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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)

    NOt marble, nor the guilded monument,
    Of Princes shall out-liue this powrefull rime,
    But you shall shine more bright in these contents
    Then vnswept stone, besmeer'd with sluttish time.
    815When wastefull warre shall Statues ouer-turne,
    And broiles roote out the worke of masonry,
    Nor Mars his sword, nor warres quick fire shall burne:
    The liuing record of your memory.
    Gainst death, and all obliuious emnity
    820Shall you pace forth, your praise shall stil finde roome,
    Euen in the eyes of all posterity
    That weare this world out to the ending doome.
    So til the iudgement that your selfe arise,
    You liue in this, and dwell in louers eies.
    Sweet loue renew thy force , be it not said
    Thy edge should blunter be then apetite,
    Which but too daie by feeding is alaied,
    To morrow sharpned in his former might.
    830So loue be thou, although too daie thou fill
    Thy hungrie eies, euen till they winck with fulnesse,
    Too morrow see againe, and doe not kill
    The spirit of Loue, with a perpetual dulnesse:
    Let this sad Intrim like the Ocean be
    835Which parts the shore, where two contracted new,
    Come daily to the banckes, that when they see:
    Returne of loue, more blest may be the view.
    As cal it Winter, which being ful of care,
    Makes Sōmers welcome, thrice more wish'd, more rare:
    BEing your slaue what should I doe but tend,
    Vpon the houres, and times of your desire?
    I haue no precious time at al to spend;
    Nor seruices to doe til you require.
    845Nor dare I chide the world without end houre,
    Whilst I(my soueraine)watch the clock for you,
    Nor thinke the bitternesse of absence sowre,
    When you haue bid your seruant once adieue.
    Nor dare I question with my iealious thought,
    850Where you may be, or your affaires suppose,
    But like a sad slaue stay and thinke of nought
    Saue where you are , how happy you make those.
    So true a foole is loue, that in your Will,
    (Though you doe any thing)he thinkes no ill.