by your own sweet skill. |
17 |
Who will believe my verse in time to come |
If it were filled 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 touched earthly faces. |
So should my papers (yellowed with their age) |
Be scorned, like old men of less truth than tongue, |
And your true rights be termed 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 my rhyme. |
18 |
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, |