Shake-speares Sonnets (Quarto 1, 1609)
Author: William ShakespeareEditors: Hardy M. Cook, Ian LancashirePeer Reviewed


¶WHen in the Chronicle of wa
sted time,
¶I
see di
scriptions of the faire
st wights,
¶And beautie making beautifull old rime,
1580In prai
se of Ladies dead,
_and louely Knights,
¶Then in the blazon of
sweet beauties be
st,
¶Of hand,
_of foote,
_of lip,
_of eye,
_of brow,
¶I
see their antique Pen would haue expre
st,
¶Euen
such a beauty as you mai
ster now.
1585So all their prai
ses are but prophe
sies
¶Of this our time,
_all you prefiguring,
¶And for they look'd but with deuining eyes,
¶They had not
still enough your worth to
sing :
¶_For we which now behold the
se pre
sent dayes,
1590Haue eyes to wonder,
_but lack toungs to prai
se.
¶NOt mine owne feares,
_nor the prophetick
soule,
¶Of the wide world,
_dreaming on things to come,
¶Can yet the lea
se of my true loue controule,
1595Suppo
sde as forfeit to a confin'd doome.
¶The mortall Moone hath her eclip
se indur'de,
¶And the
sad Augurs mock their owne pre
sage,
¶Incertenties now crowne them-
selues a
ssur'de,
¶And peace proclaimes Oliues of endle
sse age,
1600Now with the drops of this mo
st balmie time,
¶My loue lookes fre
sh,
_and death to me
sub
scribes,
¶Since
spight of him Ile liue in this poore rime,
¶While he in
sults ore dull and
speachle
sse tribes.
¶_And thou in this
shalt finde thy monument,
1605When tyrants cre
sts and tombs of bra
sse are
spent.
¶VVHat's in the braine that Inck may character ,
¶Which hath not figur'd to thee my true
spirit,
¶What's new to
speake,
_what now to regi
ster,
1610That may expre
sse my loue,
_or thy deare merit ?
¶Nothing
sweet boy,
_but yet like prayers diuine,
¶I mu
st each day
say ore the very
same,
¶Counting no old thing old,
_thou mine,
_I thine,
¶Euen as when fir
st I hallowed thy faire name.
1615So that eternall loue in loues fre
sh ca
se,
¶Waighes not the du
st and iniury of age,
¶Nor giues to nece
ssary wrinckles place,
¶But makes antiquitie for aye his page,
¶_Finding the fir
st conceit of loue there bred,
1620Where time and outward forme would
shew it dead,

