Internet Shakespeare Editions

About this text

  • Title: Shake-speares Sonnets (Quarto 1, 1609)
  • Editors: Hardy M. Cook, Ian Lancashire

  • Copyright Hardy M. Cook and Ian Lancashire. This text may be freely used for educational, non-profit purposes; for all other uses contact the Editor.
    Author: William Shakespeare
    Editors: Hardy M. Cook, Ian Lancashire
    Peer Reviewed

    Shake-speares Sonnets (Quarto 1, 1609)


    Is more then my ore-prest defence can bide?
    2080Let me excuse thee, ah my loue well knowes,
    Her prettie lookes haue beene mine enemies,
    And therefore from my face she turnes my foes,
    That they else-where might dart their iniuries :
    Yet do not so, but since I am neere slaine,
    2085Kill me out-right with lookes, and rid my paine.


    BE wise as thou art cruell, do not presse
    My toung-tide patience with too much disdaine :
    Least sorrow lend me words and words expresse,
    2090The manner of my pittie wanting paine.
    If I might teach thee witte better it weare,
    Though not to loue, yet loue to tell me so,
    As testie sick-men when their deaths be neere,
    No newes but health from their Phisitions know.
    2095For if I should dispaire I should grow madde,
    And in my madnesse might speake ill of thee,
    Now this ill wresting world is growne so bad,
    Madde slanderers by madde eares beleeued be.
    That I may not be so, nor thou be lyde,

    2100Beare thine eyes straight , though thy proud heart goe wide.


    IN faith I doe not loue thee with mine eyes,
    For they in thee a thousand errors note,
    But 'tis my heart that loues what they dispise,
    2105Who in dispight of view is pleasd to dote.
    Nor are mine eares with thy toungs tune delighted,
    Nor tender feeling to base touches prone,
    Nor taste, nor smell, desire to be inuited
    To any sensuall feast with thee alone :

    2110But my fiue wits, nor my fiue sences can
    Diswade one foolish heart from seruing thee,
    Who leaues vnswai'd the likenesse of a man,
    Thy proud hearts slaue and vassall wretch to be :
    Onely my plague thus farre I count my gaine,
    2115 That she that makes me sinne, awards me paine.
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