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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)

    1FRom fairest creatures we desire increase,
    That thereby beauties Rose might neuer die,
    But as the riper should by time decease,
    His tender heire might beare his memory:
    5But thou contracted to thine owne bright eyes,
    Feed'st thy lights flame with selfe substantiall fewell,
    Making a famine where aboundance lies,
    Thy selfe thy foe, to thy sweet selfe too cruell:
    Thou that art now the worlds fresh ornament,
    10And only herauld to the gaudy spring,
    Within thine owne bud buriest thy content,
    And tender chorle makst wast in niggarding:
    Pitty the world, or else this glutton be,
    To eate the worlds due, by the graue and thee.
    WHen fortie Winters shall beseige thy brow,
    And digge deep trenches in thy beauties field,
    Thy youthes proud liuery so gaz'd on now,
    Wil be a totter'd weed of smal worth held:
    20Then being askt, where all thy beautie lies,
    Where all the treasure of thy lusty daies;
    To say within thine owne deepe sunken eyes,
    Were an all-eating shame, and thriftlesse praise.
    How much more praise deseru'd thy beauties vse,
    25If thou couldst answere this faire child of mine
    Shall sum my count, and make my old excuse
    Proouing his beautie by succession thine.
    This were to be new made when thou art ould,
    And see thy blood warme when thou feel'st it could,
    LOoke in thy glasse and tell the face thou vewest,
    Now is the time that face should forme an other,
    Whose fresh repaire if now thou not renewest,
    Thou doo'st beguile the world, vnblesse some mother.
    35For where is she so faire whose vn-eard wombe
    Disdaines the tillage of thy husbandry?
    Or who is he so fond will be the tombe,
    Of his selfe loue to stop posterity?
    Thou art thy mothers glasse and she in thee
    40Calls backe the louely Aprill of her prime,
    So thou through windowes of thine age shalt see,
    Dispight of wrinkles this thy goulden time.
    But if thou liue remembred not to be,
    Die single and thine Image dies with thee.