:::::::::: 诗选 ::::::::::

　　来吧，夏天，用你柔和的阳光
　　对风雪交加的天气发动攻击，
　　赶得又长又黑的夜就此逃避！
　　　
　　圣瓦伦丁河啊，小鸟在为你歌唱，
　　你戴着花冠坐在高高的云里：
　　来吧，夏天，用你柔和的阳光
　　对风雪交加的天气发动攻击。
　　　
　　那些鸟儿有理由不时地欢唱，
　　因为它们在树丛里找到伴侣。
　　啊，它们醒时唱得多幸福甜蜜：
　　来吧，夏天，柔和的阳光
　　对风雪交加的天气发动攻击，
　　
　　赶得又长又黑的夜就此逃避！

　　(excerpt)
　　
　　
　　Now welcome, somer, with thy sonne softe,
　　That hast this wintres wedres overshake,
　　And driven away the longe nyghtes blake!
　　
　　
　　 Saynt Valentyn, that art ful hy on-lofte,
　　Thus syngen smale foules for thy sake:
　　 Now welcome, somer, with thy sonne softe,
　　 That hast this wintres wedres overshake.
　　
　　
　　 Wel han they cause for to gladen ofte,
　　Sith ech of hem recovered hath hys make;
　　Ful blissful mowe they synge when they wake:
　　 Now welcome, somer, with thy sonne softe
　　 That hast this wintres wedres overshake
　　 And driven away the longe nyghtes blake!

无情美人回旋曲

　　你那双大眼睛能一下把我杀掉；
　　它们的美已使我无法再安祥；
　　我的心上被刺出剧痛的创伤。
　　　
　　只有你的话能把我的伤治好，
　　趁现在这创口还没开始溃疡－－
　　你一双大眼睛能一下把我杀掉；
　　它们的美已使我无法再安祥。
　　　
　　相信我的话，我把实情奉告：
　　生前和死后你都是我的女王；
　　因为我的死会使你了解真相。
　　你一双大眼睛能一下把所杀掉；
　　它们的美已使我无法再安祥。
　　
　　我的心上被刺出剧痛的创伤。

The Canterbury Tales: General Prologue

　　Whan that Aprille with his shoures soote,
　　The droghte of March hath perced to the roote,
　　And bathed every veyne in swich licóur
　　Of which vertú engendred is the flour;
　　Whan Zephirus eek with his swete breeth
　　Inspired hath in every holt and heeth
　　The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne
　　Hath in the Ram his halfe cours y-ronne,
　　And smale foweles maken melodye,
　　That slepen al the nyght with open ye,
　　So priketh hem Natúre in hir corages,
　　Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages,
　　And palmeres for to seken straunge strondes,
　　To ferne halwes, kowthe in sondry londes;
　　And specially, from every shires ende
　　Of Engelond, to Caunterbury they wende,
　　The hooly blisful martir for to seke,
　　That hem hath holpen whan that they were seeke.
　　
　　
　　Bifil that in that seson on a day,
　　In Southwerk at the Tabard as I lay,
　　Redy to wenden on my pilgrymage
　　To Caunterbury with ful devout corage,
　　At nyght were come into that hostelrye
　　Wel nyne and twenty in a compaignye
　　Of sondry folk, by áventure y-falle
　　In felaweshipe, and pilgrimes were they alle,
　　That toward Caunterbury wolden ryde.
　　The chambres and the stables weren wyde,
　　And wel we weren esed atte beste.
　　And shortly, whan the sonne was to reste,
　　So hadde I spoken with hem everychon,
　　That I was of hir felaweshipe anon,
　　And made forward erly for to ryse,
　　To take oure wey, ther as I yow devyse.
　　
　　
　　But nathelees, whil I have tyme and space,
　　Er that I ferther in this tale pace,
　　Me thynketh it acordaunt to resoun
　　To telle yow al the condicioun
　　Of ech of hem, so as it semed me,
　　And whiche they weren and of what degree,
　　And eek in what array that they were inne;
　　And at a Knyght than wol I first bigynne.
　　
　　
　　A Knyght ther was, and that a worthy man,
　　That fro the tyme that he first bigan
　　To riden out, he loved chivalrie,
　　Trouthe and honóur, fredom and curteisie.
　　Ful worthy was he in his lordes werre,
　　And thereto hadde he riden, no man ferre,
　　As wel in cristendom as in hethenesse,
　　And evere honóured for his worthynesse.
　　At Alisaundre he was whan it was wonne;
　　Ful ofte tyme he hadde the bord bigonne
　　Aboven alle nacions in Pruce.
　　In Lettow hadde he reysed and in Ruce,—
　　No cristen man so ofte of his degree.
　　In Gernade at the seege eek hadde he be
　　Of Algezir, and riden in Belmarye.
　　At Lyeys was he, and at Satalye,
　　Whan they were wonne; and in the Grete See
　　At many a noble armee hadde he be.
　　
　　
　　At mortal batailles hadde he been fiftene,
　　And foughten for oure feith at Tramyssene
　　In lyste thries, and ay slayn his foo.
　　This ilke worthy knyght hadde been also
　　Somtyme with the lord of Palatye
　　Agayn another hethen in Turkye;
　　And evermoore he hadde a sovereyn prys.
　　And though that he were worthy, he was wys,
　　And of his port as meeke as is a mayde.
　　He nevere yet no vileynye ne sayde,
　　In al his lyf, unto no maner wight.
　　He was a verray, parfit, gentil knyght.
　　
　　
　　But for to tellen yow of his array,
　　His hors weren goode, but he was nat gay;
　　Of fustian he wered a gypon
　　Al bismótered with his habergeon;
　　For he was late y-come from his viage,
　　And wente for to doon his pilgrymage.
　　
　　
　　With hym ther was his sone, a yong Squiér,
　　A lovyere and a lusty bacheler,
　　With lokkes crulle as they were leyd in presse.
　　Of twenty yeer of age he was, I gesse.
　　Of his statúre he was of evene lengthe,
　　And wonderly delyvere and of greet strengthe.
　　And he hadde been somtyme in chyvachie
　　In Flaundres, in Artoys, and Pycardie,
　　And born hym weel, as of so litel space,
　　In hope to stonden in his lady grace.
　　Embrouded was he, as it were a meede
　　Al ful of fresshe floures whyte and reede.
　　Syngynge he was, or floytynge, al the day;
　　He was as fressh as is the month of May.
　　Short was his gowne, with sleves longe and wyde;
　　Wel koude he sitte on hors and faire ryde;
　　He koude songes make and wel endite,
　　Juste and eek daunce, and weel purtreye and write.
　　So hoote he lovede that by nyghtertale
　　He sleep namoore than dooth a nyghtyngale.
　　Curteis he was, lowely and servysáble,
　　And carf biforn his fader at the table.
　　
　　
　　A Yeman hadde he and servántz namo
　　At that tyme, for hym liste ride soo;
　　And he was clad in cote and hood of grene.
　　A sheef of pecock arwes bright and kene,
　　Under his belt he bar ful thriftily—
　　Wel koude he dresse his takel yemanly;
　　His arwes drouped noght with fetheres lowe—
　　And in his hand he baar a myghty bowe.
　　A not-heed hadde he, with a broun viságe.
　　Of woodecraft wel koude he al the uságe.
　　Upon his arm he baar a gay bracér,
　　And by his syde a swerd and a bokeler,
　　And on that oother syde a gay daggere,
　　Harneised wel and sharp as point of spere;
　　A Cristophere on his brest of silver sheene.
　　An horn he bar, the bawdryk was of grene.
　　A forster was he, soothly as I gesse.
　　
　　
　　Ther was also a Nonne, a Prioresse,
　　That of hir smylyng was ful symple and coy;
　　Hire gretteste ooth was but by seinte Loy,
　　And she was cleped madame Eglentyne.
　　Ful weel she soong the service dyvyne,
　　Entuned in hir nose ful semely;
　　And Frenssh she spak ful faire and fetisly,
　　After the scole of Stratford atte Bowe,
　　For Frenssh of Parys was to hire unknowe.
　　At mete wel y-taught was she with-alle:
　　She leet no morsel from hir lippes falle,
　　Ne wette hir fyngres in hir sauce depe.
　　Wel koude she carie a morsel and wel kepe
　　Thát no drope ne fille upon hire brist;
　　In curteisie was set ful muchel hir list.
　　Hire over-lippe wyped she so clene
　　That in hir coppe ther was no ferthyng sene
　　Of grece, whan she dronken hadde hir draughte.
　　Ful semely after hir mete she raughte.
　　And sikerly she was of greet desport,
　　And ful plesáunt and amyable of port,
　　And peyned hire to countrefete cheere
　　Of court, and been estatlich of manere,
　　And to ben holden digne of reverence.
　　But for to speken of hire conscience,
　　She was so charitable and so pitous
　　She wolde wepe if that she saugh a mous
　　Kaught in a trappe, if it were deed or bledde.
　　Of smale houndes hadde she, that she fedde
　　With rosted flessh, or milk and wastel breed;
　　But soore wepte she if oon of hem were deed,
　　Or if men smoot it with a yerde smerte;
　　And al was conscience and tendre herte.
　　
　　
　　Ful semyly hir wympul pynched was;
　　Hire nose tretys, her eyen greye as glas,
　　Hir mouth ful smal and ther-to softe and reed;
　　But sikerly she hadde a fair forheed;
　　It was almoost a spanne brood, I trowe;
　　For, hardily, she was nat undergrowe.
　　Ful fetys was hir cloke, as I was war;
　　Of smal coral aboute hire arm she bar
　　A peire of bedes, gauded al with grene,
　　And ther-on heng a brooch of gold ful sheene,
　　On which ther was first write a crowned A,
　　And after, Amor vincit omnia.
　　
　　
　　Another Nonne with hire hadde she,
　　That was hire chapeleyne, and Preestes thre.
　　
　　
　　A Monk ther was, a fair for the maistrie,
　　An outridere, that lovede venerie;
　　A manly man, to been an abbot able.
　　Ful many a deyntee hors hadde he in stable;
　　And whan he rood, men myghte his brydel heere
　　Gýnglen in a whistlynge wynd als cleere,
　　And eek as loude, as dooth the chapel belle,
　　Ther as this lord was kepere of the celle.
　　The reule of seint Maure or of seint Beneit,
　　By-cause that it was old and som-del streit,—
　　This ilke Monk leet olde thynges pace,
　　And heeld after the newe world the space.
　　He yaf nat of that text a pulled hen
　　That seith that hunters ben nat hooly men,
　　Ne that a monk, whan he is recchelees,
　　Is likned til a fissh that is waterlees,—
　　This is to seyn, a monk out of his cloystre.
　　But thilke text heeld he nat worth an oystre;
　　And I seyde his opinioun was good.
　　What sholde he studie and make hymselven wood,
　　Upon a book in cloystre alwey to poure,
　　Or swynken with his handes and labóure,
　　As Austyn bit? How shal the world be served?
　　Lat Austyn have his swynk to him reserved.
　　Therfore he was a prikasour aright:
　　Grehoundes he hadde, as swift as fowel in flight;
　　Of prikyng and of huntyng for the hare
　　Was al his lust, for no cost wolde he spare.
　　I seigh his sleves y-púrfiled at the hond
　　With grys, and that the fyneste of a lond;
　　And for to festne his hood under his chyn
　　He hadde of gold y-wroght a curious pyn;
　　A love-knotte in the gretter ende ther was.
　　His heed was balled, that shoon as any glas,
　　And eek his face, as he hadde been enoynt.
　　He was a lord ful fat and in good poynt;
　　His eyen stepe, and rollynge in his heed,
　　That stemed as a forneys of a leed;
　　His bootes souple, his hors in greet estaat.
　　Now certeinly he was a fair prelaat.
　　He was nat pale, as a forpyned goost:
　　A fat swan loved he best of any roost.
　　His palfrey was as broun as is a berye.
　　
　　
　　A Frere ther was, a wantowne and a merye,
　　A lymytour, a ful solémpne man.
　　In alle the ordres foure is noon that kan
　　So muchel of daliaunce and fair langage.
　　He hadde maad ful many a mariage
　　Of yonge wommen at his owene cost.
　　Unto his ordre he was a noble post.
　　Ful wel biloved and famulier was he
　　With frankeleyns over al in his contree,
　　And eek with worthy wommen of the toun;
　　For he hadde power of confessioun,
　　As seyde hym-self, moore than a curát,
　　For of his ordre he was licenciat.
　　Ful swetely herde he confessioun,
　　And plesaunt was his absolucioun.
　　He was an esy man to yeve penaunce
　　There as he wiste to have a good pitaunce;
　　For unto a povre ordre for to yive
　　Is signe that a man is wel y-shryve;
　　For, if he yaf, he dorste make avaunt
　　He wiste that a man was répentaunt;
　　For many a man so hard is of his herte
　　He may nat wepe al-thogh hym soore smerte.
　　Therfore in stede of wepynge and preyéres
　　Men moote yeve silver to the povre freres.
　　His typet was ay farsed full of knyves
　　And pynnes, for to yeven faire wyves.
　　And certeinly he hadde a murye note:
　　Wel koude he synge and pleyen on a rote;
　　Of yeddynges he baar outrely the pris.
　　His nekke whit was as the flour-de-lys;
　　Ther-to he strong was as a champioun.
　　He knew the tavernes wel in every toun,
　　And everich hostiler and tappestere
　　Bet than a lazar or a beggestere;
　　For unto swich a worthy man as he
　　Acorded nat, as by his facultee,
　　To have with sike lazars aqueyntaunce;
　　It is nat honest, it may nat avaunce
　　Fór to deelen with no swich poraille,
　　But al with riche and selleres of vitaille.
　　And over-al, ther as profit sholde arise,
　　Curteis he was and lowely of servyse.
　　Ther nas no man nowher so vertuous.
　　He was the beste beggere in his hous;
　　[And yaf a certeyn ferme for the graunt,
　　Noon of his brethren cam ther in his haunt;]
　　For thogh a wydwe hadde noght a sho,
　　So plesaunt was his In principio,
　　Yet wolde he have a ferthyng er he wente:
　　His purchas was wel bettre than his rente.
　　And rage he koude, as it were right a whelpe.
　　In love-dayes ther koude he muchel helpe,
　　For there he was nat lyk a cloysterer
　　With a thredbare cope, as is a povre scolér,
　　But he was lyk a maister, or a pope;
　　Of double worstede was his semycope,
　　That rounded as a belle, out of the presse.
　　Somwhat he lipsed for his wantownesse,
　　To make his Englissh sweete upon his tonge;
　　And in his harpyng, whan that he hadde songe,
　　His eyen twynkled in his heed aryght
　　As doon the sterres in the frosty nyght.
　　This worthy lymytour was cleped Hubérd.
　　
　　
　　A Marchant was ther with a forked berd,
　　In motteleye, and hye on horse he sat;
　　Upon his heed a Flaundryssh bevere hat;
　　His bootes clasped faire and fetisly.
　　His resons he spak ful solémpnely,
　　Sownynge alway thencrees of his wynnyng.
　　He wolde the see were kept for any thing
　　Bitwixe Middelburgh and Orewelle.
　　Wel koude he in eschaunge sheeldes selle.
　　This worthy man ful wel his wit bisette;
　　Ther wiste no wight that he was in dette,
　　So estatly was he of his gouvernaunce,
　　With his bargaynes and with his chevyssaunce.
　　For sothe he was a worthy man with-alle,
　　But, sooth to seyn, I noot how men hym calle.
　　
　　
　　A Clerk ther was of Oxenford also,
　　That unto logyk hadde longe y-go.
　　As leene was his hors as is a rake,
　　And he nas nat right fat, I undertake,
　　But looked holwe, and ther-to sobrely.
　　Ful thredbare was his overeste courtepy;
　　For he hadde geten hym yet no benefice,
　　Ne was so worldly for to have office;
　　For hym was lévere háve at his beddes heed
　　Twénty bookes, clad in blak or reed,
　　Of Aristotle and his philosophie,
　　Than robes riche, or fíthele, or gay sautrie.
　　But al be that he was a philosophre,
　　Yet hadde he but litel gold in cofre;
　　But al that he myghte of his freendes hente
　　On bookes and on lernynge he it spente,
　　And bisily gan for the soules preye
　　Of hem that yaf hym wher-with to scoleye.
　　Of studie took he moost cure and moost heede.
　　Noght o word spak he moore than was neede;
　　And that was seyd in forme and reverence,
　　And short and quyk and ful of hy senténce.
　　Sownynge in moral vertu was his speche;
　　And gladly wolde he lerne and gladly teche.
　　
　　
　　A Sergeant of the Lawe, war and wys,
　　That often hadde been at the Parvys,
　　Ther was also, ful riche of excellence.
　　Discreet he was, and of greet reverence—
　　He semed swich, his wordes weren so wise.
　　Justice he was ful often in assise,
　　By patente, and by pleyn commissioun.
　　For his science and for his heigh renoun,
　　Of fees and robes hadde he many oon.
　　So greet a purchasour was nowher noon:
　　Al was fee symple to hym in effect;
　　His purchasyng myghte nat been infect.
　　Nowher so bisy a man as he ther nas,
　　And yet he semed bisier than he was.
　　In termes hadde he caas and doomes alle
　　That from the tyme of kyng William were falle.
　　Ther-to he koude endite and make a thyng,
　　Ther koude no wight pynche at his writyng;
　　And every statut koude he pleyn by rote.
　　He rood but hoomly in a medlee cote,
　　Girt with a ceint of silk, with barres smale;
　　Of his array telle I no lenger tale.
　　
　　
　　A Frankeleyn was in his compaignye.
　　Whit was his berd as is the dayesye;
　　Of his complexioun he was sangwyn.
　　Wel loved he by the morwe a sop in wyn;
　　To lyven in delit was evere his wone,
　　For he was Epicurus owene sone,
　　That heeld opinioun that pleyn delit
　　Was verraily felicitee parfit.
　　An housholdere, and that a greet, was he;
　　Seint Julian he was in his contree.
　　His breed, his ale, was alweys after oon;
　　A bettre envyned man was nowher noon.
　　Withoute bake mete was nevere his hous,
　　Of fissh and flessh, and that so plentevous,
　　It snewed in his hous of mete and drynke,
　　Of alle deyntees that men koude thynke,
　　After the sondry sesons of the yeer;
　　So chaunged he his mete and his soper.
　　Ful many a fat partrich hadde he in muwe,
　　And many a breem and many a luce in stuwe.
　　Wo was his cook but if his sauce were
　　Poynaunt and sharp, and redy al his geere.
　　His table dormant in his halle alway
　　Stood redy covered al the longe day.
　　At sessiouns ther was he lord and sire;
　　Ful ofte tyme he was knyght of the shire.
　　An anlaas, and a gipser al of silk,
　　Heeng at his girdel, whit as morne milk.
　　A shirreve hadde he been, and a countour;
　　Was nowher such a worthy vavasour.
　　
　　
　　An Haberdasshere, and a Carpenter,
　　A Webbe, a Dyere, and a Tapycer,—
　　And they were clothed alle in o lyveree
　　Of a solémpne and a greet fraternitee.
　　Ful fressh and newe hir geere apiked was;
　　Hir knyves were chaped noght with bras,
　　But al with silver; wroght ful clene and weel
　　Hire girdles and hir pouches everydeel.
　　Wel semed ech of hem a fair burgeys
　　To sitten in a yeldehalle, on a deys.
　　Éverich, for the wisdom that he kan,
　　Was shaply for to been an alderman;
　　For catel hadde they ynogh and rente,
　　And eek hir wyves wolde it wel assente,
　　And elles certeyn were they to blame.
　　It is ful fair to been y-cleped Madame,
　　And goon to vigilies al bifore,
　　And have a mantel roialliche y-bore.
　　
　　
　　A Cook they hadde with hem for the nones,
　　To boille the chiknes with the marybones,
　　And poudre-marchant tart, and galyngale.
　　Wel koude he knowe a draughte of Londoun ale.
　　He koude rooste, and sethe, and broille, and frye,
　　Máken mortreux, and wel bake a pye.
　　But greet harm was it, as it thoughte me,
　　That on his shyne a mormal hadde he;
　　For blankmanger, that made he with the beste.
　　
　　
　　A Shipman was ther, wonynge fer by weste;
　　For aught I woot he was of Dertemouthe.
　　He rood upon a rouncy, as he kouthe,
　　In a gowne of faldyng to the knee.
　　A daggere hangynge on a laas hadde he
　　Aboute his nekke, under his arm adoun.
　　The hoote somer hadde maad his hewe al broun;
　　And certeinly he was a good felawe.
　　Ful many a draughte of wyn hadde he y-drawe
　　Fro Burdeux-ward, whil that the chapman sleep.
　　Of nyce conscience took he no keep.
　　If that he faught and hadde the hyer hond,
　　By water he sente hem hoom to every lond.
　　But of his craft to rekene wel his tydes,
　　His stremes, and his daungers hym bisides,
　　His herberwe and his moone, his lode-menage,
　　Ther nas noon swich from Hulle to Cartage.
　　Hardy he was and wys to undertake;
　　With many a tempest hadde his berd been shake.
　　He knew alle the havenes, as they were,
　　From Gootlond to the Cape of Fynystere,
　　And every cryke in Britaigne and in Spayne.
　　His barge y-cleped was the Maudelayne.
　　
　　
　　With us ther was a Doctour of Phisik;
　　In all this world ne was ther noon hym lik,
　　To speke of phisik and of surgerye;
　　For he was grounded in astronomye.
　　He kepte his pacient a ful greet deel
　　In houres, by his magyk natureel.
　　Wel koude he fortunen the ascendent
　　Of his ymáges for his pacient.
　　He knew the cause of everich maladye,
　　Were it of hoot, or cold, or moyste, or drye,
　　And where they engendred and of what humour.
　　He was a verray, parfit praktisour;
　　The cause y-knowe, and of his harm the roote,
　　Anon he yaf the sike man his boote.
　　Ful redy hadde he his apothecaries
　　To sende him drogges and his letuaries;
　　For ech of hem made oother for to wynne,
　　Hir frendshipe nas nat newe to bigynne.
　　Wel knew he the olde Esculapius,
　　And De{"y}scorides, and eek Rufus,
　　Old Ypocras, Haly, and Galyen,
　　Serapion, Razis, and Avycen,
　　Averrois, Damascien, and Constantyn,
　　Bernard, and Gatesden, and Gilbertyn.
　　Of his diete mesurable was he,
　　For it was of no superfluitee,
　　But of greet norissyng and digestíble.
　　His studie was but litel on the Bible.
　　In sangwyn and in pers he clad was al,
　　Lyned with taffata and with sendal.
　　And yet he was but esy of dispence;
　　He kepte that he wan in pestilence.
　　For gold in phisik is a cordial;
　　Therfore he lovede gold in special.
　　
　　
　　A Good Wif was ther of biside Bathe,
　　But she was som-del deef, and that was scathe.
　　Of clooth-makyng she hadde swich an haunt
　　She passed hem of Ypres and of Gaunt.
　　In al the parisshe wif ne was ther noon
　　That to the offrynge bifore hire sholde goon;
　　And if ther dide, certeyn so wrooth was she
　　That she was out of alle charitee.
　　Hir coverchiefs ful fyne weren of ground;
　　I dorste swere they weyeden ten pound
　　That on a Sonday weren upon hir heed.
　　Hir hosen weren of fyn scarlet reed,
　　Ful streite y-teyd, and shoes ful moyste and newe.
　　Boold was hir face, and fair, and reed of hewe.
　　She was a worthy womman al hir lyve;
　　Housbondes at chirche dore she hadde fyve,
　　Withouten oother compaignye in youthe;
　　But ther-of nedeth nat to speke as nowthe.
　　And thries hadde she been at Jérusalem;
　　She hadde passed many a straunge strem;
　　At Rome she hadde been, and at Boloigne,
　　In Galice at Seint Jame, and at Coloigne.
　　She koude muchel of wandrynge by the weye.
　　Gat-tothed was she, soothly for to seye.
　　Upon an amblere esily she sat,
　　Y-wympled wel, and on hir heed an hat
　　As brood as is a bokeler or a targe;
　　A foot-mantel aboute hir hipes large,
　　And on hire feet a paire of spores sharpe.
　　In felaweshipe wel koude she laughe and carpe;
　　Of remedies of love she knew per chauncé,
　　For she koude of that art the olde daunce.
　　
　　
　　A good man was ther of religioun,
　　And was a povre Person of a Toun;
　　But riche he was of hooly thoght and werk.
　　He was also a lerned man, a clerk,
　　That Cristes Gospel trewely wolde preche;
　　His parisshens devoutly wolde he teche.
　　Benygne he was, and wonder diligent,
　　And in adversitee ful pacient;
　　And swich he was y-preved ofte sithes.
　　Ful looth were hym to cursen for his tithes,
　　But rather wolde he yeven, out of doute,
　　Unto his povre parisshens aboute,
　　Of his offrýng and eek of his substaunce;
　　He koude in litel thyng have suffisaunce.
　　Wyd was his parisshe, and houses fer asonder,
　　But he ne lafte nat, for reyn ne thonder,
　　In siknesse nor in meschief to visíte
　　The ferreste in his parisshe, muche and lite,
　　Upon his feet, and in his hand a staf.
　　This noble ensample to his sheep he yaf,
　　That first he wroghte and afterward he taughte.
　　Out of the gospel he tho wordes caughte;
　　And this figure he added eek therto,
　　That if gold ruste, what shal iren doo?
　　For if a preest be foul, on whom we truste,
　　No wonder is a lewed man to ruste;
　　And shame it is, if a prest take keep,
　　A shiten shepherde and a clene sheep.
　　Wel oghte a preest ensample for to yive
　　By his clennesse how that his sheep sholde lyve.
　　He sette nat his benefice to hyre
　　And leet his sheep encombred in the myre,
　　And ran to Londoun, unto Seinte Poules,
　　To seken hym a chaunterie for soules,
　　Or with a bretherhed to been withholde;
　　But dwelte at hoom and kepte wel his folde,
　　So that the wolf ne made it nat myscarie;
　　He was a shepherde, and noght a mercenarie.
　　And though he hooly were and vertuous,
　　He was to synful man nat despitous,
　　Ne of his speche daungerous ne digne,
　　But in his techyng díscreet and benygne.
　　To drawen folk to hevene by fairnesse,
　　By good ensample, this was his bisynesse.
　　But it were any persone obstinat,
　　What so he were, of heigh or lough estat,
　　Hym wolde he snybben sharply for the nonys.
　　A bettre preest I trowe that nowher noon ys.
　　He waited after no pompe and reverence,
　　Ne maked him a spiced conscience;
　　But Cristes loore and his apostles twelve
　　He taughte, but first he folwed it hymselve.
　　
　　
　　With hym ther was a Plowman, was his brother,
　　That hadde y-lad of dong ful many a fother;
　　A trewe swynkere and a good was he,
　　Lyvynge in pees and parfit charitee.
　　God loved he best, with al his hoole herte,
　　At alle tymes, thogh him gamed or smerte.
　　And thanne his neighebor right as hymselve.
　　He wolde thresshe, and therto dyke and delve,
　　For Cristes sake, for every povre wight,
　　Withouten hire, if it lay in his myght.
　　His tithes payede he ful faire and wel,
　　Bothe of his propre swynk and his catel.
　　In a tabard he rood upon a mere.
　　
　　
　　Ther was also a Reve and a Millere,
　　A Somnour and a Pardoner also,
　　A Maunciple, and myself,—ther were namo.
　　
　　
　　The Millere was a stout carl for the nones;
　　Ful byg he was of brawn and eek of bones.
　　That proved wel, for over-al, ther he cam,
　　At wrastlynge he wolde have alwey the ram.
　　He was short-sholdred, brood, a thikke knarre;
　　Ther nas no dore that he nolde heve of harre,
　　Or breke it at a rennyng with his heed.
　　His berd as any sowe or fox was reed,
　　And therto brood, as though it were a spade.
　　Upon the cop right of his nose he hade
　　A werte, and thereon stood a toft of herys,
　　Reed as the brustles of a sowes erys;
　　His nosethirles blake were and wyde.
　　A swerd and a bokeler bar he by his syde.
　　His mouth as greet was as a greet forneys;
　　He was a janglere and a goliardeys,
　　And that was moost of synne and harlotries.
　　Wel koude he stelen corn and tollen thries;
　　And yet he hadde a thombe of gold, pardee.
　　A whit cote and a blew hood wered he.
　　A baggepipe wel koude he blowe and sowne,
　　And therwithal he broghte us out of towne.
　　
　　
　　A gentil Maunciple was ther of a temple,
　　Of which achátours myghte take exemple
　　For to be wise in byynge of vitaille;
　　For, wheither that he payde or took by taille,
　　Algate he wayted so in his achaat
　　That he was ay biforn and in good staat.
　　Now is nat that of God a ful fair grace,
　　That swich a lewed mannes wit shal pace
　　The wisdom of an heep of lerned men?
　　Of maistres hadde he mo than thries ten,
　　That weren of lawe expert and curious,
　　Of whiche ther weren a duszeyne in that hous
　　Worthy to been stywardes of rente and lond
　　Of any lord that is in Engelond,
　　To maken hym lyve by his propre good,
　　In honour dettelees, but if he were wood,
　　Or lyve as scarsly as hym list desire;
　　And able for to helpen al a shire
　　In any caas that myghte falle or happe;
　　And yet this Manciple sette hir aller cappe
　　
　　
　　The Reve was a sclendre colerik man.
　　His berd was shave as ny as ever he kan;
　　His heer was by his erys round y-shorn;
　　His top was dokked lyk a preest biforn.
　　Ful longe were his legges and ful lene,
　　Y-lyk a staf, ther was no calf y-sene.
　　Wel koude he kepe a gerner and a bynne;
　　Ther was noon auditour koude on him wynne.
　　Wel wiste he, by the droghte and by the reyn,
　　The yeldynge of his seed and of his greyn.
　　His lordes sheep, his neet, his dayerye,
　　His swyn, his hors, his stoor, and his pultrye,
　　Was hoolly in this reves governyng;
　　And by his covenant yaf the rekenyng
　　Syn that his lord was twenty yeer of age;
　　There koude no man brynge hym in arrerage.
　　There nas baillif, ne hierde, nor oother hyne,
　　That he ne knew his sleighte and his covyne;
　　They were adrad of hym as of the deeth.
　　His wonyng was ful fair upon an heeth;
　　With grene trees shadwed was his place.
　　He koude bettre than his lord purchace;
　　Ful riche he was a-stored pryvely.
　　His lord wel koude he plesen subtilly,
　　To yeve and lene hym of his owene good,
　　And have a thank, and yet a cote and hood.
　　In youthe he hadde lerned a good myster;
　　He was a wel good wrighte, a carpenter.
　　This Reve sat upon a ful good stot,
　　That was al pomely grey, and highte Scot.
　　A long surcote of pers upon he hade,
　　And by his syde he baar a rusty blade.
　　Of Northfolk was this Reve of which I telle,
　　Biside a toun men clepen Baldeswelle.
　　Tukked he was as is a frere, aboute.
　　And evere he rood the hyndreste of oure route.
　　
　　
　　A Somonour was ther with us in that place,
　　That hadde a fyr-reed cherubynnes face,
　　For sawcefleem he was, with eyen narwe.
　　As hoot he was and lecherous as a sparwe,
　　With scaled browes blake and piled berd,—
　　Of his visage children were aferd.
　　Ther nas quyk-silver, lytarge, ne brymstoon,
　　Boras, ceruce, ne oille of tartre noon,
　　Ne oynement that wolde clense and byte,
　　That hym myghte helpen of his whelkes white,
　　Nor of the knobbes sittynge on his chekes.
　　Wel loved he garleek, oynons, and eek lekes,
　　And for to drynken strong wyn, reed as blood.
　　Thanne wolde he speke, and crie as he were wood.
　　And whan that he wel dronken hadde the wyn,
　　Than wolde he speke no word but Latyn.
　　A fewe termes hadde he, two or thre,
　　That he had lerned out of som decree,—
　　No wonder is, he herde it al the day;
　　And eek ye knowen wel how that a jay
　　Kan clepen "Watte" as wel as kan the pope.
　　But whoso koude in oother thyng hym grope,
　　Thanne hadde he spent al his philosophie;
　　Ay "Questio quid juris" wolde he crie.
　　He was a gentil harlot and a kynde;
　　A bettre felawe sholde men noght fynde.
　　He wolde suffre for a quart of wyn
　　A good felawe to have his concubyn
　　A twelf month, and excuse hym atte fulle;
　　And prively a fynch eek koude he pulle.
　　And if he foond owher a good felawe,
　　He wolde techen him to have noon awe,
　　In swich caas, of the erchedekenes curs,
　　But if a mannes soule were in his purs;
　　For in his purs he sholde y-punysshed be:
　　"Purs is the erchedekenes helle," seyde he.
　　But wel I woot he lyed right in dede.
　　Of cursyng oghte ech gilty man him drede,
　　For curs wol slee, right as assoillyng savith;
　　And also war him of a Significavit.
　　In daunger hadde he at his owene gise
　　The yonge girles of the diocise,
　　And knew hir conseil, and was al hir reed.
　　A gerland hadde he set upon his heed,
　　As greet as it were for an ale-stake;
　　A bokeleer hadde he maad him of a cake.
　　
　　
　　With hym ther rood a gentil Pardoner
　　Of Rouncivale, his freend and his compeer,
　　That streight was comen fro the court of Rome.
　　Ful loude he soong, "Com hider, love, to me!"
　　This Somonour bar to hym a stif burdoun;
　　Was nevere trompe of half so greet a soun.
　　This Pardoner hadde heer as yelow as wex,
　　But smothe it heeng as dooth a strike of flex;
　　By ounces henge his lokkes that he hadde,
　　And therwith he his shuldres overspradde.
　　But thynne it lay, by colpons, oon and oon;
　　But hood, for jolitee, wered he noon,
　　For it was trussed up in his walét.
　　Hym thoughte he rood al of the newe jet;
　　Dischevelee, save his cappe, he rood al bare.
　　Swiche glarynge eyen hadde he as an hare.
　　A vernycle hadde he sowed upon his cappe.
　　His walet lay biforn hym in his lappe,
　　Bret-ful of pardoun, comen from Rome al hoot.
　　A voys he hadde as smal as hath a goot.
　　No berd hadde he, ne nevere sholde have,
　　As smothe it was as it were late y-shave;
　　I trowe he were a geldyng or a mare.
　　But of his craft, fro Berwyk into Ware,
　　Ne was ther swich another pardoner;
　　For in his male he hadde a pilwe-beer,
　　Which that, he seyde, was Oure Lady veyl;
　　He seyde he hadde a gobet of the seyl
　　That Seinte Peter hadde, whan that he wente
　　Upon the see, til Jesu Crist hym hente.
　　He hadde a croys of latoun, ful of stones,
　　And in a glas he hadde pigges bones.
　　But with thise relikes, whan that he fond
　　A povre person dwellynge upon lond,
　　Upon a day he gat hym moore moneye
　　Than that the person gat in monthes tweye;
　　And thus with feyned flaterye and japes
　　He made the person and the peple his apes.
　　But trewely to tellen atte laste,
　　He was in chirche a noble ecclesiaste;
　　Wel koude he rede a lessoun or a storie,
　　But alderbest he song an offertorie;
　　For wel he wiste, whan that song was songe,
　　He moste preche, and wel affile his tonge
　　To wynne silver, as he ful wel koude;
　　Therefore he song the murierly and loude.
　　
　　
　　Now have I toold you shortly, in a clause,
　　Thestaat, tharray, the nombre, and eek the cause
　　Why that assembled was this compaignye
　　In Southwerk, at this gentil hostelrye
　　That highte the Tabard, faste by the Belle.
　　But now is tyme to yow for to telle
　　How that we baren us that ilke nyght,
　　Whan we were in that hostelrie alyght;
　　And after wol I telle of our viage
　　And al the remenaunt of oure pilgrimage.
　　
　　
　　But first, I pray yow, of youre curteisye,
　　That ye narette it nat my vileynye,
　　Thogh that I pleynly speke in this mateere,
　　To telle yow hir wordes and hir cheere,
　　Ne thogh I speke hir wordes proprely.
　　For this ye knowen al-so wel as I,
　　Whoso shal telle a tale after a man,
　　He moot reherce, as ny as evere he kan,
　　Everich a word, if it be in his charge,
　　Al speke he never so rudeliche and large;
　　Or ellis he moot telle his tale untrewe,
　　Or feyne thyng, or fynde wordes newe.
　　He may nat spare, althogh he were his brother;
　　He moot as wel seye o word as another.
　　Crist spak hymself ful brode in hooly writ,
　　And wel ye woot no vileynye is it.
　　Eek Plato seith, whoso kan hym rede,
　　"The wordes moote be cosyn to the dede."
　　
　　
　　Also I prey yow to foryeve it me,
　　Al have I nat set folk in hir degree
　　Heere in this tale, as that they sholde stonde;
　　My wit is short, ye may wel understonde.
　　
　　
　　Greet chiere made oure Hoost us everichon,
　　And to the soper sette he us anon,
　　And served us with vitaille at the beste:
　　Strong was the wyn and wel to drynke us leste.
　　
　　
　　A semely man Oure Hooste was with-alle
　　For to been a marchal in an halle.
　　A large man he was with eyen stepe,
　　A fairer burgeys was ther noon in Chepe;
　　Boold of his speche, and wys, and well y-taught,
　　And of manhod hym lakkede right naught.
　　Eek thereto he was right a myrie man,
　　And after soper pleyen he bigan,
　　And spak of myrthe amonges othere thynges,
　　Whan that we hadde maad our rekenynges;
　　And seyde thus: "Now, lordynges, trewely,
　　Ye been to me right welcome, hertely;
　　For by my trouthe, if that I shal nat lye,
　　I saugh nat this yeer so myrie a compaignye
　　At ones in this herberwe as is now.
　　Fayn wolde I doon yow myrthe, wiste I how;
　　And of a myrthe I am right now bythoght,
　　To doon yow ese, and it shal coste noght.
　　
　　
　　"Ye goon to Canterbury—God yow speede,
　　The blisful martir quite yow youre meede!
　　And wel I woot, as ye goon by the weye,
　　Ye shapen yow to talen and to pleye;
　　For trewely confort ne myrthe is noon
　　To ride by the weye doumb as a stoon;
　　And therfore wol I maken yow disport,
　　As I seyde erst, and doon yow som confort.
　　And if you liketh alle, by oon assent,
　　For to stonden at my juggement,
　　And for to werken as I shal yow seye,
　　To-morwe, whan ye riden by the weye,
　　Now, by my fader soule, that is deed,
　　But ye be myrie, I wol yeve yow myn heed!
　　Hoold up youre hond, withouten moore speche."
　　
　　
　　Oure conseil was nat longe for to seche;
　　Us thoughte it was noght worth to make it wys,
　　And graunted hym withouten moore avys,
　　And bad him seye his verdit, as hym leste.
　　
　　
　　"Lordynges," quod he, "now herkneth for the beste;
　　But taak it nought, I prey yow, in desdeyn;
　　This is the poynt, to speken short and pleyn,
　　That ech of yow, to shorte with oure weye
　　In this viage, shal telle tales tweye,
　　To Caunterbury-ward, I mene it so,
　　And homward he shal tellen othere two,
　　Of aventúres that whilom han bifalle.
　　And which of yow that bereth hym beste of alle,
　　That is to seyn, that telleth in this caas
　　Tales of best sentence and moost solaas,
　　Shal have a soper at oure aller cost,
　　Heere in this place, sittynge by this post,
　　Whan that we come agayn fro Caunterbury.
　　And, for to make yow the moore mury,
　　I wol myselven gladly with yow ryde,
　　Right at myn owene cost, and be youre gyde;
　　And whoso wole my juggement withseye
　　Shal paye al that we spenden by the weye.
　　And if ye vouche-sauf that it be so,
　　Tel me anon, withouten wordes mo,
　　And I wol erly shape me therfore."
　　
　　
　　This thyng was graunted, and oure othes swore
　　With ful glad herte, and preyden hym also
　　That he wolde vouche-sauf for to do so,
　　And that he wolde been oure governour,
　　And of our tales juge and réportour,
　　And sette a soper at a certeyn pris;
　　And we wol reuled been at his devys
　　In heigh and lough; and thus, by oon assent,
　　We been acorded to his juggement.
　　And therupon the wyn was fet anon;
　　We dronken, and to reste wente echon,
　　Withouten any lenger taryynge.
　　
　　
　　Amorwe, whan that day gan for to sprynge,
　　Up roos oure Hoost and was oure aller cok,
　　And gadrede us togidre alle in a flok;
　　And forth we riden, a litel moore than paas,
　　Unto the wateryng of Seint Thomas;
　　And there oure Hoost bigan his hors areste,
　　And seyde, "Lordynges, herkneth, if yow leste:
　　Ye woot youre foreward and I it yow recorde.
　　If even-song and morwe-song accorde,
　　Lat se now who shal telle the firste tale.
　　As ever mote I drynke wyn or ale,
　　Whoso be rebel to my juggement
　　Shal paye for all that by the wey is spent.
　　Now draweth cut, er that we ferrer twynne;
　　He which that hath the shorteste shal bigynne.
　　Sire Knyght," quod he, "my mayster and my lord
　　Now draweth cut, for that is myn accord.
　　Cometh neer," quod he, "my lady Prioresse.
　　And ye, sire Clerk, lat be your shamefastnesse,
　　Ne studieth noght. Ley hond to, every man."
　　
　　
　　Anon to drawen every wight bigan,
　　And, shortly for to tellen as it was,
　　Were it by áventúre, or sort, or cas,
　　The sothe is this, the cut fil to the Knyght,
　　Of which ful blithe and glad was every wyght;
　　And telle he moste his tale, as was resoun,
　　By foreward and by composicioun,
　　As ye han herd; what nedeth wordes mo?
　　And whan this goode man saugh that it was so,
　　As he that wys was and obedient
　　To kepe his foreward by his free assent,
　　He seyde, "Syn I shal bigynne the game,
　　What, welcome be the cut, a Goddes name!
　　Now lat us ryde, and herkneth what I seye."
　　And with that word we ryden forth oure weye;
　　And he bigan with right a myrie cheere
　　His tale anon, and seyde in this manére.

　　Ma dame, ye ben of al beaute shryne
　　As fer as cercled is the mapamonde;
　　For as the cristall glorious ye shyne,
　　And lyke ruby ben your chekys rounde.
　　Therwyth ye ben so mery and so iocunde
　　That at a reuell whan that I se you dance,
　　It is an oynement vnto my wounde,
　　Thoght ye to me ne do no daliance.
　　For thogh I wepe of teres ful a tyne,
　　Yet may that wo myn herte nat confounde;
　　Your semy voys that ye so small out twyne
　　Makyth my thoght in ioy and blys habounde.
　　So curtaysly I go, wyth loue bounde,
　　That to my self I sey, in my penaunce,
　　Suffyseth me to loue you, Rosemounde,
　　Thogh ye to me ne do no daliaunce.
　　Nas neuer pyk walwed in galauntyne
　　As I in loue am walwed and iwounde;
　　For whych ful ofte I of my self deuyne
　　That I am trew Tristam the secunde.
　　My loue may not refreyde nor affounde;
　　I brenne ay in an amorouse plesaunce.
　　Do what you lyst, I wyl your thral be founde,
　　Thogh ye to me ne do no daliance.

　　(excerpt)
　　
　　From Book I
　　
　　
　　And so bifel, whan comen was the tyme
　　Of Aperil, whan clothä is the mede
　　With newe grene, of lusty Veer the pryme,
　　And swote smellen floures white and rede,
　　In sondry wises shewed, as I rede,
　　The folk of Troie hir observaunces olde,
　　Palladiones feste for to holde.
　　
　　
　　And to the temple, in al hir beste wyse,
　　In general ther wente many a wight,
　　To herknen of Palladion the servyse;
　　And namely, so many a lusty knyght,
　　So many a lady fressh and mayden bright,
　　Ful wel arayed, both meste, mene, and leste,
　　Ye, bothe for the seson and the feste.
　　
　　
　　Among thise othere folk was Criseyda,
　　In widewes habit blak; but natheles,
　　Right as our firste lettre is now an A,
　　In beautee first so stood she, makeles;
　　Hire goodly lokyng gladed al the prees.
　　Nas nevere yet seyn thing to ben preysed derre,
　　Nor under cloude blak so bright a sterre
　　
　　
　　As was Criseyde, as folk seyde everichone
　　That hir bihelden in hir blake wede;
　　And yet she stood ful lowe and stille allone,
　　Byhynden other folk, in litel brede,
　　And neigh the dore, ay under shames drede,
　　Simple of atir and debonaire of chere,
　　With ful assured lokyng and manere.
　　
　　
　　This Troilus, as he was wont to gide
　　His yonge knyghtes, lad hem up and doun
　　In thilke large temple on every side,
　　Byholding ay the ladies of the town,
　　Now here, now there; for no devoc{.i}oun
　　Hadde he to non, to reven hym his reste,
　　But gan to preise and lakken whom hym leste.
　　
　　
　　And in his walk ful faste he gan to wayten
　　If knyght or squyer of his compaignie
　　Gan for to syke, or lete his eighen baiten
　　On any womman that he koude espye;
　　He wolde smyle, and holden it folye,
　　And seye him thus, "God woot, she slepeth softe
　　For love of the, whan thou turnest ful ofte!
　　
　　
　　"I have herd told, pardieux, of your lyvynge,
　　Ye loveres, and youre lewed observaunces,
　　And which a labour folk han in wynnynge
　　Of love, and in the kepyng which doutaunces;
　　And whan your preye is lost, woo and penaunces.
　　O veray fooles! nyce and blynde be ye!
　　Ther nys nat oon kan war by other be."
　　
　　
　　And with that word he gan cast up the browe,
　　Ascaunces, "Loo! is this naught wisely spoken?"
　　At which the god of love gan loken rowe
　　Right for despit, and shop for to ben wroken.
　　He kidde anoon his bowe nas naught broken;
　　For sodeynly he hitte him atte fulle;
　　And yet as proud a pekok kan he pulle!
　　
　　
　　O blynde world, O blynde entenc{.i}oun!
　　How often falleth al the effect contraire
　　Of surquidrie and foul presumpc{.i}oun;
　　For kaught is proud, and kaught is debonaire.
　　This Troilus is clomben on the staire,
　　And litel weneth that he moot descenden;
　　But al-day faileth thing that fooles wenden.
　　
　　
　　As proude Bayard gynneth for to skippe
　　Out of the wey, so pryketh hym his corn,
　　Til he a lasshe have of the longe whippe;
　　Than thynketh he, "Though I praunce al byforn
　　First in the trays, ful fat and newe shorn,
　　Yet am I but an hors, and horses lawe
　　I moot endure, and with my feres drawe."

　　(excerpt)
　　
　　From Book II
　　
　　
　　With this he took his leve, and hom he wente;
　　And lord, so he was glad and wel bygon!
　　Criseyde aroos, no lenger she ne stente,
　　But streght in-to hire closet wente anon,
　　And set hire doun as stylle as any ston,
　　And every word gan up and doun to wynde,
　　That he hadde seyd, as it com hire to mynde;
　　
　　
　　And wex somdel astoned in hire thought,
　　Right for the newe cas; but whan that she
　　Was ful avysed, tho fond she right nought
　　Of peril, why she ought afered be,
　　For man may love, of possibilite,
　　A womman so, his herte may to-breste,
　　And she naught love ayein, but-if hire leste.
　　
　　
　　But as she sat allone and thoughte thus,
　　Ascry aroos at scarmuch al with-oute,
　　And men cryde in the strete, "Se, Troilus
　　Hath right now put to flighte the Grekes route!"
　　With that gan al hire meynàfor to shoute,
　　"A! go we see; caste up the latis wyde;
　　For thorugh this strete he moot to paleys ryde;
　　
　　
　　"For other wey is fro the yate noon
　　Of Dardanus, ther opyn is the cheyne."
　　With that com he and al his folk anoon
　　An esy pas rydynge, in routes tweyne,
　　Right as his happy day was, sooth to seyne,
　　For which, men seyn, may nought distourbed be
　　That shal bityden of necessitee.
　　
　　
　　This Troilus sat on his baye steede,
　　Al armed, save his hed, ful richely,
　　And wownded was his hors, and gan to blede,
　　On whiche he rood a pas, ful softely,
　　But swych a knyghtly sighte, trewely,
　　As was on hym was nought, withouten faille,
　　To loke on Mars, that god is of bataille.
　　
　　
　　So lik a man of armes and a knyght
　　He was to seen, fulfilled of heigh prowesse;
　　For bothe he hadde a body and a myght
　　To doon that thing, as wel as hardynesse;
　　And eek to seen hym in his gere hym dresse,
　　So fressh, so yong, so weldy semed he,
　　It was an heven up-on hym for to see.
　　
　　
　　His helm to-hewen was in twenty places,
　　That by a tyssew heng, his bak byhynde;
　　His sheld to-dasshed was with swerdes and maces,
　　In which men myghte many an arwe fynde
　　That thirled hadde horn and nerf and rynde;
　　And ay the peple cryde, "Here cometh oure joye,
　　And, next his brother, holder up of Troye!"
　　
　　
　　For which he wex a litel reed for shame,
　　Whan he the peple up-on hym herde cryen,
　　That to byholde it was a noble game,
　　How sobreliche he caste doun his ÿen.
　　Cryseÿda gan al his chere aspien,
　　And leet it so softe yn hir herte synke,
　　That to hireself she seyde, "Who yaf me drynke?"
　　
　　
　　For of hire owen thought she wex al reed,
　　Remembryng hire right thus, "Lo, this is he
　　Which that myn uncle swerith he moot be deed,
　　But I on hym have mercy and pitee."
　　And with that thought, for pure ashamed, she
　　Gan in hir hed to pulle, and that as faste,
　　Whil he and all the peple forby paste.
　　
　　
　　And gan to caste and rollen up and doun
　　With-inne hir thought his excellent prowesse,
　　And his estat, and also his renown,
　　His wit, his shap, and eek his gentillesse;
　　But moost hir favour was, for his distresse
　　Was al for hire, and thoughte it was a routhe
　　To sleen swich oon, if that he mente trouthe.
　　
　　
　　Now myghte som envious jangle thus:
　　"This was a sodeyn love; how myght it be
　　That she so lightly loved Troilus
　　Right for the firste syghte; ye, pardÿ"
　　Now who-so seith so, mote he never ythá
　　For everything, a gynnyng hath it nede
　　Er al be wrought, with-outen any drede.
　　
　　
　　For I sey nought that she so sodeynly
　　Yaf hym hire love, but that she gan enclyne
　　To like him first, and I have told yow whi;
　　And after that, his manhod and his pyne
　　Made love with-inne hire herte for to myne,
　　For which, by proces and by good servyse,
　　He gat hire love, and in no sodeyn wyse.

Troilus and Criseyde: Book V

　　(excerpt)
　　
　　From Book V
　　
　　
　　The morwen com, and gostly for to speke,
　　This Diomede is come un-to Criseyde;
　　And shortly, lest that ye my tale breke,
　　So wel he for hym-selven spak and seyde,
　　That alle hire sikes soore adown he leyde.
　　And finaly, the sothe for to seyne,
　　He refte hir of the grete of al hire peyne.
　　
　　
　　And after this the storie telleth us
　　That she hym yaf the faire baye stede,
　　The which he ones wan of Troilus;
　　And ek a broche (and that was litel nede)
　　That Troilus was, she yaf this Diomede.
　　And ek, the bet from sorwe him to releve,
　　She made hym were a pencel of hire sleve.
　　
　　
　　I fynde ek in the stories elles-where,
　　Whan thorugh the body hurt was Diomede
　　Of Troilus, tho wepte she many a teere,
　　Whan that she saugh his wyde wowndes blede;
　　And that she took, to kepen hym, good hede;
　　And for to hele hym of his sorwes smerte,
　　Men seyn, I not, that she yaf hym hire herte.
　　
　　
　　But trewely, the storie telleth us,
　　Ther made nevere woman moore wo
　　Than she, whan that she falsed Troilus.
　　She seyde, "Allas! for now is clene a-go
　　My name of trouthe in love, for evere-mo!
　　For I have falsed oon the gentileste
　　That evere was, and oon the worthieste!
　　
　　
　　"Allas, of me, un-to the worldes ende,
　　Shal neyther been y-writen nor y-songe
　　No good word, for thise bokes wol me shende.
　　O, rolled shal I ben on many a tonge!
　　Thorugh-out the world my belle shal be ronge;
　　And wommen moost wol haten me of alle.
　　Allas, that swich a cas me sholde falle!
　　
　　
　　"Thei wol seyn, in as muche as in me is,
　　I have hem don dishonour, weylawey!
　　Al be I nat the firste that dide amys,
　　What helpeth that to don my blame awey?
　　But syn I see ther is no bettre way,
　　And that to late is now for me to rewe,
　　To Diomede algate I wol be trewe.
　　
　　
　　"But, Troilus, syn I no bettre may,
　　And syn that thus departen ye and I,
　　Yet prey I God, so yeve yow right good day,
　　As for the gentileste, trewely,
　　That evere I say, to serven feythfully,
　　And best kan ay his lady honour kepe;"—
　　And with that word she brast anon to wepe.
　　
　　
　　"And certes, yow ne haten shal I nevere;
　　And frendes love, that shal ye han of me,
　　And my good word, al sholde I lyven evere.
　　And, trewely, I wolde sory be
　　For to seen yow in adversitee.
　　And giltelees, I woot wel, I yow leve;
　　But al shal passe; and thus take I my leve."
　　
　　
　　But trewely, how longe it was bytwene,
　　That she forsok him for this Diomede,
　　Ther is non auctor telleth it, I wene.
　　Take every man now to his bokes heede;
　　He shal no terme fynden, out of drede.
　　For though that he bigan to wowe hire sone,
　　Er he hire wan, yet was ther more to doone.
　　
　　
　　Ne me ne list this sely womman chyde
　　Forther than the storye wol devyse.
　　Hire name, allas! is publisshed so wyde
　　That for hire gilt it oughte ynough suffise.
　　And if I myghte excuse hire any wyse,
　　For she so sory was for hire untrouthe,
　　I-wis, I wolde excuse hire yet for routhe.
　　
　　
　　Go, litel book, go, litel myn tragäye,
　　Ther God thi makere yet, er that he dye,
　　So sende myght to make in som comäye!
　　But litel book, no makyng thou nenvie,
　　But subgit be to alle poesye;
　　And kis the steppes, whereas thou seest pace
　　Virgile, Ovide, Omer, Lucan, and Stace.
　　
　　
　　And for ther is so gret diversitÍ
　　In Englissh and in writyng of oure tonge,
　　So prey I God that noon myswrite thee,
　　Ne thee mysmetre for defaute of tonge.
　　And red wher-so thou be, or elles songe,
　　That thow be understonde God I beseche!
　　But yet to purpos of my rather speche.—
　　
　　
　　The wrath, as I bigan yow for to seye,
　　Of Troilus, the Grekis boughten deere;
　　For thousandes his hondes maden deye,
　　As he that was with-outen any peere,
　　Save Ector, in his tyme, as I kan heere.
　　But weilaway, save only Goddes wille!
　　Despitously hym slough the fierse Achille.
　　
　　
　　And whan that he was slayn in this manòe,
　　His lighte goost ful blisfully is went
　　Up to the holownesse of the eighthe spere,
　　In convers letynge everich element;
　　And ther he saugh, with ful avysement,
　　The erratik sterres, herkenyng armonye
　　With sownes fulle of hevenyssh melodie.
　　
　　
　　And doun from thennes faste he gan avyse
　　This litel spot of erthe, that with the se
　　Embraced is, and fully gan despise
　　This wrecched world, and held al vanitÍ
　　To rópect of the pleyn felicitÍ
　　That is in hevene above; and at the laste,
　　Ther he was slayn, his lokyng doun he caste;
　　
　　
　　And in hym-self he lough right at the wo
　　Of hem that wepten for his deth so faste;
　　And dampned al oure werk that foloweth so
　　The blynde lust, the which that may not laste,
　　And sholden al our herte on heven caste.
　　And forth he wente, shortly for to telle,
　　Ther as Mercúrye sorted hym to dwelle.—
　　
　　
　　Swich fyn hath, lo, this Troilus for love,
　　Swich fyn hath al his grete worthynesse;
　　Swich fyn hath his estat reál above,
　　Swich fyn his lust, swich fyn hath his noblesse:
　　Swich fyn hath false worldes brotelnesse!
　　And thus bigan his lovyng of Criseyde,
　　As I have told, and in this wise he deyde.
　　
　　
　　O yonge fresshe folkes, he or she,
　　In which that love up groweth with your age,
　　Repeyreth hoom fro worldly vanytì
　　And of youre herte up-casteth the visage
　　To thilke God that after his ymage
　　Yow made, and thynketh al nys but a faire
　　This world, that passeth soone as floures faire.
　　
　　
　　And loveth hym, the which that right for love
　　Upon a crois, oure soules for to beye,
　　First starf, and roos, and sit in hevene above;
　　For he nyl falsen no wight, dar I seye,
　　That wol his herte al holly on him leye.
　　And sin he best to love is, and most meke,
　　What nedeth feynede loves for to seke?
　　
　　
　　Lo here, of payens corsed olde rites,
　　Lo here, what alle hir goddes may availle;
　　Lo here, thise wrecched worldes appetites;
　　Lo here, the fyn and guerdoun for travaille
　　Of Jove, Appollo, of Mars, of swich rascaille!
　　Lo here, the forme of olde clerkis speche
　　In poetrie, if ye hir bokes seche.—
　　
　　
　　O moral Gower, this book I directe
　　To the, and to the, philosophical Strode,
　　To vouchen sauf, ther nede is, to correcte,
　　Of youre benignitó and zeles goode.
　　And to that sothfast Crist, that starf on rode,
　　With al myn herte of mercy evere I preye;
　　And to the Lord right thus I speke and seye:
　　
　　
　　Thou oon, and two, and three, eterne on lyve,
　　That regnest ay in three, and two, and oon,
　　Uncircumscript, and al maist circumscrive,
　　Us from visible and invisible foon
　　Defende; and to thy mercy, everichon,
　　So make us, Jesus, for thi mercy digne,
　　For love of mayde and moder thyn benigne! Amen.

爱情十四行诗 I

　　幸福的书页啊，那双百合般的素手，
　　以致死的力量紧攫着我的生命，
　　将抚摸你，用爱的柔带把你牢扣，
　　像征服者面前的囚徒，你战战兢兢。
　　幸福的诗句啊，那双明亮的眼睛，
　　将时时像星光俯视来把你看望，
　　来探查我这濒死的灵魂的愁情，
　　我内心悲书中用泪水写下的忧伤。
　　幸福的韵律啊，你浸在赫利孔山上，
　　神圣的溪中，那里是她的来处，
　　你将会看到那天使快乐的目光，
　　我心中久缺的食粮，我天国的至福。
　　书页、诗句和韵律啊，去讨她喜欢，
　　倘若她高兴，其他人我一概不管。

　　Happy ye leaues when as those lilly hands,
　　which hold my life in their dead doing might
　　shall handle you and hold in loues soft bands,
　　lyke captiues trembling at the victors sight.
　　And happy lines, on which with starry light,
　　those lamping eyes will deigne sometimes to look
　　and reade the sorrowes of my dying spright,
　　written with teares in harts close bleeding book.
　　And happy rymes bath'd in the sacred brooke,
　　of Helicon whence she deriued is,
　　when ye behold that Angels blessed looke,
　　my soules long lacked foode, my heauens blis.
　　Leaues, lines, and rymes, seeke her to please alone,
　　whom if ye please, I care for other none.

爱情十四行诗 VI

　　丝毫别沮丧，虽然她无动于衷，
　　越是难，硬是不肯改变她倔强的傲慢：
　　这种爱和那卑劣的情欲不相同，
　　得到，就越是坚贞不变。
　　坚硬的橡树，树液还没有枯干，
　　要很久才能点燃起明亮的火苗：
　　而一旦燃烧起来，它就会发散
　　巨大的热力，使火焰直上九霄。
　　同样，也很难在温柔的胸中点着
　　新的热望，并能够永存不泯：
　　深深的创痛必打下内脏的印槽，
　　用死亡才能切断的纯洁热情。
　　因此，别总是指望不费心血，
　　就能编织出一个永存的同心结。

　　BE nought dismayd that her vnmoued mind,
　　doth still persist in her rebellious pride:
　　such loue not lyke to lusts of baser kynd,
　　the harder wonne, the firmer will abide.
　　The durefull Oake, whose sap is not yet dride,
　　is long ere it conceiue the kindling fyre:
　　but when it once doth burne, it doth diuide
　　great heat, and makes his flames to heauen aspire.
　　So hard it is to kindle new desire,
　　in gentle brest that shall endure for euer:
　　deepe is the wound, that dints the parts entire
　　with chast affects, that naught but death can seuer.
　　Then thinke not long in taking litle paine,
　　to knit the knot, that euer shall remaine.

爱情十四行诗 XXX

　　我的爱人像块冰，我像火一把；
　　那么，怎么会这样：她这块寒冰
　　竟不因我这火热的欲望而融化，
　　我越苦苦恳求她，反倒越坚硬？
　　又怎么会这样：我的极度热情
　　并没有被她冰冷的心肠所平息：
　　我反而热汗滚滚，烧得更起劲，
　　并感到我的火焰猛增不止？
　　还能讲什么比这更大的奇迹，
　　熔化一切的烈火竟使冰变坚：
　　而冰与麻木的冷漠凝结在一起，
　　通过奇妙的设计，竟把火点燃？
　　这就是高尚心灵中爱的力量，
　　它能够改变自然发展的方向。

　　MY loue is lyke to yse, and I to fyre;
　　how comes it then that this her cold so great
　　is not dissolu'd through my so hot desyre,
　　but harder growes the more I her intreat?
　　Or how comes it that my exceeding heat
　　is not delayd by her hart frosen cold:
　　but that I burne much more in boyling sweat,
　　and feel my flames augmented manifold?
　　What more miraculous thing may be told
　　that fire which all things melts, should harden yse:
　　and yse which is congeald with sencelesse cold,
　　should kindle fyre by wonderfull deuyse.
　　Such is the powre of loue in gentle mind,
　　that it can alter all the course of kynd.

爱情十四行诗 34

　　如同一只船驶在茫茫的海面，
　　凭靠某一颗星辰来为它导航，
　　当风暴把它可靠的向导遮暗，
　　它就会远离自己的航道飘荡：
　　我的星辰也常常用它的亮光
　　为我指路，现已被乌云笼罩，
　　我在深深的黑暗和苦闷中彷徨，
　　穿行于周围重重的险滩暗礁。
　　但是我希望，经过这一场风暴，
　　我的赫利刻，我那生命的北极星，
　　将重放光芒，最终把我来照耀，
　　用明丽的光辉驱散我忧郁的阴云。
　　在这以前，我忧心忡忡地徘徊，
　　独自儿暗暗地悲伤，愁思满怀。

　　Lyke as a ship that through the Ocean wyde,
　　by conduct of some star doth make her way.
　　whenas a storme hath dimd her trusty guyde.
　　out of her course doth wander far astray:
　　So I whose star, that wont with her bright ray,
　　me to direct, with cloudes is ouercast,
　　doe wander now in darknesse and dismay,
　　through hidden perils round about me plast.
　　Yet hope I well, that when this storme is past
　　My Helice the lodestar of my lyfe
　　will shine again, and looke on me at last,
　　with louely light to cleare my cloudy grief,
　　Till then I wander carefull comfortlesse,
　　in secret sorow and sad pensiuenesse.

爱情十四行诗45

　　小姐啊，不要去看水晶明镜里
　　你那美丽的自我，永远别去看：
　　在我的身上，我是说在我的心底，
　　来把你的栩栩如生的映像细瞻。
　　在我的内心，虽然它很难展现
　　世俗的眼睛看不见的神圣事物，
　　你那天国形体的美好理念，
　　每一部分都永存而不会腐朽。
　　倘若我心不是因你的残酷
　　悲伤得暗淡无光，变成了畸形，
　　那么你美好的映像，你秀丽的面目，
　　就在我心中清晰得胜过水晶。
　　你在我心中的自我，你若能看见，
　　那就请消除使你光辉变暗的根源。

　　LEaue lady, in your glasse of christall clene,
　　Your goodly selfe for euermore to vew:
　　and in my selfe, my inward selfe I meane,
　　most liuely lyke behold your semblant trew.
　　Within my hart, though hardly it can shew,
　　thing so diuine to vew of earthly eye:
　　the fayre Idea of your celestiall hew,
　　and euery part remaines immortally:
　　And were it not that through your cruelty,
　　with sorrow dimmed and deformd it were:
　　the goodly ymage of your visnomy,
　　clearer then christall would therein appere.
　　But if your selfe in me ye playne will see,
　　remoue the cause by which your fayre beames darkned be.

爱情十四行诗63

　　熬过了经久不息的风暴雨狂，
　　辛酸地勉强经受了痛苦的考验，
　　提心吊胆，害怕危险和死亡，
　　我驾着粗陋的小舟剧烈地颠簸：
　　终于，我看见那片幸福的海岸，
　　我希望能即刻抵达那幸福之处：
　　它遥望像是美丽的沃土，一片
　　丰饶的景象，蕴藏着可爱的宝物。
　　这样的人是最最快乐和幸福，
　　他终能安然地获得香甜的休息：
　　他这极小的愉快就足以消除
　　压抑着他的一切痛苦的回忆。
　　因此，所有的痛苦都微不足道，
　　获得永恒的幸福，便愁闷全消。

　　AFter long stormes and tempests sad assay,
　　Which hardly I endured heretofore:
　　in dread of death and daungerous dismay,
　　with which my silly barke was tossed sore.
　　I doe at length descry the happy shore,
　　in which I hope ere long for to arryue,
　　fayre soyle it seemes from far & fraught with store
　　of all that deare and daynty is alyue.
　　Most happy he that can at last atchyue,
　　the ioyous safety of so sweet a rest:
　　whose least delight sufficeth to depriue,
　　remembrance of all paines which him opprest.
　　All paines are nothing in respect of this,
　　all sorrowes short that gaine eternall blisse.

爱情十四行诗75

　　有一天，我把她名字写在沙滩，
　　但海浪来了，把那个名字冲跑；
　　我用手再一次把它写了一遍，
　　但潮水来了，把我的辛苦又吞掉。
　　“自负的人啊，”她说，“你这是徒劳，
　　妄想使世间凡俗的事物不朽；
　　我本身就会像这样云散烟消，
　　我的名字也同样会化为乌有。”
　　“不，”我说，“让低贱的东西去筹谋
　　死亡之路，但你将靠美名而永活：
　　我的诗将使你罕见的美德长留，
　　并把你光辉的名字写天国。
　　死亡可以征服整个的世界，
　　我们的爱将长存，生命永不灭。”

　　ONe day I wrote her name vpon the strand,
　　but came the waues and washed it a way:
　　agayne I wrote it with a second hand,
　　but came the tyde, and made my paynes his pray.
　　Vayne man, sayd she, that doest in vaine assay,
　　a mortall thing so to immortalize.
　　for I my selue shall lyke to this decay,
　　and eek my name bee wyped out lykewize.
　　Not so, (quod I) let baser things deuize,
　　to dy in dust, but you shall liue by fame:
　　my verse your vertues rare shall eternize,
　　and in the heuens wryte your glorious name.
　　Where whenas death shall all the world subdew,
　　our loue shall liue, and later life renew.

爱情十四行诗88

　　自从失去了那赐予安慰的光辉，
　　它常常指引我迷失方向的思想，
　　我就像徘徊在深夜，一团漆黑，
　　害怕每一种极小的凶兆险象。
　　任什么我都看不见，虽天清气朗，
　　别人在凝视着自己虚幻的影子：
　　我只能看见那天国光辉的映像，
　　它还有一丝闪光留在我眼里。
　　通过我最最清纯部分的冥想
　　我看见那闪光的映像，清晰鲜明；
　　我用它的光辉支撑着自己，
　　喂养我这颗因爱而饥渴的心灵。
　　我用这样的光盈满心田，
　　但却饿坏了身体，弄瞎了双眼。

　　SInce I haue lackt the comfort of that light,
　　The which was wont to lead my thoughts astray:
　　I wander as in darkenesse of the night,
　　affrayd of euery dangers least dismay.
　　Ne ought I see, though in the clearest day,
　　when others gaze vpon theyr shadowes vayne:
　　but th'onely image of that heauenly ray,
　　whereof some glance doth in mine eie remayne.
　　Of which beholding th'Idaea playne,
　　throgh contemplation of my purest part:
　　with light thereof I doe my selfe sustayne,
　　and thereon feed my loue-affamisht hart.
　　But with such brightnesse whylest I fill my mind,
　　I starue my body and mine eyes doe blynd.

爱情十四行诗88

爱情十四行诗89

　　如同那斑鸠栖在光秃的枝上，
　　悲叹着它的伴侣不在身边：
　　歌声里频传出誓愿，充满了渴望，
　　渴望它迟迟不归的伴侣回返；
　　我如今同样孤独，郁郁寡欢，
　　自个儿哀叹我爱人不在这里：
　　于是我四处游荡，影只形单，
　　怨诉着似与那悲伤的斑鸠相比：
　　天下没有任何令人欢愉的东西，
　　能把我安慰，除了她快乐的倩影：
　　她甜蜜的容颜能使人与神皆喜，
　　都对她纯洁的愉悦感到欢欣。
　　没有了她美丽的光辉，我白日黑黢黢，
　　缺少了这种至福，我生命便死去。

　　LYke as the Culuer on the bared bough,
　　Sits mourning for the absence of her mate;
　　and in her songs sends many a wishfull vew,
　　for his returne that seemes to linger late.
　　So I alone now left disconsolate,
　　mourne to my selfe the absence of my loue:
　　and wandring here and there all desolate,
　　seek with my playnts to match that mournful doue
　　Ne ioy of ought that vnder heauen doth houe,
　　can comfort me, but her owne ioyous sight:
　　whose sweet aspect both God and man can moue,
　　in her vnspotted pleasauns to delight.
　　Dark is my day, whyles her fayre light I mis,
　　and dead my life that wants such liuely blis.

莎士比亚 (William Shakespeare) 诗选

莎士比亚 (William Shakespeare) 诗选

　　十四行诗集
　　
　　
　　
　　献给下面刊行的十四行诗的
　　唯一的促成者
　　W.H.先生
　　祝他享有一切幸运，并希望
　　我们的永生的诗人
　　所预示的
　　不朽
　　得以实现。
　　对他怀着好意
　　并断然予以
　　出版的
　　T.T.
　　
　　
　　一
　　
　　对天生的尤物我们要求蕃盛，
　　以便美的玫瑰永远不会枯死，
　　但开透的花朵既要及时雕零，
　　就应把记忆交给娇嫩的后嗣；
　　但你，只和你自己的明眸定情，
　　把自己当燃料喂养眼中的火焰，
　　和自己作对，待自己未免太狠，
　　把一片丰沃的土地变成荒田。
　　你现在是大地的清新的点缀，
　　又是锦绣阳春的唯一的前锋，
　　为什么把富源葬送在嫩蕊里，
　　温柔的鄙夫，要吝啬，反而浪用？
　　　　可怜这个世界吧，要不然，贪夫，
　　　　就吞噬世界的份，由你和坟墓。
　　二
　　
　　当四十个冬天围攻你的朱颜，
　　在你美的园地挖下深的战壕，
　　你青春的华服，那么被人艳羡，
　　将成褴褛的败絮，谁也不要瞧：
　　那时人若问起你的美在何处，
　　哪里是你那少壮年华的宝藏，
　　你说，"在我这双深陷的眼眶里，
　　是贪婪的羞耻，和无益的颂扬。"
　　你的美的用途会更值得赞美，
　　如果你能够说，"我这宁馨小童
　　将总结我的账，宽恕我的老迈，"
　　证实他的美在继承你的血统！
　　　　这将使你在衰老的暮年更生，
　　　　并使你垂冷的血液感到重温。
　　三
　　
　　照照镜子，告诉你那镜中的脸庞，
　　说现在这庞儿应该另造一副；
　　如果你不赶快为它重修殿堂，
　　就欺骗世界，剥掉母亲的幸福。
　　因为哪里会有女人那么淑贞
　　她那处女的胎不愿被你耕种？
　　哪里有男人那么蠢，他竟甘心
　　做自己的坟墓，绝自己的血统？
　　你是你母亲的镜子，在你里面
　　她唤回她的盛年的芳菲四月：
　　同样，从你暮年的窗你将眺见--
　　纵皱纹满脸--你这黄金的岁月。
　　　　但是你活着若不愿被人惦记，
　　　　就独自死去，你的肖像和你一起。
　　四
　　
　　俊俏的浪子，为什么把你那份
　　美的遗产在你自己身上耗尽？
　　造化的馈赠非赐予，她只出赁；
　　她慷慨，只赁给宽宏大量的人。
　　那么，美丽的鄙夫，为什么滥用
　　那交给你转交给别人的厚礼？
　　赔本的高利贷者，为什么浪用
　　那么一笔大款，还不能过日子？
　　因为你既然只和自己做买卖，
　　就等于欺骗你那妩媚的自我。
　　这样，你将拿什么账目去交代，
　　当造化唤你回到她怀里长卧？
　　　　你未用过的美将同你进坟墓；
　　　　用呢，就活着去执行你的遗嘱。
　　五
　　
　　那些时辰曾经用轻盈的细工
　　织就这众目共注的可爱明眸，
　　终有天对它摆出魔王的面孔，
　　把绝代佳丽剁成龙锺的老丑：
　　因为不舍昼夜的时光把盛夏
　　带到狰狞的冬天去把它结果；
　　生机被严霜窒息，绿叶又全下，
　　白雪掩埋了美，满目是赤裸裸：
　　那时候如果夏天尚未经提炼，
　　让它凝成香露锁在玻璃瓶里，
　　美和美的流泽将一起被截断，
　　美，和美的记忆都无人再提起：
　　　　但提炼过的花，纵和冬天抗衡，
　　　　只失掉颜色，却永远吐着清芬。
　　六
　　
　　那么，别让冬天嶙峋的手抹掉
　　你的夏天，在你未经提炼之前：
　　熏香一些瓶子；把你美的财宝
　　藏在宝库里，趁它还未及消散。
　　这样的借贷并不是违禁取利，
　　既然它使那乐意纳息的高兴；
　　这是说你该为你另生一个你，
　　或者，一个生十，就十倍地幸运；
　　十倍你自己比你现在更快乐，
　　如果你有十个儿子来重现你：
　　这样，即使你长辞，死将奈你何，
　　既然你继续活在你的后裔里？
　　　　别任性：你那么标致，何必甘心
　　　　做死的胜利品，让蛆虫做子孙。
　　七
　　
　　看，当普照万物的太阳从东方
　　抬起了火红的头，下界的眼睛
　　都对他初升的景象表示敬仰，
　　用目光来恭候他神圣的驾临；
　　然后他既登上了苍穹的极峰，
　　像精力饱满的壮年，雄姿英发，
　　万民的眼睛依旧膜拜他的峥嵘，
　　紧紧追随着他那疾驰的金驾。
　　但当他，像耄年拖着尘倦的车轮，
　　从绝顶颤巍巍地离开了白天，
　　众目便一齐从他下沉的足印
　　移开它们那原来恭顺的视线。
　　　　同样，你的灿烂的日中一消逝，
　　　　你就会悄悄死去，如果没后嗣。
　　八
　　
　　我的音乐，为何听音乐会生悲？
　　甜蜜不相克，快乐使快乐欢笑。
　　为何爱那你不高兴爱的东西，
　　或者为何乐于接受你的烦恼？
　　如果悦耳的声音的完美和谐
　　和亲挚的协调会惹起你烦忧，
　　它们不过委婉地责备你不该
　　用独奏窒息你心中那部合奏。
　　试看这一根弦，另一根的良人，
　　怎样融洽地互相呼应和振荡；
　　宛如父亲、儿子和快活的母亲，
　　它们联成了一片，齐声在欢唱。
　　　　它们的无言之歌都异曲同工
　　　　对你唱着："你独身就一切皆空。"
　　九
　　
　　是否因为怕打湿你寡妇的眼，
　　你在独身生活里消磨你自己？
　　哦，如果你不幸无后离开人间，
　　世界就要哀哭你，像丧偶的妻。
　　世界将是你寡妇，她永远伤心
　　你生前没给她留下你的容貌；
　　其他的寡妇，靠儿女们的眼睛，
　　反能把良人的肖像在心里长保。
　　看吧，浪子在世上的种种浪费
　　只换了主人，世界仍然在享受；
　　但美的消耗在人间将有终尾：
　　留着不用，就等于任由它腐朽。
　　　　这样的心决不会对别人有爱，
　　　　既然它那么忍心把自己戕害。
　　一○
　　
　　羞呀，否认你并非不爱任何人，
　　对待你自己却那么欠缺绸缪。
　　承认，随你便，许多人对你钟情，
　　但说你并不爱谁，谁也要点头。
　　因为怨毒的杀机那么缠住你，
　　你不惜多方设计把自己戕害，
　　锐意摧残你那座峥嵘的殿宇，
　　你唯一念头却该是把它重盖。
　　哦，赶快回心吧，让我也好转意！
　　难道憎比温婉的爱反得处优？
　　你那么貌美，愿你也一样心慈，
　　否则至少对你自己也要温柔。
　　　　另造一个你吧，你若是真爱我，
　　　　让美在你儿子或你身上永活。
　　一一
　　
　　和你一样快地消沉，你的儿子，
　　也将一样快在世界生长起来；
　　你灌注给青春的这新鲜血液
　　仍将是你的，当青春把你抛开。
　　这里面活着智慧、美丽和昌盛；
　　没有这，便是愚蠢、衰老和腐朽：
　　人人都这样想，就要钟停漏尽，
　　六十年便足使世界化为乌有。
　　让那些人生来不配生育传宗，
　　粗鲁、丑陋和笨拙，无后地死去；
　　造化的至宠，她的馈赠也最丰，
　　该尽量爱惜她这慷慨的赐予：
　　　　她把你刻做她的印，意思是要
　　　　你多印几份，并非要毁掉原稿。
　　一二
　　
　　当我数着壁上报时的自鸣钟，
　　见明媚的白昼坠入狰狞的夜，
　　当我凝望着紫罗兰老了春容，
　　青丝的卷发遍洒着皑皑白雪；
　　当我看见参天的树枝叶尽脱，
　　它不久前曾荫蔽喘息的牛羊；
　　夏天的青翠一束一束地就缚，
　　带着坚挺的白须被舁上殓床；
　　于是我不禁为你的朱颜焦虑：
　　终有天你要加入时光的废堆，
　　既然美和芳菲都把自己抛弃，
　　眼看着别人生长自己却枯萎；
　　　　没什么抵挡得住时光的毒手，
　　　　除了生育，当他来要把你拘走。
　　一三
　　
　　哦，但愿你是你自己，但爱呀，你
　　终非你有，当你不再活在世上：
　　对这将临的日子你得要准备，
　　快交给别人你那俊秀的肖像。
　　这样，你所租赁的朱颜就永远
　　不会有满期；于是你又将变成
　　你自己，当你已经离开了人间，
　　既然你儿子保留着你的倩影。
　　谁肯让一座这样的华厦倾颓，
　　如果小心地看守便可以维护
　　它的光彩，去抵抗隆冬的狂吹
　　和那冷酷的死神无情的暴怒？
　　　　哦，除非是浪子；我爱呀，你知道
　　　　你有父亲；让你儿子也可自豪。
　　一四
　　
　　并非从星辰我采集我的推断；
　　可是我以为我也精通占星学，
　　但并非为了推算气运的通蹇，
　　以及饥荒、瘟疫或四时的风色；
　　我也不能为短促的时辰算命，
　　指出每个时辰的雷电和风雨，
　　或为国王占卜流年是否亨顺，
　　依据我常从上苍探得的天机。
　　我的术数只得自你那双明眸，
　　恒定的双星，它们预兆这吉祥：
　　只要你回心转意肯储蓄传后，
　　真和美将双双偕你永世其昌。
　　　　要不然关于你我将这样昭示：
　　　　你的末日也就是真和美的死。
　　一五
　　
　　当我默察一切活泼泼的生机
　　保持它们的芳菲都不过一瞬，
　　宇宙的舞台只搬弄一些把戏
　　被上苍的星宿在冥冥中牵引；
　　当我发觉人和草木一样蕃衍，
　　任同一的天把他鼓励和阻挠，
　　少壮时欣欣向荣，盛极又必反，
　　繁华和璀璨都被从记忆抹掉；
　　于是这一切奄忽浮生的征候
　　便把妙龄的你在我眼前呈列，
　　眼见残暴的时光与腐朽同谋，
　　要把你青春的白昼化作黑夜；
　　　　为了你的爱我将和时光争持：
　　　　他摧折你，我要把你重新接枝。
　　一六
　　
　　但是为什么不用更凶的法子
　　去抵抗这血淋淋的魔王--时光？
　　不用比我的枯笔吉利的武器，
　　去防御你的衰朽，把自己加强？
　　你现在站在黄金时辰的绝顶，
　　许多少女的花园，还未经播种，
　　贞洁地切盼你那绚烂的群英，
　　比你的画像更酷肖你的真容：
　　只有生命的线能把生命重描；
　　时光的画笔，或者我这枝弱管，
　　无论内心的美或外貌的姣好，
　　都不能使你在人们眼前活现。
　　　　献出你自己依然保有你自己，
　　　　而你得活着，靠你自己的妙笔。
　　一七
　　
　　未来的时代谁会相信我的诗，
　　如果它充满了你最高的美德？
　　虽然，天知道，它只是一座墓地
　　埋着你的生命和一半的本色。
　　如果我写得出你美目的流盼，
　　用清新的韵律细数你的秀妍，
　　未来的时代会说："这诗人撒谎：
　　这样的天姿哪里会落在人间！"
　　于是我的诗册，被岁月所熏黄，
　　就要被人藐视，像饶舌的老头；
　　你的真容被诬作诗人的疯狂，
　　以及一支古歌的夸张的节奏：
　　　　但那时你若有个儿子在人世，
　　　　你就活两次：在他身上，在诗里。
　　一八
　　
　　我怎么能够把你来比作夏天？
　　你不独比它可爱也比它温婉：
　　狂风把五月宠爱的嫩蕊作践，
　　夏天出赁的期限又未免太短：
　　天上的眼睛有时照得太酷烈，
　　它那炳耀的金颜又常遭掩蔽：
　　被机缘或无常的天道所摧折，
　　没有芳艳不终于雕残或销毁。
　　但是你的长夏永远不会雕落，
　　也不会损失你这皎洁的红芳，
　　或死神夸口你在他影里漂泊，
　　当你在不朽的诗里与时同长。
　　　　只要一天有人类，或人有眼睛，
　　　　这诗将长存，并且赐给你生命。
　　一九
　　
　　饕餮的时光，去磨钝雄狮的爪，
　　命大地吞噬自己宠爱的幼婴，
　　去猛虎的颚下把它利牙拔掉，
　　焚毁长寿的凤凰，灭绝它的种，
　　使季节在你飞逝时或悲或喜；
　　而且，捷足的时光，尽肆意地摧残
　　这大千世界和它易谢的芳菲；
　　只有这极恶大罪我禁止你犯：
　　哦，别把岁月刻在我爱的额上，
　　或用古老的铁笔乱画下皱纹：
　　在你的飞逝里不要把它弄脏，
　　好留给后世永作美丽的典型。
　　　　但，尽管猖狂，老时光，凭你多狠，
　　　　我的爱在我诗里将万古长青。
　　二○
　　
　　你有副女人的脸，由造化亲手
　　塑就，你，我热爱的情妇兼情郎；
　　有颗女人的温婉的心，但没有
　　反复和变幻，像女人的假心肠；
　　眼睛比她明媚，又不那么造作，
　　流盼把一切事物都镀上黄金；
　　绝世的美色，驾御着一切美色，
　　既使男人晕眩，又使女人震惊。
　　开头原是把你当女人来创造：
　　但造化塑造你时，不觉着了迷，
　　误加给你一件东西，这就剥掉
　　我的权利--这东西对我毫无意义。
　　　　但造化造你既专为女人愉快，
　　　　让我占有，而她们享受，你的爱。
　　
　　二一
　　
　　我的诗神①并不像那一位诗神
　　只知运用脂粉涂抹他的诗句，
　　连苍穹也要搬下来作妆饰品，
　　罗列每个佳丽去赞他的佳丽，
　　用种种浮夸的比喻作成对偶，
　　把他比太阳、月亮、海陆的瑰宝，
　　四月的鲜花，和这浩荡的宇宙
　　蕴藏在它的怀里的一切奇妙。
　　哦，让我既真心爱，就真心歌唱，
　　而且，相信我，我的爱可以媲美
　　任何母亲的儿子，虽然论明亮
　　比不上挂在天空的金色烛台。
　　　　谁喜欢空话，让他尽说个不穷；
　　　　我志不在出售，自用不着祷颂。
　　二二
　　
　　这镜子决不能使我相信我老，
　　只要大好韶华和你还是同年；
　　但当你脸上出现时光的深槽，
　　我就盼死神来了结我的天年。
　　因为那一切妆点着你的美丽
　　都不过是我内心的表面光彩；
　　我的心在你胸中跳动，正如你
　　在我的：那么，我怎会比你先衰？
　　哦，我的爱呵，请千万自己珍重，
　　像我珍重自己，乃为你，非为我。
　　怀抱着你的心，我将那么郑重，
　　像慈母防护着婴儿遭受病魔。
　　　　别侥幸独存，如果我的心先碎；
　　　　你把心交我，并非为把它收回。
　　二三
　　
　　仿佛舞台上初次演出的戏子
　　慌乱中竟忘记了自己的角色，
　　又像被触犯的野兽满腔怒气，
　　它那过猛的力量反使它胆怯；
　　同样，缺乏着冷静，我不觉忘掉
　　举行爱情的仪节的彬彬盛典，
　　被我爱情的过度重量所压倒，
　　在我自己的热爱中一息奄奄。
　　哦，请让我的诗篇做我的辩士，
　　替我把缠绵的衷曲默默诉说，
　　它为爱情申诉，并希求着赏赐，
　　多于那对你絮絮不休的狡舌：
　　　　请学会去读缄默的爱的情书，
　　　　用眼睛来听原属于爱的妙术。
　　二四
　　
　　我眼睛扮作画家，把你的肖像
　　描画在我的心版上，我的肉体
　　就是那嵌着你的姣颜的镜框，
　　而画家的无上的法宝是透视。
　　你要透过画家的巧妙去发见
　　那珍藏你的奕奕真容的地方；
　　它长挂在我胸内的画室中间，
　　你的眼睛却是画室的玻璃窗。
　　试看眼睛多么会帮眼睛的忙：
　　我的眼睛画你的像，你的却是
　　开向我胸中的窗，从那里太阳
　　喜欢去偷看那藏在里面的你。
　　　　可是眼睛的艺术终欠这高明：
　　　　它只能画外表，却不认识内心。
　　二五
　　
　　让那些人（他们既有吉星高照）
　　到处夸说他们的显位和高官，
　　至于我，命运拒绝我这种荣耀，
　　只暗中独自赏玩我心里所欢。
　　王公的宠臣舒展他们的金叶
　　不过像太阳眷顾下的金盏花，
　　他们的骄傲在自己身上消灭，
　　一蹙额便足雕谢他们的荣华。
　　转战沙场的名将不管多功高，
　　百战百胜后只要有一次失手，
　　便从功名册上被人一笔勾消，
　　毕生的勋劳只落得无声无臭：
　　　　那么，爱人又被爱，我多么幸福！
　　　　我既不会迁徙，又不怕被驱逐。
　　二六
　　
　　我爱情的至尊，你的美德已经
　　使我这藩属加强对你的拥戴，
　　我现在寄给你这诗当作使臣，
　　去向你述职，并非要向你炫才。
　　职责那么重，我又才拙少俊语，
　　难免要显得赤裸裸和她相见，
　　但望你的妙思，不嫌它太粗鄙，
　　在你灵魂里把它的赤裸裸遮掩；
　　因而不管什么星照引我前程，
　　都对我露出一副和悦的笑容，
　　把华服加给我这寒伧的爱情，
　　使我配得上你那缱绻的恩宠。
　　　　那时我才敢对你夸耀我的爱，
　　　　否则怕你考验我，总要躲起来。
　　二七
　　
　　精疲力竭，我赶快到床上躺下，
　　去歇息我那整天劳顿的四肢；
　　但马上我的头脑又整装出发，
　　以劳我的心，当我身已得休息。
　　因为我的思想，不辞离乡背井，
　　虔诚地趱程要到你那里进香，
　　睁大我这双沉沉欲睡的眼睛，
　　向着瞎子看得见的黑暗凝望；
　　不过我的灵魂，凭着它的幻眼，
　　把你的倩影献给我失明的双眸，
　　像颗明珠在阴森的夜里高悬，
　　变老丑的黑夜为明丽的白昼。
　　　　这样，日里我的腿，夜里我的心，
　　　　为你、为我自己，都得不着安宁。
　　二八
　　
　　那么，我怎么能够喜洋洋归来，
　　既然得不着片刻身心的安息？
　　当白天的压逼入夜并不稍衰，
　　只是夜继日、日又继夜地压逼？
　　日和夜平时虽事事各不相下，
　　却互相携手来把我轮流挫折，
　　一个用跋涉，一个却呶呶怒骂，
　　说我离开你更远，虽整天跋涉。
　　为讨好白天，我告它你是光明，
　　在阴云密布时你将把它映照。
　　我又这样说去讨黑夜的欢心：
　　当星星不眨眼，你将为它闪耀。
　　　　但天天白天尽拖长我的苦痛，
　　　　夜夜黑夜又使我的忧思转凶。
　　二九
　　
　　当我受尽命运和人们的白眼，
　　暗暗地哀悼自己的身世飘零，
　　徒用呼吁去干扰聋瞆的昊天，
　　顾盼着身影，诅咒自己的生辰，
　　愿我和另一个一样富于希望，
　　面貌相似，又和他一样广交游，
　　希求这人的渊博，那人的内行，
　　最赏心的乐事觉得最不对头；
　　可是，当我正要这样看轻自己，
　　忽然想起了你，于是我的精神，
　　便像云雀破晓从阴霾的大地
　　振翮上升，高唱着圣歌在天门：
　　　　一想起你的爱使我那么富有，
　　　　和帝王换位我也不屑于屈就。
　　三○
　　
　　当我传唤对已往事物的记忆
　　出庭于那馨香的默想的公堂，
　　我不禁为命中许多缺陷叹息，
　　带着旧恨，重新哭蹉跎的时光；
　　于是我可以淹没那枯涸的眼，
　　为了那些长埋在夜台的亲朋，
　　哀悼着许多音容俱渺的美艳，
　　痛哭那情爱久已勾消的哀痛：
　　于是我为过去的惆怅而惆怅，
　　并且一一细算，从痛苦到痛苦，
　　那许多呜咽过的呜咽的旧账，
　　仿佛还未付过，现在又来偿付。
　　　　但是只要那刻我想起你，挚友，
　　　　损失全收回，悲哀也化为乌有。
　　三一
　　
　　你的胸怀有了那些心而越可亲
　　（它们的消逝我只道已经死去）；
　　原来爱，和爱的一切可爱部分，
　　和埋掉的友谊都在你怀里藏住。
　　多少为哀思而流的圣洁泪珠
　　那虔诚的爱曾从我眼睛偷取
　　去祭奠死者！我现在才恍然大悟
　　他们只离开我去住在你的心里。
　　你是座收藏已往恩情的芳塚，
　　满挂着死去的情人的纪念牌，
　　他们把我的馈赠尽向你呈贡，
　　你独自享受许多人应得的爱。
　　　　在你身上我瞥见他们的倩影，
　　　　而你，他们的总和，尽有我的心。
　　三二
　　
　　倘你活过我踌躇满志的大限，
　　当鄙夫"死神"用黄土把我掩埋，
　　偶然重翻这拙劣可怜的诗卷，
　　你情人生前写来献给你的爱，
　　把它和当代俊逸的新诗相比，
　　发觉它的词笔处处都不如人，
　　请保留它专为我的爱，而不是
　　为那被幸运的天才凌驾的韵。
　　哦，那时候就请赐给我这爱思：
　　"要是我朋友的诗神与时同长，
　　他的爱就会带来更美的产儿，
　　可和这世纪任何杰作同俯仰：
　　　　但他既死去，诗人们又都迈进，
　　　　我读他们的文采，却读他的心。"
　　三三
　　
　　多少次我曾看见灿烂的朝阳
　　用他那至尊的眼媚悦着山顶，
　　金色的脸庞吻着青碧的草场，
　　把黯淡的溪水镀成一片黄金：
　　然后蓦地任那最卑贱的云彩
　　带着黑影驰过他神圣的霁颜，
　　把他从这凄凉的世界藏起来，
　　偷移向西方去掩埋他的污点；
　　同样，我的太阳曾在一个清朝
　　带着辉煌的光华临照我前额；
　　但是唉！他只一刻是我的荣耀，
　　下界的乌云已把他和我遮隔。
　　　　我的爱却并不因此把他鄙贱，
　　　　天上的太阳有瑕疵，何况人间！
　　三四
　　
　　为什么预告那么璀璨的日子，
　　哄我不携带大衣便出来游行，
　　让鄙贱的乌云中途把我侵袭，
　　用臭腐的烟雾遮蔽你的光明？
　　你以为现在冲破乌云来晒干
　　我脸上淋漓的雨点便已满足？
　　须知无人会赞美这样的药丹：
　　只能医治创伤，但洗不了耻辱。
　　你的愧赧也无补于我的心疼；
　　你虽已忏悔，我依然不免损失：
　　对于背着耻辱的十字架的人，
　　冒犯者引咎只是微弱的慰藉。
　　　　唉，但你的爱所流的泪是明珠，
　　　　它们的富丽够赎你的罪有余。
　　三五
　　
　　别再为你冒犯我的行为痛苦：
　　玫瑰花有刺，银色的泉有烂泥，
　　乌云和蚀把太阳和月亮玷污，
　　可恶的毛虫把香的嫩蕊盘据。
　　每个人都有错，我就犯了这点：
　　运用种种比喻来解释你的恶，
　　弄脏我自己来洗涤你的罪愆，
　　赦免你那无可赦免的大错过。
　　因为对你的败行我加以谅解--
　　你的原告变成了你的辩护士--
　　我对你起诉，反而把自己出卖：
　　爱和憎老在我心中互相排挤，
　　　　以致我不得不变成你的助手
　　　　去帮你劫夺我，你，温柔的小偷！
　　三六
　　
　　让我承认我们俩一定要分离，
　　尽管我们那分不开的爱是一体：
　　这样，许多留在我身上的瑕疵，
　　将不用你分担，由我独自承起。
　　你我的相爱全出于一片至诚，
　　尽管不同的生活把我们隔开，
　　这纵然改变不了爱情的真纯，
　　却偷掉许多密约佳期的欢快。
　　我再也不会高声认你做知己，
　　生怕我可哀的罪过使你含垢，
　　你也不能再当众把我来赞美，
　　除非你甘心使你的名字蒙羞。
　　　　可别这样做；我既然这样爱你，
　　　　你是我的，我的荣光也属于你。
　　三七
　　
　　像一个衰老的父亲高兴去看
　　活泼的儿子表演青春的伎俩，
　　同样，我，受了命运的恶毒摧残，
　　从你的精诚和美德找到力量。
　　因为，无论美、门第、财富或才华，
　　或这一切，或其一，或多于这一切，
　　在你身上登峰造极，我都把
　　我的爱在你这个宝藏上嫁接。
　　那么，我并不残废、贫穷、被轻藐，
　　既然这种种幻影都那么充实，
　　使我从你的富裕得满足，并倚靠
　　你的光荣的一部分安然度日。
　　　　看，生命的至宝，我暗祝你尽有：
　　　　既有这心愿，我便十倍地无忧。
　　三八
　　
　　我的诗神怎么会找不到诗料，
　　当你还呼吸着，灌注给我的诗哦，
　　感谢你自己吧，如果我诗中
　　有值得一读的献给你的目光：
　　哪里有哑巴，写到你，不善祷颂--
　　既然是你自己照亮他的想象？
　　做第十位艺神吧，你要比凡夫
　　所祈求的古代九位高明得多；
　　有谁向你呼吁，就让他献出
　　一些可以传久远的不朽诗歌。
　　　　我卑微的诗神如可取悦于世，
　　　　痛苦属于我，所有赞美全归你。
　　三九
　　
　　哦，我怎能不越礼地把你歌颂，
　　当我的最优美部分全属于你？
　　赞美我自己对我自己有何用？
　　赞美你岂不等于赞美我自己？
　　就是为这点我们也得要分手，
　　使我们的爱名义上各自独处，
　　以便我可以，在这样分离之后，
　　把你该独得的赞美全部献出。
　　别离呵！你会给我多大的痛创，
　　倘若你辛酸的闲暇不批准我
　　拿出甜蜜的情思来款待时光，
　　用甜言把时光和相思蒙混过--
　　　　如果你不教我怎样化一为二，
　　　　使我在这里赞美远方的人儿！
　　四○
　　
　　夺掉我的爱，爱呵，请通通夺去；
　　看看比你已有的能多些什么？
　　没什么，爱呵，称得上真情实义；
　　我所爱早属你，纵使不添这个。
　　那么，你为爱我而接受我所爱，
　　我不能对你这享受加以责备；
　　但得受责备，若甘心自我欺绐，
　　你故意贪尝不愿接受的东西。
　　我可以原谅你的掠夺，温柔贼，
　　虽然你把我仅有的通通偷走；
　　可是，忍受爱情的暗算，爱晓得，
　　比憎恨的明伤是更大的烦忧。
　　　　风流的妩媚，连你的恶也妩媚，
　　　　尽管毒杀我，我们可别相仇视。
　　
　　四一
　　
　　你那放荡不羁所犯的风流罪
　　（当我有时候远远离开你的心）
　　与你的美貌和青春那么相配，
　　无论到哪里，诱惑都把你追寻。
　　你那么温文，谁不想把你夺取？
　　那么姣好，又怎么不被人围攻？
　　而当女人追求，凡女人的儿子
　　谁能坚苦挣扎，不向她怀里送？
　　唉！但你总不必把我的位儿占，
　　并斥责你的美丽和青春的迷惑：
　　它们引你去犯那么大的狂乱，
　　使你不得不撕毁了两重誓约：
　　　　她的，因为你的美诱她去就你；
　　　　你的，因为你的美对我失信义。
　　四二
　　
　　你占有她，并非我最大的哀愁，
　　可是我对她的爱不能说不深；
　　她占有你，才是我主要的烦忧，
　　这爱情的损失更能使我伤心。
　　爱的冒犯者，我这样原谅你们：
　　你所以爱她，因为晓得我爱她；
　　也是为我的原故她把我欺瞒，
　　让我的朋友替我殷勤款待她。
　　失掉你，我所失是我情人所获，
　　失掉她，我朋友却找着我所失；
　　你俩互相找着，而我失掉两个，
　　两个都为我的原故把我磨折：
　　　　但这就是快乐：你和我是一体；
　　　　甜蜜的阿谀！她却只爱我自己。
　　四三
　　
　　我眼睛闭得最紧，看得最明亮：
　　它们整天只看见无味的东西；
　　而当我入睡，梦中却向你凝望，
　　幽暗的火焰，暗地里放射幽辉。
　　你的影子既能教黑影放光明，
　　对闭上的眼照耀得那么辉煌，
　　你影子的形会形成怎样的美景，
　　在清明的白天里用更清明的光！
　　我的眼睛，我说，会感到多幸运
　　若能够凝望你在光天化日中，
　　既然在死夜里你那不完全的影
　　对酣睡中闭着的眼透出光容！
　　　　天天都是黑夜一直到看见你，
　　　　夜夜是白天当好梦把你显示！
　　四四
　　
　　假如我这笨拙的体质是思想，
　　不做美的距离就不能阻止我，
　　因为我就会从那迢迢的远方，
　　无论多隔绝，被带到你的寓所。
　　那么，纵使我的腿站在那离你
　　最远的天涯，对我有什么妨碍？
　　空灵的思想无论想到达哪里，
　　它立刻可以飞越崇山和大海。
　　但是唉，这思想毒杀我：我并非思想，
　　能飞越辽远的万里当你去后；
　　而只是满盛着泥水的钝皮囊，
　　就只好用悲泣去把时光伺候；
　　　　这两种重浊的元素毫无所赐
　　　　除了眼泪，二者的苦恼的标志。
　　四五
　　
　　其余两种，轻清的风，净化的火，
　　一个是我的思想，一个是欲望，
　　都是和你一起，无论我居何所；
　　它们又在又不在，神速地来往。
　　因为，当这两种较轻快的元素
　　带着爱情的温柔使命去见你，
　　我的生命，本赋有四大，只守住
　　两个，就不胜其忧郁，奄奄待毙；
　　直到生命的结合得完全恢复
　　由于这两个敏捷使者的来归。
　　它们现正从你那里回来，欣悉
　　你起居康吉，在向我欣欣告慰。
　　　　说完了，我乐，可是并不很长久，
　　　　我打发它们回去，马上又发愁。
　　四六
　　
　　我的眼和我的心在作殊死战，
　　怎样去把你姣好的容貌分赃；
　　眼儿要把心和你的形象隔断，
　　心儿又不甘愿把这权利相让。
　　心儿声称你在它的深处潜隐，
　　从没有明眸闯得进它的宝箱；
　　被告却把这申辩坚决地否认，
　　说是你的倩影在它里面珍藏。
　　为解决这悬案就不得不邀请
　　我心里所有的住户--思想--协商；
　　它们的共同的判词终于决定
　　明眸和亲挚的心应得的分量
　　　　如下：你的仪表属于我的眼睛，
　　　　而我的心占有你心里的爱情。
　　四七
　　
　　现在我的眼和心缔结了同盟，
　　为的是互相帮忙和互相救济：
　　当眼儿渴望要一见你的尊容，
　　或痴情的心快要给叹气窒息，
　　眼儿就把你的画像大摆筵桌，
　　邀请心去参加这图画的盛宴；
　　有时候眼睛又是心的座上客，
　　去把它缱绻的情思平均分沾：
　　这样，或靠你的像或我的依恋，
　　你本人虽远离还是和我在一起；
　　你不能比我的情思走得更远，
　　我老跟着它们，它们又跟着你；
　　　　或者，它们倘睡着，我眼中的像
　　　　就把心唤醒，使心和眼都舒畅。
　　四八
　　
　　我是多么小心，在未上路之前，
　　为了留以备用，把琐碎的事物
　　一一锁在箱子里，使得到保险，
　　不致被一些奸诈的手所亵渎！
　　但你，比起你来珠宝也成废品，
　　你，我最亲最好和唯一的牵挂，
　　无上的慰安（现在是最大的伤心）
　　却留下来让每个扒手任意拿。
　　我没有把你锁进任何保险箱，
　　除了你不在的地方，而我觉得
　　你在，那就是我的温暖的心房，
　　从那里你可以随便进进出出；
　　　　就是在那里我还怕你被偷走：
　　　　看见这样珍宝，忠诚也变扒手。
　　四九
　　
　　为抵抗那一天，要是终有那一天，
　　当我看见你对我的缺点蹙额，
　　当你的爱已花完最后一文钱，
　　被周详的顾虑催去清算账目；
　　为抵抗那一天，当你像生客走过，
　　不用那太阳--你眼睛--向我致候，
　　当爱情，已改变了面目，要搜罗
　　种种必须决绝的庄重的理由；
　　为抵抗那一天我就躲在这里，
　　在对自己的恰当评价内安身，
　　并且高举我这只手当众宣誓，
　　为你的种种合法的理由保证：
　　　　抛弃可怜的我，你有法律保障，
　　　　既然为什么爱，我无理由可讲。
　　五○
　　
　　多么沉重地我在旅途上跋涉，
　　当我的目的地（我倦旅的终点）
　　唆使安逸和休憩这样对我说：
　　"你又离开了你的朋友那么远！"
　　那驮我的畜牲，经不起我的忧厄，
　　驮着我心里的重负慢慢地走，
　　仿佛这畜牲凭某种本能晓得
　　它主人不爱快，因为离你远游：
　　有时恼怒用那血淋淋的靴钉
　　猛刺它的皮，也不能把它催促；
　　它只是沉重地报以一声呻吟，
　　对于我，比刺它的靴钉还要残酷，
　　　　因为这呻吟使我省悟和熟筹：
　　　　我的忧愁在前面，快乐在后头。
　　五一
　　
　　这样，我的爱就可原谅那笨兽
　　（当我离开你），不嫌它走得太慢：
　　从你所在地我何必匆匆跑走？
　　除非是归来，绝对不用把路赶。
　　那时可怜的畜牲怎会得宽容，
　　当极端的迅速还要显得迟钝？
　　那时我就要猛刺，纵使在御风，
　　如飞的速度我只觉得是停顿：
　　那时就没有马能和欲望齐驱；
　　因此，欲望，由最理想的爱构成，
　　就引颈长嘶，当它火似地飞驰；
　　但爱，为了爱，将这样饶恕那畜牲：
　　　　既然别你的时候它有意慢走，
　　　　归途我就下来跑，让它得自由。
　　五二
　　
　　我像那富翁，他那幸运的钥匙
　　能把他带到他的心爱的宝藏，
　　可是他并不愿时常把它启视，
　　以免磨钝那难得的锐利的快感。
　　所以过节是那么庄严和希有，
　　因为在一年中仅疏疏地来临，
　　就像宝石在首饰上稀稀嵌就，
　　或大颗的珍珠在璎珞上晶莹。
　　同样，那保存你的时光就好像
　　我的宝箱，或装着华服的衣橱，
　　以便偶一重展那被囚的宝光，
　　使一些幸福的良辰分外幸福。
　　　　你真运气，你的美德能够使人
　　　　有你，喜洋洋，你不在，不胜憧憬。
　　五三
　　
　　你的本质是什么，用什么造成，
　　使得万千个倩影都追随着你？
　　每人都只有一个，每人，一个影；
　　你一人，却能幻作千万个影子。
　　试为阿都尼写生，他的画像
　　不过是模仿你的拙劣的赝品；
　　尽量把美容术施在海伦颊上，
　　便是你披上希腊妆的新的真身。
　　一提起春的明媚和秋的丰饶，
　　一个把你的绰约的倩影显示，
　　另一个却是你的慷慨的写照；
　　一切天生的俊秀都蕴含着你。
　　　　一切外界的妩媚都有你的份，
　　　　但谁都没有你那颗坚贞的心。
　　五四
　　
　　哦，美看起来要更美得多少倍，
　　若再有真加给它温馨的装潢！
　　玫瑰花很美，但我们觉得它更美，
　　因为它吐出一缕甜蜜的芳香。
　　野蔷薇的姿色也是同样旖旎，
　　比起玫瑰的芳馥四溢的姣颜，
　　同挂在树上，同样会搔首弄姿，
　　当夏天呼息使它的嫩蕊轻展：
　　但它们唯一的美德只在色相，
　　开时无人眷恋，萎谢也无人理；
　　寂寞地死去。香的玫瑰却两样；
　　她那温馨的死可以酿成香液：
　　　　你也如此，美丽而可爱的青春，
　　　　当韶华雕谢，诗提取你的纯精。
　　五五
　　
　　没有云石或王公们金的墓碑
　　能够和我这些强劲的诗比寿；
　　你将永远闪耀于这些诗篇里，
　　远胜过那被时光涂脏的石头。
　　当着残暴的战争把铜像推翻，
　　或内讧把城池荡成一片废墟，
　　无论战神的剑或战争的烈焰
　　都毁不掉你的遗芳的活历史。
　　突破死亡和湮没一切的仇恨，
　　你将昂然站起来：对你的赞美
　　将在万世万代的眼睛里彪炳，
　　直到这世界消耗完了的末日。
　　　　这样，直到最后审判把你唤醒，
　　　　你长在诗里和情人眼里辉映。
　　五六
　　
　　温柔的爱，恢复你的劲：别被说
　　你的刀锋赶不上食欲那样快，
　　食欲只今天饱餐后暂觉满足，
　　到明天又照旧一样饕餐起来：
　　愿你，爱呵，也一样：你那双饿眼
　　尽管今天已饱看到腻得直眨，
　　明天还得看，别让长期的瘫痪
　　把那爱情的精灵活生生窒煞：
　　让这凄凉的间歇恰像那隔断
　　两岸的海洋，那里一对情侣
　　每天到岸边相会，当他们看见
　　爱的来归，心里感到加倍欢愉；
　　　　否则，唤它做冬天，充满了忧悒，
　　　　使夏至三倍受欢迎，三倍希奇。
　　五七
　　
　　既然是你奴隶，我有什么可做，
　　除了时时刻刻伺候你的心愿？
　　我毫无宝贵的时间可消磨，
　　也无事可做，直到你有所驱遣。
　　我不敢骂那绵绵无尽的时刻，
　　当我为你，主人，把时辰来看守；
　　也不敢埋怨别离是多么残酷，
　　在你已经把你的仆人辞退后；
　　也不敢用妒忌的念头去探索
　　你究竟在哪里，或者为什么忙碌，
　　只是，像个可怜的奴隶，呆想着
　　你所在的地方，人们会多幸福。
　　　　爱这呆子是那么无救药的呆
　　　　凭你为所欲为，他都不觉得坏。
　　五八
　　
　　那使我做你奴隶的神不容我，
　　如果我要管制你行乐的时光，
　　或者清算你怎样把日子消磨，
　　既然是奴隶，就得听从你放浪：
　　让我忍受，既然什么都得依你，
　　你那自由的离弃（于我是监牢）；
　　让忍耐，惯了，接受每一次申斥，
　　绝不会埋怨你对我损害分毫。
　　无论你高兴到哪里，你那契约
　　那么有效，你自有绝对的主权
　　去支配你的时间；你犯的罪过
　　你也有主权随意把自己赦免。
　　　　我只能等待，虽然等待是地狱，
　　　　不责备你行乐，任它是善或恶。
　　五九
　　
　　如果天下无新事，现在的种种
　　从前都有过，我们的头脑多上当，
　　当它苦心要创造，却怀孕成功
　　一个前代有过的婴孩的重担！
　　哦，但愿历史能用回溯的眼光
　　（纵使太阳已经运行了五百周），
　　在古书里对我显示你的肖像，
　　自从心灵第一次写成了句读！--
　　让我晓得古人曾经怎样说法，
　　关于你那雍容的体态的神奇；
　　是我们高明，还是他们优越，
　　或者所谓演变其实并无二致。
　　　　哦，我敢肯定，不少才子在前代
　　　　曾经赞扬过远不如你的题材。
　　六○
　　
　　像波浪滔滔不息地滚向沙滩：
　　我们的光阴息息奔赴着终点；
　　后浪和前浪不断地循环替换，
　　前推后拥，一个个在奋勇争先。
　　生辰，一度涌现于光明的金海，
　　爬行到壮年，然后，既登上极顶，
　　凶冥的日蚀便遮没它的光彩，
　　时光又撕毁了它从前的赠品。
　　时光戳破了青春颊上的光艳，
　　在美的前额挖下深陷的战壕，
　　自然的至珍都被它肆意狂喊，
　　一切挺立的都难逃它的镰刀：
　　　　可是我的诗未来将屹立千古，
　　　　歌颂你的美德，不管它多残酷！
　　
　　六一
　　
　　你是否故意用影子使我垂垂
　　欲闭的眼睛睁向厌厌的长夜？
　　你是否要我辗转反侧不成寐，
　　用你的影子来玩弄我的视野？
　　那可是从你那里派来的灵魂
　　远离了家园，来刺探我的行为，
　　来找我的荒废和耻辱的时辰，
　　和执行你的妒忌的职权和范围？
　　不呀！你的爱，虽多，并不那么大：
　　是我的爱使我张开我的眼睛，
　　是我的真情把我的睡眠打垮，
　　为你的缘故一夜守候到天明！
　　　　我为你守夜，而你在别处清醒，
　　　　远远背着我，和别人却太靠近。
　　六二
　　
　　自爱这罪恶占据着我的眼睛，
　　我整个的灵魂和我身体各部；
　　而对这罪恶什么药石都无灵，
　　在我心内扎根扎得那么深固。
　　我相信我自己的眉目最秀丽，
　　态度最率真，胸怀又那么俊伟；
　　我的优点对我这样估计自己：
　　不管哪一方面我都出类拔萃。
　　但当我的镜子照出我的真相，
　　全被那焦黑的老年剁得稀烂，
　　我对于自爱又有相反的感想：
　　这样溺爱着自己实在是罪愆。
　　　　我歌颂自己就等于把你歌颂，
　　　　用你的青春来粉刷我的隆冬。
　　六三
　　
　　像我现在一样，我爱人将不免
　　被时光的毒手所粉碎和消耗，
　　当时辰吮干他的血，使他的脸
　　布满了皱纹；当他韶年的清朝
　　已经爬到暮年的巉岩的黑夜，
　　使他所占领的一切风流逸韵
　　都渐渐消灭或已经全部消灭，
　　偷走了他的春天所有的至珍；
　　为那时候我现在就厉兵秣马
　　去抵抗凶暴时光的残酷利刃，
　　使他无法把我爱的芳菲抹煞，
　　虽则他能够砍断我爱的生命。
　　　　他的丰韵将在这些诗里现形，
　　　　墨迹长在，而他也将万古长青。
　　六四
　　
　　当我眼见前代的富丽和豪华
　　被时光的手毫不留情地磨灭；
　　当巍峨的塔我眼见沦为碎瓦，
　　连不朽的铜也不免一场浩劫；
　　当我眼见那欲壑难填的大海
　　一步一步把岸上的疆土侵蚀，
　　汪洋的水又渐渐被陆地覆盖，
　　失既变成了得，得又变成了失；
　　当我看见这一切扰攘和废兴，
　　或者连废兴一旦也化为乌有；
　　毁灭便教我再三这样地反省：
　　时光终要跑来把我的爱带走。
　　　　哦，多么致命的思想！它只能够
　　　　哭着去把那刻刻怕失去的占有。
　　六五
　　
　　既然铜、石、或大地、或无边的海，
　　没有不屈服于那阴惨的无常，
　　美，她的活力比一朵花还柔脆，
　　怎能和他那肃杀的严重抵抗？
　　哦，夏天温馨的呼息怎能支持
　　残暴的日子刻刻猛烈的轰炸，
　　当岩石，无论多么么险固，或钢扉，
　　无论多坚强，都要被时光熔化？
　　哦，骇人的思想！时光的珍饰，
　　唉，怎能够不被收进时光的宝箱？
　　什么劲手能挽他的捷足回来，
　　或者谁能禁止他把美丽夺抢？
　　　　哦，没有谁，除非这奇迹有力量：
　　　　我的爱在翰墨里永久放光芒。
　　六六
　　
　　厌了这一切，我向安息的死疾呼，
　　比方，眼见天才注定做叫化子，
　　无聊的草包打扮得衣冠楚楚，
　　纯洁的信义不幸而被人背弃，
　　金冠可耻地戴在行尸的头上，
　　处女的贞操遭受暴徒的玷辱，
　　严肃的正义被人非法地诟让，
　　壮士被当权的跛子弄成残缺，
　　愚蠢摆起博士架子驾驭才能，
　　艺术被官府统治得结舌箝口，
　　淳朴的真诚被人瞎称为愚笨，
　　囚徒"善"不得不把统帅"恶"伺候：
　　　　厌了这一切，我要离开人寰，
　　　　但，我一死，我的爱人便孤单。
　　六七
　　
　　唉，我的爱为什么要和臭腐同居，
　　把他的绰约的丰姿让人亵渎，
　　以至罪恶得以和他结成伴侣，
　　涂上纯洁的外表来眩耀耳目？
　　骗人的脂粉为什么要替他写真，
　　从他的奕奕神采偷取死形似？
　　为什么，既然他是玫瑰花的真身，
　　可怜的美还要找玫瑰的影子？
　　为什么他得活着，当造化破了产，
　　缺乏鲜血去灌注淡红的脉络？
　　因为造化现在只有他作富源，
　　自夸富有，却靠他的利润过活。
　　　　哦，她珍藏他，为使荒歉的今天
　　　　认识从前曾有过怎样的丰年。
　　六八
　　
　　这样，他的朱颜是古代的图志，
　　那时美开了又谢像今天花一样，
　　那时冒牌的艳色还未曾出世，
　　或未敢公然高据活人的额上，
　　那时死者的美发，坟墓的财产，
　　还未被偷剪下来，去活第二回
　　在第二个头上②；那时美的死金鬟
　　还未被用来使别人显得华贵：
　　这圣洁的古代在他身上呈现，
　　赤裸裸的真容，毫无一点铅华，
　　不用别人的青翠做他的夏天，
　　不掠取旧脂粉妆饰他的鲜花；
　　　　就这样造化把他当图志珍藏，
　　　　让假艺术赏识古代美的真相。
　　六九
　　
　　你那众目共睹的无瑕的芳容，
　　谁的心思都不能再加以增改；
　　众口，灵魂的声音，都一致赞同：
　　赤的真理，连仇人也无法掩盖。
　　这样，表面的赞扬载满你仪表；
　　但同一声音，既致应有的崇敬，
　　便另换口吻去把这赞扬勾消，
　　当心灵看到眼看不到的内心。
　　它们向你那灵魂的美的海洋
　　用你的操行作测量器去探究，
　　于是吝啬的思想，眼睛虽大方，
　　便加给你的鲜花以野草的恶臭：
　　　　为什么你的香味赶不上外观？
　　　　土壤是这样，你自然长得平凡。
　　七○
　　
　　你受人指摘，并不是你的瑕疵，
　　因为美丽永远是诽谤的对象；
　　美丽的无上的装饰就是猜疑，
　　像乌鸦在最晴朗的天空飞翔。
　　所以，检点些，谗言只能更恭维
　　你的美德，既然时光对你钟情；
　　因为恶蛆最爱那甜蜜的嫩蕊，
　　而你的正是纯洁无瑕的初春。
　　你已经越过年轻日子的埋伏，
　　或未遭遇袭击，或已克服敌手；
　　可是，对你这样的赞美并不足
　　堵住那不断扩大的嫉妒的口：
　　　　若没有猜疑把你的清光遮掩，
　　　　多少个心灵的王国将归你独占。
　　七一
　　
　　我死去的时候别再为我悲哀，
　　当你听见那沉重凄惨的葬钟
　　普告给全世界说我已经离开
　　这龌龊世界去伴最龌龊的虫：
　　不呀，当你读到这诗，别再记起
　　那写它的手；因为我爱到这样，
　　宁愿被遗忘在你甜蜜的心里，
　　如果想起我会使你不胜哀伤。
　　如果呀，我说，如果你看见这诗，
　　那时候或许我已经化作泥土，
　　连我这可怜的名字也别提起，
　　但愿你的爱与我的生命同腐。
　　　　免得这聪明世界猜透你的心，
　　　　在我死去后把你也当作笑柄。
　　七二
　　
　　哦，免得这世界要强逼你自招
　　我有什么好处，使你在我死后
　　依旧爱我，爱人呀，把我全忘掉，
　　因外我一点值得提的都没有；
　　除非你捏造出一些美丽的谎，
　　过分为我吹嘘我应有的价值，
　　把瞑目长眠的我阿谀和夸奖，
　　远超过鄙吝的事实所愿昭示：
　　哦，怕你的真爱因此显得虚伪，
　　怕你为爱的原故替我说假话，
　　愿我的名字永远和肉体同埋，
　　免得活下去把你和我都羞煞。
　　　　因为我可怜的作品使我羞惭，
　　　　而你爱不值得爱的，也该愧赧。
　　七三
　　
　　在我身上你或许会看见秋天，
　　当黄叶，或尽脱，或只三三两两
　　挂在瑟缩的枯枝上索索抖颤--
　　荒废的歌坛，那里百鸟曾合唱。
　　在我身上你或许会看见暮霭，
　　它在日落后向西方徐徐消退：
　　黑夜，死的化身，渐渐把它赶开，
　　严静的安息笼住纷纭的万类。
　　在我身上你或许全看见余烬，
　　它在青春的寒灰里奄奄一息，
　　在惨淡灵床上早晚总要断魂，
　　给那滋养过它的烈焰所销毁。
　　　　看见了这些，你的爱就会加强，
　　　　因为他转瞬要辞你溘然长往。
　　七四
　　
　　但是放心吧：当那无情的拘票
　　终于丝毫不宽假地把我带走，
　　我的生命在诗里将依然长保，
　　永生的纪念品，永久和你相守。
　　当你重读这些诗，就等于重读
　　我献给你的至纯无二的生命：
　　尘土只能有它的份，那就是尘土；
　　灵魂却属你，这才是我的真身。
　　所以你不过失掉生命的糟粕
　　（当我肉体死后），恶蛆们的食饵，
　　无赖的刀下一个怯懦的俘获，
　　太卑贱的秽物，不配被你记忆。
　　　　它唯一的价值就在它的内蕴，
　　　　那就是这诗：这诗将和它长存。
　　七五
　　
　　我的心需要你，像生命需要食粮，
　　或者像大地需要及时的甘霖；
　　为你的安宁我内心那么凄惶
　　就像贪夫和他的财富作斗争：
　　他，有时自夸财主，然后又顾虑
　　这惯窃的时代会偷他的财宝；
　　我，有时觉得最好独自伴着你，
　　忽然又觉得该把你当众夸耀：
　　有时饱餐秀色后腻到化不开，
　　渐渐地又饿得慌要瞟你一眼；
　　既不占有也不追求别的欢快，
　　除掉那你已施或要施的恩典。
　　　　这样，我整天垂涎或整天不消化，
　　　　我狼吞虎咽，或一点也咽不下。
　　七六
　　
　　为什么我的诗那么缺新光彩，
　　赶不上现代善变多姿的风尚？
　　为什么我不学时人旁征博采
　　那竞奇斗艳，穷妍极巧的新腔？
　　为什么我写的始终别无二致，
　　寓情思旨趣于一些老调陈言，
　　几乎每一句都说出我的名字，
　　透露它们的身世，它们的来源？
　　哦，须知道，我爱呵，我只把你描，
　　你和爱情就是我唯一的主题；
　　推陈出新是我的无上的诀窍，
　　我把开支过的，不断重新开支：
　　　　因为，正如太阳天天新天天旧，
　　　　我的爱把说过的事絮絮不休。
　　七七
　　
　　镜子将告诉你朱颜怎样消逝，
　　日规怎样一秒秒耗去你的华年；
　　这白纸所要记录的你的心迹
　　将教你细细玩味下面的教言。
　　你的镜子所忠实反映的皱纹
　　将令你记起那张开口的坟墓；
　　从日规上阴影的潜移你将认清，
　　时光走向永劫的悄悄的脚步。
　　看，把记忆所不能保留的东西
　　交给这张白纸，在那里面你将
　　看见你精神的产儿受到抚育，
　　使你重新认识你心灵的本相。
　　　　这些日课，只要你常拿来重温，
　　　　将有利于你，并丰富你的书本。
　　七八
　　
　　我常常把你当诗神向你祷告，
　　在诗里找到那么有力的神助，
　　以致凡陌生的笔都把我仿效，
　　在你名义下把他们的诗散布。
　　你的眼睛，曾教会哑巴们歌唱，
　　曾教会沉重的愚昧高飞上天，
　　又把新羽毛加给博学的翅膀，
　　加给温文尔雅以两重的尊严。
　　可是我的诗应该最使你骄傲，
　　它们的诞生全在你的感召下：
　　对别人的作品你只润饰格调，
　　用你的美在他们才华上添花。
　　　　但对于我，你就是我全部艺术，
　　　　把我的愚拙提到博学的高度。
　　七九
　　
　　当初我独自一个恳求你协助，
　　只有我的诗占有你一切妩媚；
　　但现在我清新的韵律既陈腐，
　　我的病诗神只好给别人让位。
　　我承认，爱呵，你这美妙的题材
　　值得更高明的笔的精写细描；
　　可是你的诗人不过向你还债，
　　他把夺自你的当作他的创造。
　　他赐你美德，美德这词他只从
　　你的行为偷取；他加给你秀妍，
　　其实从你颊上得来；他的歌颂
　　没有一句不是从你身上发见。
　　　　那么，请别感激他对你的称赞，
　　　　既然他只把欠你的向你偿还。
　　八○
　　
　　哦，我写到你的时候多么气馁，
　　得知有更大的天才利用你名字，
　　他不惜费尽力气去把你赞美，
　　使我箝口结舌，一提起你声誉！
　　但你的价值，像海洋一样无边，
　　不管轻舟或艨艟同样能载起，
　　我这莽撞的艇，尽管小得可怜，
　　也向你茫茫的海心大胆行驶。
　　你最浅的滩濑已足使我浮泛，
　　而他岸岸然驶向你万顷汪洋；
　　或者，万一覆没，我只是片轻帆，
　　他却是结构雄伟，气宇轩昂：
　　　　如果他安全到达，而我遭失败，
　　　　最不幸的是：毁我的是我的爱。
　　
　　八一
　　
　　无论我将活着为你写墓志铭，
　　或你未亡而我已在地下腐朽，
　　纵使我已被遗忘得一干二净，
　　死神将不能把你的忆念夺走。
　　你的名字将从这诗里得永生，
　　虽然我，一去，对人间便等于死；
　　大地只能够给我一座乱葬坟，
　　而你却将长埋在人们眼睛里。
　　我这些小诗便是你的纪念碑，
　　未来的眼睛固然要百读不厌，
　　未来的舌头也将要传诵不衰，
　　当现在呼吸的人已瞑目长眠。
　　　　这强劲的笔将使你活在生气
　　　　最蓬勃的地方，在人们的嘴里。
　　八二
　　
　　我承认你并没有和我的诗神
　　结同心，因而可以丝毫无愧恧
　　去俯览那些把你作主题的诗人
　　对你的赞美，褒奖着每本诗集。
　　你的智慧和姿色都一样出众，
　　又发觉你的价值比我的赞美高，
　　因而你不得不到别处去追踪
　　这迈进时代的更生动的写照。
　　就这么办，爱呵，但当他们既已
　　使尽了浮夸的辞藻把你刻划，
　　真美的你只能由真诚的知己
　　用真朴的话把你真实地表达；
　　　　他们的浓脂粉只配拿去染红
　　　　贫血的脸颊；对于你却是滥用。
　　八三
　　
　　我从不觉得你需要涂脂荡粉，
　　因而从不用脂粉涂你的朱颜；
　　我发觉，或以为发觉，你的丰韵
　　远超过诗人献你的无味缱绻：
　　因此，关于你我的歌只装打盹，
　　好让你自己生动地现身说法，
　　证明时下的文笔是多么粗笨，
　　想把美德，你身上的美德增华。
　　你把我这沉默认为我的罪行，
　　其实却应该是我最大的荣光；
　　因为我不作声于美丝毫无损，
　　别人想给你生命，反把你埋葬。
　　　　你的两位诗人所模拟的赞美，
　　　　远不如你一只慧眼所藏的光辉。
　　八四
　　
　　谁说得最好？哪个说得更圆满
　　比起这丰美的赞词："只有你是你"？
　　这赞词蕴藏着你的全部资产，
　　谁和你争妍，就必须和它比拟。
　　那枝文笔实在是贫瘠得可怜，
　　如果它不能把题材稍事增华；
　　但谁写到你，只要他能够表现
　　你就是你，他的故事已够伟大。
　　让他只照你原稿忠实地直抄，
　　别把造化的清新的素描弄坏，
　　这样的摹本已显出他的巧妙，
　　使他的风格到处受人们崇拜。
　　　　你将对你美的祝福加以咒诅：
　　　　太爱人赞美，连美也变成庸俗。
　　八五
　　
　　我的缄口的诗神只脉脉无语；
　　他们对你的美评却累牍连篇，
　　用金笔刻成辉煌夺目的大字，
　　和经过一切艺神雕琢的名言。
　　我满腔热情，他们却善颂善祷；
　　像不识字的牧师只知喊"阿门"，
　　去响应才子们用精炼的笔调
　　熔铸成的每一首赞美的歌咏。
　　听见人赞美你，我说，"的确，很对"，
　　凭他们怎样歌颂我总嫌不够；
　　但只在心里说，因为我对你的爱
　　虽拙于词令，行动却永远带头。
　　　　那么，请敬他们，为他们的虚文；
　　　　敬我，为我的哑口无言的真诚。
　　八六
　　
　　是否他那雄浑的诗句，昂昂然
　　扬帆直驶去夺取太宝贵的你，
　　使我成熟的思想在脑里流产，
　　把孕育它们的胎盘变成墓地？
　　是否他的心灵，从幽灵学会写
　　超凡的警句，把我活生生殛毙？
　　不，既不是他本人，也不是黑夜
　　遣送给他的助手，能使我昏迷。
　　他，或他那个和善可亲的幽灵
　　（它夜夜用机智骗他），都不能自豪
　　是他们把我打垮，使我默不作声；
　　他们的威胁绝不能把我吓倒。
　　　　但当他的诗充满了你的鼓励，
　　　　我就要缺灵感；这才使我丧气。
　　八七
　　
　　再会吧！你太宝贵了，我无法高攀；
　　显然你也晓得你自己的声价：
　　你的价值的证券够把你赎还，
　　我对你的债权只好全部作罢。
　　因为，不经你批准，我怎能占有你？
　　我哪有福气消受这样的珍宝？
　　这美惠对于我既然毫无根据，
　　便不得不取消我的专利执照。
　　你曾许了我，因为低估了自己，
　　不然就错识了我，你的受赐者；
　　因此，你这份厚礼，既出自误会，
　　就归还给你，经过更好的判决。
　　　　这样，我曾占有你，像一个美梦，
　　　　在梦里称王，醒来只是一场空。
　　八八
　　
　　当你有一天下决心瞧我不起，
　　用侮蔑的眼光衡量我的轻重，
　　我将站在你那边打击我自己，
　　证明你贤德，尽管你已经背盟。
　　对自己的弱点我既那么内行，
　　我将为你的利益捏造我种种
　　无人觉察的过失，把自己中伤；
　　使你抛弃了我反而得到光荣：
　　而我也可以借此而大有收获；
　　因为我全部情思那么倾向你，
　　我为自己所招惹的一切侮辱
　　既对你有利，对我就加倍有利。
　　　　我那么衷心属你，我爱到那样，
　　　　为你的美誉愿承当一切诽谤。
　　八九
　　
　　说你抛弃我是为了我的过失，
　　我立刻会对这冒犯加以阐说：
　　叫我做瘸子，我马上两脚都躄，
　　对你的理由绝不作任何反驳。
　　为了替你的反复无常找借口，
　　爱呵，凭你怎样侮辱我，总比不上
　　我侮辱自己来得厉害；既看透
　　你心肠，我就要绞杀交情，假装
　　路人避开你；你那可爱的名字，
　　那么香，将永不挂在我的舌头，
　　生怕我，太亵渎了，会把它委屈；
　　万一还会把我们的旧欢泄漏。
　　　　我为你将展尽辩才反对自己，
　　　　因为你所憎恶的，我绝不爱惜。
　　九○
　　
　　恨我，倘若你高兴；请现在就开首；
　　现在，当举世都起来和我作对，
　　请趁势为命运助威，逼我低头，
　　别意外地走来作事后的摧毁。
　　唉，不要，当我的心已摆脱烦恼，
　　来为一个已克服的厄难作殿，
　　不要在暴风后再来一个雨朝，
　　把那注定的浩劫的来临拖延。
　　如果你要离开我，别等到最后，
　　当其他的烦忧已经肆尽暴虐；
　　请一开头就来：让我好先尝够
　　命运的权威应有尽有的凶恶。
　　　　于是别的苦痛，现在显得苦痛，
　　　　比起丧失你来便要无影无踪。
　　九一
　　
　　有人夸耀门第，有人夸耀技巧，
　　有人夸耀财富，有人夸耀体力；
　　有人夸耀新妆，丑怪尽管时髦；
　　有人夸耀鹰犬，有人夸耀骏骥；
　　每种嗜好都各饶特殊的趣味，
　　每一种都各自以为其乐无穷：
　　可是这些癖好都不合我口胃--
　　我把它们融入更大的乐趣中。
　　你的爱对我比门第还要豪华，
　　比财富还要丰裕，比艳妆光彩，
　　它的乐趣远胜过鹰犬和骏马；
　　有了你，我便可以笑傲全世界：
　　　　只有这点可怜：你随时可罢免
　　　　我这一切，使我成无比的可怜。
　　九二
　　
　　但尽管你不顾一切偷偷溜走，
　　直到生命终点你还是属于我。
　　生命也不会比你的爱更长久，
　　因为生命只靠你的爱才能活。
　　因此，我就不用怕最大的灾害，
　　既然最小的已足置我于死地。
　　我瞥见一个对我更幸福的境界，
　　它不会随着你的爱憎而转移：
　　你的反复再也不能使我颓丧，
　　既然你一反脸我生命便完毕。
　　哦，我找到了多么幸福的保障：
　　幸福地享受你的爱，幸福地死去！
　　　　但人间哪有不怕玷污的美满？
　　　　你可以变心肠，同时对我隐瞒。
　　九三
　　
　　于是我将活下去，认定你忠贞，
　　像被骗的丈夫，于是爱的面目
　　对我仍旧是爱，虽则已翻了新；
　　眼睛尽望着我，心儿却在别处：
　　憎恨既无法存在于你的眼里，
　　我就无法看出你心肠的改变。
　　许多人每段假情假义的历史
　　都在颦眉、蹙额或气色上表现；
　　但上天造你的时候早已注定
　　柔情要永远在你的脸上逗留；
　　不管你的心怎样变幻无凭准，
　　你眼睛只能诉说旖旎和温柔。
　　　　你的妩媚会变成夏娃的苹果，
　　　　如果你的美德跟外表不配合。
　　九四
　　
　　谁有力量损害人而不这样干，
　　谁不做人以为他们爱做的事，
　　谁使人动情，自己却石头一般，
　　冰冷、无动于衷，对诱惑能抗拒--
　　谁就恰当地承受上天的恩宠，
　　善于贮藏和保管造化的财富；
　　他们才是自己美貌的主人翁，
　　而别人只是自己姿色的家奴。
　　夏天的花把夏天熏得多芳馥，
　　虽然对自己它只自开又自落，
　　但是那花若染上卑劣的病毒，
　　最贱的野草也比它高贵得多：
　　　　极香的东西一腐烂就成极臭，
　　　　烂百合花比野草更臭得难受。
　　九五
　　
　　耻辱被你弄成多温柔多可爱！
　　恰像馥郁的玫瑰花心的毛虫，
　　它把你含苞欲放的美名污败！
　　哦，多少温馨把你的罪过遮蒙！
　　那讲述你的生平故事的长舌，
　　想对你的娱乐作淫猥的评论，
　　只能用一种赞美口气来贬责：
　　一提起你名字，诬蔑也变谄佞。
　　哦，那些罪过找到了多大的华厦，
　　当它们把你挑选来作安乐窝，
　　在那儿美为污点披上了轻纱，
　　在那儿触目的一切都变清和！
　　　　警惕呵，心肝，为你这特权警惕；
　　　　最快的刀被滥用也失去锋利！
　　九六
　　
　　有人说你的缺点在年少放荡；
　　有人说你的魅力在年少风流；
　　魅力和缺点都多少受人赞赏：
　　缺点变成添在魅力上的锦绣。
　　宝座上的女王手上戴的戒指，
　　就是最贱的宝石也受人尊重，
　　同样，那在你身上出现的瑕疵
　　也变成真理，当作真理被推崇。
　　多少绵羊会受到野狼的引诱，
　　假如野狼戴上了绵羊的面目！
　　多少爱慕你的人会被你拐走，
　　假如你肯把你全部力量使出！
　　　　可别这样做；我既然这样爱你，
　　　　你是我的，我的光荣也属于你。
　　九七
　　
　　离开了你，日子多么像严冬，
　　你，飞逝的流年中唯一的欢乐！
　　天色多阴暗！我又受尽了寒冻！
　　触目是龙锺腊月的一片萧索！
　　可是别离的时期恰好是夏日；
　　和膨胀着累累的丰收的秋天，
　　满载着青春的淫荡结下的果实，
　　好像怀胎的新寡妇，大腹便便：
　　但是这累累的丰收，在我看来，
　　只能成无父孤儿和乖异的果；
　　因夏天和它的欢娱把你款待，
　　你不在，连小鸟也停止了唱歌；
　　　　或者，即使它们唱，声调那么沉，
　　　　树叶全变灰了，生怕冬天降临。
　　九八
　　
　　我离开你的时候正好是春天，
　　当绚烂的四月，披上新的锦袄，
　　把活泼的春心给万物灌注遍，
　　连沉重的土星③也跟着笑和跳。
　　可是无论小鸟的歌唱，或万紫
　　千红、芬芳四溢的一簇簇鲜花，
　　都不能使我诉说夏天的故事，
　　或从烂熳的山洼把它们采掐：
　　我也不羡慕那百合花的洁白，
　　也不赞美玫瑰花的一片红晕；
　　它们不过是香，是悦目的雕刻，
　　你才是它们所要摹拟的真身。
　　　　因此，于我还是严冬，而你不在，
　　　　像逗着你影子，我逗它们开怀。
　　九九*
　　
　　我对孟浪的紫罗兰这样谴责：
　　"温柔贼，你哪里偷来这缕温馨，
　　若不是从我爱的呼息？这紫色
　　在你的柔颊上抹了一层红晕，
　　还不是从我爱的血管里染得？"
　　我申斥百合花盗用了你的手，
　　茉沃兰的蓓蕾偷取你的柔发；
　　站在刺上的玫瑰花吓得直抖，
　　一朵羞得通红，一朵绝望到发白，
　　另一朵，不红不白，从双方偷来；
　　还在赃物上添上了你的呼息，
　　但既犯了盗窃，当它正昂头盛开，
　　一条怒冲冲的毛虫把它咬死。
　　　　我还看见许多花，但没有一朵
　　　　不从你那里偷取芬芳和婀娜。
　　一○○
　　
　　你在哪里，诗神，竟长期忘记掉
　　把你的一切力量的源头歌唱？
　　为什么浪费狂热于一些滥调，
　　消耗你的光去把俗物照亮？
　　回来吧，健忘的诗神，立刻轻弹
　　宛转的旋律，赎回虚度的光阴；
　　唱给那衷心爱慕你并把灵感
　　和技巧赐给你的笔的耳朵听。
　　起来，懒诗神，检查我爱的秀容，
　　看时光可曾在那里刻下皱纹；
　　假如有，就要尽量把衰老嘲讽，
　　使时光的剽窃到处遭人齿冷。
　　　　快使爱成名，趁时光未下手前，
　　　　你就挡得住它的风刀和霜剑。
　　
　　一○一
　　
　　偷懒的诗神呵，你将怎样补救
　　你对那被美渲染的真的怠慢？
　　真和美都与我的爱相依相守；
　　你也一样，要倚靠它才得通显。
　　说吧，诗神；你或许会这样回答：
　　"真的固定色彩不必用色彩绘；
　　美也不用翰墨把美的真容画；
　　用不着搀杂，完美永远是完美。"
　　难道他不需要赞美，你就不作声？
　　别替缄默辩护，因为你有力量
　　使他比镀金的坟墓更享遐龄，
　　并在未来的年代永受人赞扬。
　　　　当仁不让吧，诗神，我要教你怎样
　　　　使他今后和现在一样受景仰。
　　一○二
　　
　　我的爱加强了，虽然看来更弱；
　　我的爱一样热，虽然表面稍冷：
　　谁把他心中的崇拜到处传播，
　　就等于把他的爱情看作商品。
　　我们那时才新恋，又正当春天，
　　我惯用我的歌去欢迎它来归，
　　像夜莺在夏天门前彻夜清啭，
　　到了盛夏的日子便停止歌吹。
　　并非现在夏天没有那么惬意
　　比起万籁静听它哀唱的时候，
　　只为狂欢的音乐载满每一枝，
　　太普通，意味便没有那么深悠。
　　　　所以，像它，我有时也默默无言，
　　　　免得我的歌，太繁了，使你烦厌。
　　一○三
　　
　　我的诗神的产品多贫乏可怜！
　　分明有无限天地可炫耀才华，
　　可是她的题材，尽管一无妆点，
　　比加上我的赞美价值还要大！
　　别非难我，如果我写不出什么！
　　照照镜子吧，看你镜中的面孔
　　多么超越我的怪笨拙的创作，
　　使我的诗失色，叫我无地自容。
　　那可不是罪过吗，努力要增饰，
　　反而把原来无瑕的题材涂毁？
　　因为我的诗并没有其他目的，
　　除了要模仿你的才情和妩媚；
　　　　是的，你的镜子，当你向它端详，
　　　　所反映的远远多于我的诗章。
　　一○四
　　
　　对于我，俊友，你永远不会哀老，
　　因为自从我的眼碰见你的眼，
　　你还是一样美。三个严冬摇掉
　　三个苍翠的夏天的树叶和光艳，
　　三个阳春三度化作秋天的枯黄。
　　时序使我三度看见四月的芳菲
　　三度被六月的炎炎烈火烧光。
　　但你，还是和初见时一样明媚；
　　唉，可是美，像时针，它蹑着脚步
　　移过钟面，你看不见它的踪影；
　　同样，你的姣颜，我以为是常驻，
　　其实在移动，迷惑的是我的眼睛。
　　　　颤栗吧，未来的时代，听我呼吁：
　　　　你还没有生，美的夏天已死去。
　　一○五
　　
　　不要把我的爱叫作偶像崇拜，
　　也不要把我的爱人当偶像看，
　　既然所有我的歌和我的赞美
　　都献给一个、为一个，永无变换。
　　我的爱今天仁慈，明天也仁慈，
　　有着惊人的美德，永远不变心，
　　所以我的诗也一样坚贞不渝，
　　全省掉差异，只叙述一件事情。
　　"美、善和真"，就是我全部的题材，
　　"美、善和真"，用不同的词句表现；
　　我的创造就在这变化上演才，
　　三题一体，它的境界可真无限。
　　　　过去"美、善和真"常常分道扬镳，
　　　　到今天才在一个人身上协调。
　　一○六
　　
　　当我从那湮远的古代的纪年
　　发见那绝代风流人物的写真，
　　艳色使得古老的歌咏也香艳，
　　颂赞着多情骑士和绝命佳人，
　　于是，从那些国色天姿的描画，
　　无论手脚、嘴唇、或眼睛或眉额，
　　我发觉那些古拙的笔所表达
　　恰好是你现在所占领的姿色。
　　所以他们的赞美无非是预言
　　我们这时代，一切都预告着你；
　　不过他们观察只用想象的眼，
　　还不够才华把你歌颂得尽致：
　　　　而我们，幸而得亲眼看见今天，
　　　　只有眼惊羡，却没有舌头咏叹。
　　一○七
　　
　　无论我自己的忧虑，或那梦想着
　　未来的这茫茫世界的先知灵魂，
　　都不能限制我的真爱的租约，
　　纵使它已注定作命运的抵偿品。
　　人间的月亮已度过被蚀的灾难，
　　不祥的占卜把自己的预言嘲讽，
　　动荡和疑虑既已获得了保险，
　　和平在宣告橄橄枝永久葱茏。
　　于是在这时代甘露的遍洒下，
　　我的爱面貌一新，而死神降伏，
　　既然我将活在这拙作里，任凭他
　　把那些愚钝的无言的种族凌辱。
　　　　你将在这里找着你的纪念碑，
　　　　魔王的金盔和铜墓却被销毁。
　　一○八
　　
　　脑袋里有什么，笔墨形容得出，
　　我这颗真心不已经对你描画？
　　还有什么新东西可说可记录，
　　以表白我的爱或者你的真价？
　　没有，乖乖；可是，虔诚的祷词
　　我没有一天不把它复说一遍；
　　老话并不老；你属我，我也属你，
　　就像我祝福你名字的头一天。
　　所以永恒的爱在长青爱匣里
　　不会蒙受年岁的损害和尘土，
　　不会让皱纹占据应有的位置，
　　反而把老时光当作永久的家奴；
　　　　发觉最初的爱苗依旧得保养，
　　　　尽管时光和外貌都盼它枯黄。
　　一○九
　　
　　哦，千万别埋怨我改变过心肠，
　　别离虽似乎减低了我的热情。
　　正如我抛不开自己远走他方，
　　我也一刻离不开你，我的灵魂。
　　你是我的爱的家：我虽曾流浪，
　　现在已经像远行的游子归来；
　　并准时到家，没有跟时光改样，
　　而且把洗涤我污点的水带来。
　　哦，请千万别相信（尽管我难免
　　和别人一样经不起各种试诱）
　　我的天性会那么荒唐和鄙贱
　　竟抛弃你这至宝去追求乌有；
　　　　这无垠的宇宙对我都是虚幻；
　　　　你才是，我的玫瑰，我全部财产。
　　一一○
　　
　　唉，我的确曾经常东奔西跑，
　　扮作斑衣的小丑供众人赏玩，
　　违背我的意志，把至宝贱卖掉，
　　为了新交不惜把旧知交冒犯；
　　更千真万确我曾经斜着冷眼
　　去看真情；但天呀，这种种离乖
　　给我的心带来了另一个春天，
　　最坏的考验证实了你的真爱。
　　现在一切都过去了，请你接受
　　无尽的友谊：我不再把欲望磨利，
　　用新的试探去考验我的老友--
　　那拘禁我的、钟情于我的神袛。
　　　　那么，欢迎我吧，我的人间的天，
　　　　迎接我到你最亲的纯洁的胸间。
　　一一一
　　
　　哦，请为我把命运的女神诟让，
　　她是嗾使我造成业障的主犯，
　　因为她对我的生活别无赡养，
　　除了养成我粗鄙的众人米饭。
　　因而我的名字就把烙印④接受，
　　也几乎为了这缘故我的天性
　　被职业所玷污，如同染工的手：
　　可怜我吧，并祝福我获得更新；
　　像个温顺的病人，我甘心饮服
　　涩嘴的醋来消除我的重感染⑤；
　　不管它多苦，我将一点不觉苦，
　　也不辞两重忏悔以赎我的罪愆。
　　　　请怜悯我吧，挚友，我向你担保
　　　　你的怜悯已经够把我医治好。
　　一一二
　　
　　你的爱怜抹掉那世俗的讥谗
　　打在我的额上的耻辱的烙印；
　　别人的毁誉对我有什么相干，
　　你既表扬我的善又把恶遮隐！
　　你是我整个宇宙，我必须努力
　　从你的口里听取我的荣和辱；
　　我把别人，别人把我，都当作死，
　　谁能使我的铁心肠变善或变恶？
　　别人的意见我全扔入了深渊，
　　那么干净，我简直像聋蛇一般，
　　凭他奉承或诽谤都充耳不闻。
　　请倾听我怎样原谅我的冷淡：
　　　　你那么根深蒂固长在我心里，
　　　　全世界，除了你，我都认为死去。
　　一一三
　　
　　自从离开你，眼睛便移居心里，
　　于是那双指挥我行动的眼睛，
　　既把职守分开，就成了半瞎子，
　　自以为还看见，其实已经失明；
　　因为它们所接触的任何形状，
　　花鸟或姿态，都不能再传给心，
　　自己也留不住把捉到的景象；
　　一切过眼的事物心儿都无份。
　　因为一见粗俗或幽雅的景色，
　　最畸形的怪物或绝艳的面孔，
　　山或海，日或夜，乌鸦或者白鸽，
　　眼睛立刻塑成你美妙的姿容。
　　　　心中满是你，什么再也装不下，
　　　　就这样我的真心教眼睛说假话。
　　一一四
　　
　　是否我的心，既把你当王冠戴，
　　喝过帝王们的鸩毒--自我阿谀？
　　还是我该说，我眼睛说的全对，
　　因为你的爱教会它这炼金术，
　　使它能够把一切蛇神和牛鬼
　　转化为和你一样柔媚的天婴，
　　把每个丑恶改造成尽善尽美，
　　只要事物在它的柔辉下现形？
　　哦，是前者；是眼睛的自我陶醉，
　　我伟大的心灵把它一口喝尽：
　　眼睛晓得投合我心灵的口味，
　　为它准备好这杯可口的毒饮。
　　　　尽管杯中有毒，罪过总比较轻，
　　　　因为先爱上它的是我的眼睛。
　　一一五
　　
　　我从前写的那些诗全都撒谎，
　　连那些说"我爱你到极点"在内，
　　可是那时候我的确无法想象
　　白热的火还发得出更大光辉。
　　只害怕时光的无数意外事故
　　钻进密约间，勾销帝王的意旨，
　　晒黑美色，并挫钝锋锐的企图，
　　使倔强的心屈从事物的隆替：
　　唉，为什么，既怵于时光的专横，
　　我不可说，"现在我爱你到极点，"
　　当我摆脱掉疑虑，充满着信心，
　　觉得来日不可期，只掌握目前？
　　　　爱是婴儿；难道我不可这样讲，
　　　　去促使在生长中的羽毛丰满？
　　一一六
　　
　　我绝不承认两颗真心的结合
　　会有任何障碍；爱算不得真爱，
　　若是一看见人家改变便转舵，
　　或者一看见人家转弯便离开。
　　哦，决不！爱是亘古长明的塔灯，
　　它定睛望着风暴却兀不为动；
　　爱又是指引迷舟的一颗恒星，
　　你可量它多高，它所值却无穷。
　　爱不受时光的播弄，尽管红颜
　　和皓齿难免遭受时光的毒手；
　　爱并不因瞬息的改变而改变，
　　它巍然矗立直到末日的尽头。
　　　　我这话若说错，并被证明不确，
　　　　就算我没写诗，也没人真爱过。
　　一一七
　　
　　请这样控告我：说我默不作声，
　　尽管对你的深恩我应当酬谢；
　　说我忘记向你缱绻的爱慰问，
　　尽管我对你依恋一天天密切；
　　说我时常和陌生的心灵来往，
　　为偶尔机缘断送你宝贵情谊；
　　说我不管什么风都把帆高扬，
　　任它们把我吹到天涯海角去。
　　请把我的任性和错误都记下，
　　在真凭实据上还要积累嫌疑，
　　把我带到你的颦眉蹙额底下，
　　千万别唤醒怨毒来把我射死；
　　　　因为我的诉状说我急于证明
　　　　你对我的爱多么忠贞和坚定。
　　一一八
　　
　　好比我们为了促使食欲增进，
　　用种种辛辣调味品刺激胃口；
　　又好比服清泻剂以预防大病，
　　用较轻的病截断重症的根由；
　　同样，饱尝了你的不腻人的甜蜜，
　　我选上苦酱来当作我的食料；
　　厌倦了健康，觉得病也有意思，
　　尽管我还没有到生病的必要。
　　这样，为采用先发制病的手段，
　　爱的策略变成了真实的过失：
　　我对健康的身体乱投下药丹，
　　用痛苦来把过度的幸福疗治。
　　　　但我由此取得这真正的教训：
　　　　药也会变毒，谁若因爱你而生病。
　　一一九
　　
　　我曾喝下了多少鲛人的泪珠
　　从我心中地狱般的锅里蒸出来，
　　把恐惧当希望，又把希望当恐惧，
　　眼看着要胜利，结果还是失败！
　　我的心犯了多少可怜的错误，
　　正好当它自以为再幸福不过；
　　我的眼睛怎样地从眼眶跃出，
　　当我被疯狂昏乱的热病折磨！
　　哦，坏事变好事！我现在才知道
　　善的确常常因恶而变得更善！
　　被摧毁的爱，一旦重新修建好，
　　就比原来更宏伟、更美、更强顽。
　　　　因此，我受了谴责，反心满意足；
　　　　因祸，我获得过去的三倍幸福。
　　一二○
　　
　　你对我狠过心反而于我有利：
　　想起你当时使我受到的痛创，
　　我只好在我的过失下把头低，
　　既然我的神经不是铜或精钢。
　　因为，你若受过我狠心的摇撼，
　　像我所受的，该熬过多苦的日子！
　　可是我这暴君从没有抽过闲
　　来衡量你的罪行对我的打击！
　　哦，但愿我们那悲怛之夜能使我
　　牢牢记住真悲哀打击得多惨，
　　我就会立刻递给你，像你递给我，
　　那抚慰碎了的心的微贱药丹。
　　　　但你的罪行现在变成了保证，
　　　　我赎你的罪，你也赎我的败行。
　　
　　一二一
　　
　　宁可卑劣，也不愿负卑劣的虚名，
　　当我们的清白蒙上不白之冤，
　　当正当的娱乐被人妄加恶声，
　　不体察我们的感情，只凭偏见。
　　为什么别人虚伪淫猥的眼睛
　　有权赞扬或诋毁我活跃的血？
　　专侦伺我的弱点而比我坏的人
　　为什么把我认为善的恣意污蔑？
　　我就是我，他们对于我的诋毁
　　只能够宣扬他们自己的卑鄙：
　　我本方正，他们的视线自不轨；
　　这种坏心眼怎么配把我非议？
　　　　除非他们固执这糊涂的邪说：
　　　　恶是人性，统治着世间的是恶。
　　一二二
　　
　　你赠我的手册已经一笔一划
　　永不磨灭地刻在我的心版上，
　　它将超越无聊的名位的高下，
　　跨过一切时代，以至无穷无疆：
　　或者，至少直到大自然的规律
　　容许心和脑继续存在的一天；
　　直到它们把你每部分都让给
　　遗忘，你的记忆将永远不逸散。
　　可怜的手册就无法那样持久，
　　我也不用筹码把你的爱登记；
　　所以你的手册我大胆地放走，
　　把你交给更能珍藏你的册子：
　　　　要靠备忘录才不会把你遗忘，
　　　　岂不等于表明我对你也善忘？
　　一二三
　　
　　不，时光，你断不能夸说我在变：
　　你新建的金字塔，不管多雄壮，
　　对我一点不稀奇，一点不新鲜；
　　它们只是旧景象披上了新装。
　　我们的生命太短促，所以羡慕
　　你拿来蒙骗我们的那些旧货；
　　幻想它们是我们心愿的产物，
　　不肯信从前曾经有人谈起过。
　　对你和你的纪录我同样不卖账，
　　过去和现在都不能使我惊奇，
　　因为你的记载和我所见都扯谎，
　　都多少是你疾驰中造下的孽迹。
　　　　我敢这样发誓：我将万古不渝，
　　　　不管你和你的镰刀多么锋利。
　　一二四
　　
　　假如我的爱只是权势的嫡种，
　　它就会是命运的无父的私生子，
　　受时光的宠辱所磨折和播弄，
　　同野草闲花一起任人们采刈。
　　不呀，它并不是建立在偶然上；
　　它既不为荣华的笑颜所转移，
　　也经受得起我们这时代风尚
　　司空见惯的抑郁、愤懑的打击：
　　它不害怕那只在短期间有效、
　　到处散播异端和邪说的权谋，
　　不因骄阳而生长，雨也冲不掉，
　　它巍然独立在那里，深思熟筹。
　　　　被时光愚弄的人们，起来作证！
　　　　你们毕生作恶，却一死得干净。
　　一二五
　　
　　这对我何益，纵使我高擎华盖，
　　用我的外表来为你妆点门面，
　　或奠下伟大基础，要留芳万代，
　　其实比荒凉和毁灭为期更短？
　　难道我没见过拘守仪表的人，
　　付出高昂的代价，却丧失一切，
　　厌弃淡泊而拚命去追求荤辛，
　　可怜的赢利者，在顾盼中雕谢？
　　不，请让我在你心里长保忠贞，
　　收下这份菲薄但由衷的献礼，
　　它不搀杂次品，也不包藏机心，
　　而只是你我间互相致送诚意。
　　　　被收买的告密者，滚开！你越诬告
　　　　真挚的心，越不能损害它分毫。
　　一二六*
　　
　　你，小乖乖，时光的无常的沙漏
　　和时辰（他的小镰刀）都听你左右；
　　你在亏缺中生长，并昭示大众
　　你的爱人如何雕零而你向荣；
　　如果造化（掌握盈亏的大主宰），
　　在你迈步前进时把你挽回来，
　　她的目的只是：卖弄她的手法
　　去丢时光的脸，并把分秒扼杀。
　　可是你得怕她，你，她的小乖乖！
　　她只能暂留，并非常保，她的宝贝！
　　她的账目，虽延了期，必须清算：
　　要清偿债务，她就得把你交还。
　　一二七
　　
　　在远古的时代黑并不算秀俊，
　　即使算，也没有把美的名挂上；
　　但如今黑既成为美的继承人，
　　于是美便招来了侮辱和诽谤。
　　因为自从每只手都修饰自然，
　　用艺术的假面貌去美化丑恶，
　　温馨的美便失掉声价和圣殿，
　　纵不忍辱偷生，也遭了亵渎。
　　所以我情妇的头发黑如乌鸦，
　　眼睛也恰好相衬，就像在哀泣
　　那些生来不美却迷人的冤家，
　　用假名声去中伤造化的真誉。
　　　　这哀泣那么配合她们的悲痛，
　　　　大家齐声说：这就是美的真容。
　　一二八
　　
　　多少次，我的音乐，当你在弹奏
　　音乐，我眼看那些幸福的琴键
　　跟着你那轻盈的手指的挑逗，
　　发出悦耳的旋律，使我魂倒神颠--
　　我多么艳羡那些琴键轻快地
　　跳起来狂吻你那温柔的掌心，
　　而我可怜的嘴唇，本该有这权利，
　　只能红着脸对琴键的放肆出神！
　　经不起这引逗，我嘴唇巴不得
　　做那些舞蹈着的得意小木片，
　　因为你手指在它们身上轻掠，
　　使枯木比活嘴唇更值得艳羡。
　　　　冒失的琴键既由此得到快乐，
　　　　请把手指给它们，把嘴唇给我。
　　一二九
　　
　　把精力消耗在耻辱的沙漠里，
　　就是色欲在行动；而在行动前，
　　色欲赌假咒、嗜血、好杀、满身是
　　罪恶，凶残、粗野、不可靠、走极端；
　　欢乐尚未央，马上就感觉无味：
　　毫不讲理地追求；可是一到手，
　　又毫不讲理地厌恶，像是专为
　　引上钩者发狂而设下的钓钩；
　　在追求时疯狂，占有时也疯狂；
　　不管已有、现有、未有，全不放松；
　　感受时，幸福；感受完，无上灾殃；
　　事前，巴望着的欢乐；事后，一场梦。
　　　　这一切人共知；但谁也不知怎样
　　　　逃避这个引人下地狱的天堂。
　　一三○
　　
　　我情妇的眼睛一点不像太阳；
　　珊瑚比她的嘴唇还要红得多：
　　雪若算白，她的胸就暗褐无光，
　　发若是铁丝，她头上铁丝婆娑。
　　我见过红白的玫瑰，轻纱一般；
　　她颊上却找不到这样的玫瑰；
　　有许多芳香非常逗引人喜欢，
　　我情妇的呼吸并没有这香味。
　　我爱听她谈话，可是我很清楚
　　音乐的悦耳远胜于她的嗓子；
　　我承认从没有见过女神走路，
　　我情妇走路时候却脚踏实地：
　　　　可是，我敢指天发誓，我的爱侣
　　　　胜似任何被捧作天仙的美女。
　　一三一
　　
　　尽管你不算美，你的暴虐并不
　　亚于那些因美而骄横的女人；
　　因为你知道我的心那么糊涂，
　　把你当作世上的至美和至珍。
　　不过，说实话，见过你的人都说，
　　你的脸缺少使爱呻吟的魅力：
　　尽管我心中发誓反对这说法，
　　我可还没有公开否认的勇气。
　　当然我发的誓一点也不欺人；
　　数不完的呻吟，一想起你的脸，
　　马上联翩而来，可以为我作证：
　　对于我，你的黑胜于一切秀妍。
　　　　你一点也不黑，除了你的人品，
　　　　可能为了这原故，诽谤才流行。
　　一三二
　　
　　我爱上了你的眼睛；你的眼睛
　　晓得你的心用轻蔑把我磨折，
　　对我的痛苦表示柔媚的悲悯，
　　就披上黑色，做旖旎的哭丧者。
　　而的确，无论天上灿烂的朝阳
　　多么配合那东方苍白的面容，
　　或那照耀着黄昏的明星煌煌
　　（它照破了西方的黯淡的天空），
　　都不如你的脸配上那双泪眼。
　　哦，但愿你那颗心也一样为我
　　挂孝吧，既然丧服能使你增妍，
　　愿它和全身一样与悲悯配合。
　　　　黑是美的本质（我那时就赌咒），
　　　　一切缺少你的颜色的都是丑。
　　一三三
　　
　　那使我的心呻吟的心该诅咒，
　　为了它给我和我的朋友的伤痕！
　　难道光是折磨我一个还不够？
　　还要把朋友贬为奴隶的身分？
　　你冷酷的眼睛已夺走我自己，
　　那另一个我你又无情地霸占：
　　我已经被他（我自己）和你抛弃；
　　这使我遭受三三九倍的苦难。
　　请用你的铁心把我的心包围，
　　让我可怜的心保释朋友的心；
　　不管谁监视我，我都把他保卫；
　　你就不能在狱中再对我发狠。
　　　　你还会发狠的，我是你的囚徒，
　　　　我和我的一切必然任你摆布。
　　一三四
　　
　　因此，现在我既承认他属于你，
　　并照你的意旨把我当抵押品，
　　我情愿让你把我没收，好教你
　　释放另一个我来宽慰我的心：
　　但你不肯放，他又不愿被释放，
　　因为你贪得无厌，他心肠又软；
　　他作为保人签字在那证券上，
　　为了开脱我，反而把自己紧拴。
　　分毫不放过的高利贷者，你将要
　　行使你的美丽赐给你的特权
　　去控诉那为我而负债的知交；
　　于是我失去他，因为把他欺骗。
　　　　我把他失掉；你却占有他和我：
　　　　他还清了债，我依然不得开脱。
　　一三五*
　　
　　假如女人有满足，你就得如"愿"，
　　还有额外的心愿，多到数不清；
　　而多余的我总是要把你纠缠，
　　想在你心愿的花上添我的锦。
　　你的心愿汪洋无边，难道不能
　　容我把我的心愿在里面隐埋？
　　难道别人的心愿都那么可亲，
　　而我的心愿就不配你的青睐？
　　大海，满满是水，照样承受雨点，
　　好把它的贮藏品大量地增加；
　　多心愿的你，就该把我的心愿
　　添上，使你的心愿得到更扩大。
　　　　别让无情的"不"把求爱者窒息；
　　　　让众愿同一愿，而我就在这愿里。
　　一三六
　　
　　你的灵魂若骂你我走得太近，
　　请对你那瞎灵魂说我是你"心愿"，
　　而"心愿"，她晓得，对她并非陌生；
　　为了爱，让我的爱如愿吧，心肝。
　　心愿将充塞你的爱情的宝藏，
　　请用心愿充满它，把我算一个，
　　须知道宏大的容器非常便当，
　　多装或少装一个算不了什么。
　　请容许我混在队伍中间进去，
　　不管怎样说我总是其中之一；
　　把我看作微末不足道，但必须
　　把这微末看作你心爱的东西。
　　　　把我名字当你的爱，始终如一，
　　　　就是爱我，因为"心愿"是我的名字。
　　一三七
　　
　　又瞎又蠢的爱，你对我的眸子
　　干了什么，以致它们视而不见？
　　它们认得美，也看见美在那里，
　　却居然错把那极恶当作至善。
　　我的眼睛若受了偏见的歪扭，
　　在那人人行驶的海湾里下锚，
　　你为何把它们的虚妄作成钩，
　　把我的心的判断力钩得牢牢？
　　难道是我的心，明知那是公地，
　　硬把它当作私人游乐的花园？
　　还是我眼睛否认明显的事实，
　　硬拿美丽的真蒙住丑恶的脸？
　　　　我的心和眼既迷失了真方向，
　　　　自然不得不陷入虚妄的膏肓。
　　一三八
　　
　　我爱人赌咒说她浑身是忠实，
　　我相信她（虽然明知她在撒谎），
　　让她认为我是个无知的孩子，
　　不懂得世间种种骗人的勾当。
　　于是我就妄想她当我还年轻，
　　虽然明知我盛年已一去不复返；
　　她的油嘴滑舌我天真地信任：
　　这样，纯朴的真话双方都隐瞒。
　　但是为什么她不承认说假话？
　　为什么我又不承认我已经衰老？
　　爱的习惯是连信任也成欺诈，
　　老年谈恋爱最怕把年龄提到。
　　　　因此，我既欺骗她，她也欺骗我，
　　　　咱俩的爱情就在欺骗中作乐。
　　一三九
　　
　　哦，别叫我原谅你的残酷不仁
　　对于我的心的不公正的冒犯；
　　请用舌头伤害我，可别用眼睛；
　　狠狠打击我，杀我，可别耍手段。
　　说你已爱上了别人；但当我面，
　　心肝，可别把眼睛向旁边张望：
　　何必要耍手段，既然你的强权
　　已够打垮我过分紧张的抵抗？
　　让我替你辩解说："我爱人明知
　　她那明媚的流盼是我的死仇，
　　才把我的敌人从我脸上转移，
　　让它向别处放射害人的毒镞！"
　　　　可别这样；我已经一息奄奄，
　　　　不如一下盯死我，解除了苦难。
　　一四○
　　
　　你狠心，也该放聪明；别让侮蔑
　　把我不作声的忍耐逼得太甚；
　　免得悲哀赐我喉舌，让你领略
　　我的可怜的痛苦会怎样发狠。
　　你若学了乖，爱呵，就觉得理应
　　对我说你爱我，纵使你不如此；
　　好像暴躁的病人，当死期已近，
　　只愿听医生报告健康的消息；
　　因为我若是绝望，我就会发疯，
　　疯狂中难保不把你胡乱咒骂：
　　这乖张世界是那么不成体统，
　　疯狂的耳总爱听疯子的坏话。
　　　　要我不发疯，而你不遭受诽谤，
　　　　你得把眼睛正视，尽管心放荡。
　　
　　一四一
　　
　　说实话，我的眼睛并不喜欢你，
　　它们发见你身上百孔和千疮；
　　但眼睛瞧不起的，心儿却着迷，
　　它一味溺爱，不管眼睛怎样想。
　　我耳朵也不觉得你嗓音好听，
　　就是我那容易受刺激的触觉，
　　或味觉，或嗅觉都不见得高兴
　　参加你身上任何官能的盛酌。
　　可是无论我五种机智或五官
　　都不能劝阻痴心去把你侍奉，
　　我昂藏的丈夫仪表它再不管，
　　只甘愿作你傲慢的心的仆从。
　　　　不过我的灾难也非全无好处：
　　　　她引诱我犯罪，也教会我受苦。
　　一四二
　　
　　我的罪咎是爱，你的美德是憎，
　　你憎我的罪，为了我多咎的爱：
　　哦，你只要比一比你我的实情，
　　就会发觉责备我多么不应该。
　　就算应该，也不能出自你嘴唇，
　　因为它们亵渎过自己的口红，
　　劫夺过别人床弟应得的租金，
　　和我一样屡次偷订爱的假盟。
　　我爱你，你爱他们，都一样正当，
　　尽管你追求他们而我讨你厌。
　　让哀怜的种子在你心里暗长，
　　终有天你的哀怜也得人哀怜。
　　　　假如你只知追求，自己却吝啬，
　　　　你自己的榜样就会招来拒绝。
　　一四三
　　
　　看呀，像一个小心翼翼的主妇
　　跑着去追撵一只逃走的母鸡，
　　把孩子扔下，拚命快跑，要抓住
　　那个她急着要得回来的东西；
　　被扔下的孩子紧跟在她后头，
　　哭哭啼啼要赶上她，而她只管
　　望前一直追撵，一步也不停留，
　　不顾她那可怜的小孩的不满：
　　同样，你追那个逃避你的家伙，
　　而我（你的孩子）却在后头追你；
　　你若赶上了希望，请回头照顾我，
　　尽妈妈的本分，轻轻吻我，很和气。
　　　　只要你回头来抚慰我的悲啼，
　　　　我就会祷告神让你从心所欲。
　　一四四
　　
　　两个爱人像精灵般把我诱惑，
　　一个叫安慰，另外一个叫绝望：
　　善的天使是个男子，丰姿绰约；
　　恶的幽灵是个女人，其貌不扬。
　　为了促使我早进地狱，那女鬼
　　引诱我的善精灵硬把我抛开，
　　还要把他迷惑，使沦落为妖魅，
　　用肮脏的骄傲追求纯洁的爱。
　　我的天使是否已变成了恶魔，
　　我无法一下子确定，只能猜疑；
　　但两个都把我扔下，互相结合，
　　一个想必进了另一个的地狱。
　　　　可是这一点我永远无法猜透，
　　　　除非是恶的天使把善的撵走。
　　一四五
　　
　　爱神亲手捏就的嘴唇
　　对着为她而憔悴的我，
　　吐出了这声音说，"我恨"：
　　但是她一看见我难过，
　　心里就马上大发慈悲，
　　责备那一向都是用来
　　宣布甜蜜的判词的嘴，
　　教它要把口气改过来：
　　"我恨"，她又把尾巴补缀，
　　那简直像明朗的白天
　　赶走了魔鬼似的黑夜，
　　把它从天堂甩进阴间。
　　　　她把"我恨"的恨字摒弃，
　　　　救了我的命说，"不是你"。
　　一四六
　　
　　可怜的灵魂，万恶身躯的中心，
　　被围攻你的叛逆势力所俘掳，
　　为何在暗中憔悴，忍受着饥馑，
　　却把外壁妆得那么堂皇丽都？
　　赁期那么短，这倾颓中的大厦
　　难道还值得你这样铺张浪费？
　　是否要让蛆虫来继承这奢华，
　　把它吃光？这可是肉体的依皈？
　　所以，灵魂，请拿你仆人来度日，
　　让他消瘦，以便充实你的贮藏，
　　拿无用时间来兑换永欠租期，
　　让内心得滋养，别管外表堂皇：
　　　　这样，你将吃掉那吃人的死神，
　　　　而死神一死，世上就永无死人。
　　一四七
　　
　　我的爱是一种热病，它老切盼
　　那能够使它长期保养的单方，
　　服食一种能维持病状的药散，
　　使多变的病态食欲长久盛旺。
　　理性（那医治我的爱情的医生）
　　生气我不遵守他给我的嘱咐，
　　把我扔下，使我绝望，因为不信
　　医药的欲望，我知道，是条死路。
　　我再无生望，既然丧失了理智，
　　整天都惶惑不安、烦躁、疯狂；
　　无论思想或谈话，全像个疯子，
　　脱离了真实，无目的，杂乱无章；
　　　　因为我曾赌咒说你美，说你璀璨，
　　　　你却是地狱一般黑，夜一般暗。
　　一四八
　　
　　唉，爱把什么眼睛装在我脑里，
　　使我完全认不清真正的景象？
　　竟错判了眼睛所见到的真相？
　　如果我眼睛所迷恋的真是美，
　　为何大家都异口同声不承认？
　　若真不美呢，那就绝对无可讳，
　　爱情的眼睛不如一般人看得真：
　　当然喽，它怎能够，爱眼怎能够
　　看得真呢，它日夜都泪水汪汪？
　　那么，我看不准又怎算得稀有？
　　太阳也要等天晴才照得明亮。
　　　　狡猾的爱神！你用泪把我弄瞎，
　　　　只因怕明眼把你的丑恶揭发。
　　一四九
　　
　　你怎能，哦，狠心的，否认我爱你，
　　当我和你协力把我自己厌恶？
　　我不是在想念你，当我为了你
　　完全忘掉我自己，哦，我的暴主？
　　我可曾把那恨你的人当朋友？
　　我可曾对你厌恶的人献殷勤？
　　不仅这样，你对我一皱起眉头，
　　我不是马上叹气，把自己痛恨？
　　我还有什么可以自豪的优点，
　　傲慢到不屑于为你服役奔命，
　　既然我的美都崇拜你的缺陷，
　　唯你的眼波的流徒转移是听？
　　　　但，爱呵，尽管憎吧，我已猜透你：
　　　　你爱那些明眼的，而我是瞎子。
　　一五○
　　
　　哦，从什么威力你取得这力量，
　　连缺陷也能把我的心灵支配？
　　教我诬蔑我可靠的目光撒谎，
　　并矢口否认太阳使白天明媚？
　　何来这化臭腐为神奇的本领，
　　使你的种种丑恶不堪的表现
　　都具有一种灵活强劲的保证，
　　使它们，对于我，超越一切至善？
　　谁教你有办法使我更加爱你，
　　当我听到和见到你种种可憎？
　　哦，尽管我锺爱着人家所嫌弃，
　　你总不该嫌弃我，同人家一条心：
　　　　既然你越不可爱，越使得我爱，
　　　　你就该觉得我更值得你喜爱。
　　一五一
　　
　　爱神太年轻，不懂得良心是什么；
　　但谁不晓得良心是爱情所产？
　　那么，好骗子，就别专找我的错，
　　免得我的罪把温婉的你也牵连。
　　因为，你出卖了我，我的笨肉体
　　又哄我出卖我更高贵的部分；
　　我灵魂叮嘱我肉体，说它可以
　　在爱情上胜利；肉体再不作声，
　　一听见你的名字就马上指出
　　你是它的胜利品；它趾高气扬，
　　死心蹋地作你最鄙贱的家奴，
　　任你颐指气使，或倒在你身旁。
　　　　所以我可问心无愧地称呼她
　　　　做"爱"，我为她的爱起来又倒下。
　　一五二
　　
　　你知道我对你的爱并不可靠，
　　但你赌咒爱我，这话更靠不住；
　　你撕掉床头盟，又把新约毁掉，
　　既结了新欢，又种下新的憎恶。
　　但我为什么责备你两番背盟，
　　自己却背了二十次！最反复是我；
　　我对你一切盟誓都只是滥用，
　　因而对于你已经失尽了信约。
　　我曾矢口作证你对我的深爱：
　　说你多热烈、多忠诚、永不变卦，
　　我使眼睛失明，好让你显光彩，
　　教眼睛发誓，把眼前景说成虚假--
　　　　我发誓说你美！还有比这荒唐：
　　　　抹煞真理去坚持那么黑的谎！
　　一五三
　　
　　爱神放下他的火炬，沉沉睡去：
　　月神的一个仙女乘了这机会
　　赶快把那枝煽动爱火的火炬
　　浸入山间一道冷冰冰的泉水；
　　泉水，既从这神圣的火炬得来
　　一股不灭的热，就永远在燃烧，
　　变成了沸腾的泉，一直到现在
　　还证实具有起死回生的功效。
　　但这火炬又在我情妇眼里点火，
　　为了试验，爱神碰一下我胸口，
　　我马上不舒服，又急躁又难过，
　　一刻不停地跑向温泉去求救，
　　　　但全不见效：能治好我的温泉
　　　　只有新燃起爱火的、我情人的眼。
　　一五四
　　
　　小小爱神有一次呼呼地睡着，
　　把点燃心焰的火炬放在一边，
　　一群蹁跹的贞洁的仙女恰巧
　　走过；其中最美的一个天仙
　　用她处女的手把那曾经烧红
　　万千颗赤心的火炬偷偷拿走，
　　于是这玩火小法师在酣睡中
　　便缴械给那贞女的纤纤素手。
　　她把火炬往附近冷泉里一浸，
　　泉水被爱神的烈火烧得沸腾，
　　变成了温泉，能消除人间百病；
　　但我呵，被我情妇播弄得头疼，
　　　　跑去温泉就医，才把这点弄清：
　　　　爱烧热泉水，泉水冷不了爱情。
　　
　　注　释
　　1. 诗神：即诗人，故下面用男性代词"他"字。
　　2. 当时制造假发的人常常买死人的头发作原料。
　　3. 土星在西欧星相学里是沉闷和忧郁的象征。
　　4. 烙印：耻辱。
　　5. 当时相信醋能防疫。
　　
　　（梁宗岱译）
　　
　　抚琴居扫校制作
　　
　　
　　
　　--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
　　
　　来吧，我们进监狱去
　　（李尔王台词）
　　
　　
　　
　　来吧，我们进监狱去。
　　我们俩要像笼中鸟一样的唱歌；
　　你要我祝福的时候，我会跪下去
　　求你宽恕。我们就这样过日子，
　　祈祷，唱歌，讲讲古老的故事，
　　笑蝴蝶披金，听那些可怜虫们闲话
　　宫廷的新闻；我们也要同他们
　　漫谈谁得胜，谁失败，谁当权，谁垮台；
　　由我们随意解释事态的秘密，
　　俨然是神明的密探。四壁高筑，
　　我们就冷看这一帮那一派大人物
　　随月圆月缺而一升一沉。
　　
　　（卞之琳译）
　　
　　
　　--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
　　
　　明天，又一个明天，又一个明天
　　（麦克白台词）
　　
　　
　　明天，又一个明天，又一个明天，
　　一天天偷搬着这种琐碎的脚步，
　　直到有纪录时间的末一个音节；
　　我们的昨天全部给傻子们照明了
　　入土的道路。熄了吧，熄了吧，短蜡烛！
　　人生只是个走影，可怜的演员
　　在台上摇摆了，暴跳了一阵子以后
　　就没有下落了；这是篇荒唐故事，
　　是白痴讲的，充满了喧嚣的吵闹，
　　没有一点儿意义。
　　
　　（卞之琳译）
　　
　　
　　--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
　　
　　热闹场结束了
　　（普洛佩斯罗台词）
　　
　　
　　
　　热闹场结束了。我们的这些演员，
　　我有话在先，原都是一些精灵，
　　现在都隐去了，变空无所有，
　　正像这一场幻象的虚无飘渺，
　　高耸入云的楼台、辉煌的宫阙、
　　庄严的庙宇、浩茫的大地本身、
　　地面的一切，也就会云散烟消，
　　也会像这个空洞的洋洋大观，
　　不留一丝的痕迹。我们就是
　　梦幻所用的材料，一场睡梦
　　环抱了短促的人生。
　　
　　（卞之琳译）

　　SONNET I
　　
　　From fairest creatures we desire increase,
　　That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
　　But as the riper should by time decease,
　　His tender heir might bear his memory:
　　But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, 5
　　Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
　　Making a famine where abundance lies,
　　Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
　　Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
　　And only herald to the gaudy spring, 10
　　Within thine own bud buriest thy content
　　And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
　　 Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
　　 To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET II
　　
　　When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
　　And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
　　Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
　　Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
　　Then being ask'd where all thy beauty lies, 5
　　Where all the treasure of thy lusty days,
　　To say, within thine own deep-sunken eyes,
　　Were an all-eating shame and thriftless praise.
　　How much more praise deserved thy beauty's use,
　　If thou couldst answer 'This fair child of mine 10
　　Shall sum my count and make my old excuse,'
　　Proving his beauty by succession thine!
　　 This were to be new made when thou art old,
　　 And see thy blood warm when thou feel'st it cold. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET III
　　
　　Look in thy glass, and tell the face thou viewest
　　Now is the time that face should form another;
　　Whose fresh repair if now thou not renewest,
　　Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother.
　　For where is she so fair whose unear'd womb 5
　　Disdains the tillage of thy husbandry?
　　Or who is he so fond will be the tomb
　　Of his self-love, to stop posterity?
　　Thou art thy mother's glass, and she in thee
　　Calls back the lovely April of her prime: 10
　　So thou through windows of thine age shall see
　　Despite of wrinkles this thy golden time.
　　 But if thou live, remember'd not to be,
　　 Die single, and thine image dies with thee. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET IV
　　
　　Unthrifty loveliness, why dost thou spend
　　Upon thyself thy beauty's legacy?
　　Nature's bequest gives nothing but doth lend,
　　And being frank she lends to those are free.
　　Then, beauteous niggard, why dost thou abuse 5
　　The bounteous largess given thee to give?
　　Profitless usurer, why dost thou use
　　So great a sum of sums, yet canst not live?
　　For having traffic with thyself alone,
　　Thou of thyself thy sweet self dost deceive. 10
　　Then how, when nature calls thee to be gone,
　　What acceptable audit canst thou leave?
　　 Thy unused beauty must be tomb'd with thee,
　　 Which, used, lives th' executor to be. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET V
　　
　　Those hours, that with gentle work did frame
　　The lovely gaze where every eye doth dwell,
　　Will play the tyrants to the very same
　　And that unfair which fairly doth excel:
　　For never-resting time leads summer on 5
　　To hideous winter and confounds him there;
　　Sap cheque'd with frost and lusty leaves quite gone,
　　Beauty o'ersnow'd and bareness every where:
　　Then, were not summer's distillation left,
　　A liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass, 10
　　Beauty's effect with beauty were bereft,
　　Nor it nor no remembrance what it was:
　　 But flowers distill'd though they with winter meet,
　　 Leese but their show; their substance still lives sweet. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET VI
　　
　　Then let not winter's ragged hand deface
　　In thee thy summer, ere thou be distill'd:
　　Make sweet some vial; treasure thou some place
　　With beauty's treasure, ere it be self-kill'd.
　　That use is not forbidden usury, 5
　　Which happies those that pay the willing loan;
　　That's for thyself to breed another thee,
　　Or ten times happier, be it ten for one;
　　Ten times thyself were happier than thou art,
　　If ten of thine ten times refigured thee: 10
　　Then what could death do, if thou shouldst depart,
　　Leaving thee living in posterity?
　　 Be not self-will'd, for thou art much too fair
　　 To be death's conquest and make worms thine heir. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET VII
　　
　　Lo! in the orient when the gracious light
　　Lifts up his burning head, each under eye
　　Doth homage to his new-appearing sight,
　　Serving with looks his sacred majesty;
　　And having climb'd the steep-up heavenly hill, 5
　　Resembling strong youth in his middle age,
　　yet mortal looks adore his beauty still,
　　Attending on his golden pilgrimage;
　　But when from highmost pitch, with weary car,
　　Like feeble age, he reeleth from the day, 10
　　The eyes, 'fore duteous, now converted are
　　From his low tract and look another way:
　　 So thou, thyself out-going in thy noon,
　　 Unlook'd on diest, unless thou get a son. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET VIII
　　
　　Music to hear, why hear'st thou music sadly?
　　Sweets with sweets war not, joy delights in joy.
　　Why lovest thou that which thou receivest not gladly,
　　Or else receivest with pleasure thine annoy?
　　If the true concord of well-tuned sounds, 5
　　By unions married, do offend thine ear,
　　They do but sweetly chide thee, who confounds
　　In singleness the parts that thou shouldst bear.
　　Mark how one string, sweet husband to another,
　　Strikes each in each by mutual ordering, 10
　　Resembling sire and child and happy mother
　　Who all in one, one pleasing note do sing:
　　 Whose speechless song, being many, seeming one,
　　 Sings this to thee: 'thou single wilt prove none.' 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET IX
　　
　　Is it for fear to wet a widow's eye
　　That thou consumest thyself in single life?
　　Ah! if thou issueless shalt hap to die.
　　The world will wail thee, like a makeless wife;
　　The world will be thy widow and still weep 5
　　That thou no form of thee hast left behind,
　　When every private widow well may keep
　　By children's eyes her husband's shape in mind.
　　Look, what an unthrift in the world doth spend
　　Shifts but his place, for still the world enjoys it; 10
　　But beauty's waste hath in the world an end,
　　And kept unused, the user so destroys it.
　　 No love toward others in that bosom sits
　　 That on himself such murderous shame commits. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET X
　　
　　For shame! deny that thou bear'st love to any,
　　Who for thyself art so unprovident.
　　Grant, if thou wilt, thou art beloved of many,
　　But that thou none lovest is most evident;
　　For thou art so possess'd with murderous hate 5
　　That 'gainst thyself thou stick'st not to conspire.
　　Seeking that beauteous roof to ruinate
　　Which to repair should be thy chief desire.
　　O, change thy thought, that I may change my mind!
　　Shall hate be fairer lodged than gentle love? 10
　　Be, as thy presence is, gracious and kind,
　　Or to thyself at least kind-hearted prove:
　　 Make thee another self, for love of me,
　　 That beauty still may live in thine or thee. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET XI
　　
　　As fast as thou shalt wane, so fast thou growest
　　In one of thine, from that which thou departest;
　　And that fresh blood which youngly thou bestowest
　　Thou mayst call thine when thou from youth convertest.
　　Herein lives wisdom, beauty and increase: 5
　　Without this, folly, age and cold decay:
　　If all were minded so, the times should cease
　　And threescore year would make the world away.
　　Let those whom Nature hath not made for store,
　　Harsh featureless and rude, barrenly perish: 10
　　Look, whom she best endow'd she gave the more;
　　Which bounteous gift thou shouldst in bounty cherish:
　　 She carved thee for her seal, and meant thereby
　　 Thou shouldst print more, not let that copy die. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET XII
　　
　　When I do count the clock that tells the time,
　　And see the brave day sunk in hideous night;
　　When I behold the violet past prime,
　　And sable curls all silver'd o'er with white;
　　When lofty trees I see barren of leaves 5
　　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, 10
　　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. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET XIII
　　
　　O, that you were yourself! but, love, you are
　　No longer yours than you yourself 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 5
　　Find no determination: then you were
　　Yourself again after yourself'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 10
　　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
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET XIV
　　
　　Not from the stars do I my judgment 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, 5
　　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 10
　　As truth and beauty shall together thrive,
　　If from thyself to store thou wouldst convert;
　　 Or else of thee this I prognosticate:
　　 Thy end is truth's and beauty's doom and date. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET XV
　　
　　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, 5
　　Cheered and cheque'd 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, 10
　　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. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET XVI
　　
　　But wherefore do not you a mightier way
　　Make war upon this bloody tyrant, Time?
　　And fortify yourself in your decay
　　With means more blessed than my barren rhyme?
　　Now stand you on the top of happy hours, 5
　　And many maiden gardens yet unset
　　With virtuous wish would bear your 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, 10
　　Neither in inward worth nor outward fair,
　　Can make you live yourself in eyes of men.
　　 To give away yourself keeps yourself still,
　　 And you must live, drawn by your own sweet skill. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET XVII
　　
　　Who will believe my verse in time to come,
　　If it were fill'd 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 5
　　And in fresh numbers number all your graces,
　　The age to come would say 'This poet lies:
　　Such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces.'
　　So should my papers yellow'd with their age
　　Be scorn'd like old men of less truth than tongue, 10
　　And your true rights be term'd 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. 14

　　SONNET XVIII
　　
　　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,
　　And summer's lease hath all too short a date:
　　Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, 5
　　And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;
　　And every fair from fair sometime declines,
　　By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd;
　　But thy eternal summer shall not fade
　　Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest; 10
　　Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,
　　When in eternal lines to time thou growest:
　　 So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
　　 So long lives this and this gives life to thee. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET XIX
　　
　　Devouring Time, blunt thou the lion's paws,
　　And make the earth devour her own sweet brood;
　　Pluck the keen teeth from the fierce tiger's jaws,
　　And burn the long-lived phoenix in her blood;
　　Make glad and sorry seasons as thou fleets, 5
　　And do whate'er thou wilt, swift-footed Time,
　　To the wide world and all her fading sweets;
　　But I forbid thee one most heinous crime:
　　O, carve not with thy hours my love's fair brow,
　　Nor draw no lines there with thine antique pen; 10
　　Him in thy course untainted do allow
　　For beauty's pattern to succeeding men.
　　 Yet, do thy worst, old Time: despite thy wrong,
　　 My love shall in my verse ever live young. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET XX
　　
　　A woman's face with Nature's own hand painted
　　Hast thou, the master-mistress of my passion;
　　A woman's gentle heart, but not acquainted
　　With shifting change, as is false women's fashion;
　　An eye more bright than theirs, less false in rolling, 5
　　Gilding the object whereupon it gazeth;
　　A man in hue, all 'hues' in his controlling,
　　Much steals men's eyes and women's souls amazeth.
　　And for a woman wert thou first created;
　　Till Nature, as she wrought thee, fell a-doting, 10
　　And by addition me of thee defeated,
　　By adding one thing to my purpose nothing.
　　 But since she prick'd thee out for women's pleasure,
　　 Mine be thy love and thy love's use their treasure. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET XXI
　　
　　So is it not with me as with that Muse
　　Stirr'd by a painted beauty to his verse,
　　Who heaven itself for ornament doth use
　　And every fair with his fair doth rehearse
　　Making a couplement of proud compare, 5
　　With sun and moon, with earth and sea's rich gems,
　　With April's first-born flowers, and all things rare
　　That heaven's air in this huge rondure hems.
　　O' let me, true in love, but truly write,
　　And then believe me, my love is as fair 10
　　As any mother's child, though not so bright
　　As those gold candles fix'd in heaven's air:
　　 Let them say more than like of hearsay well;
　　 I will not praise that purpose not to sell. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET XXII
　　
　　My glass shall not persuade me I am old,
　　So long as youth and thou are of one date;
　　But when in thee time's furrows I behold,
　　Then look I death my days should expiate.
　　For all that beauty that doth cover thee 5
　　Is but the seemly raiment of my heart,
　　Which in thy breast doth live, as thine in me:
　　How can I then be elder than thou art?
　　O, therefore, love, be of thyself so wary
　　As I, not for myself, but for thee will; 10
　　Bearing thy heart, which I will keep so chary
　　As tender nurse her babe from faring ill.
　　 Presume not on thy heart when mine is slain;
　　 Thou gavest me thine, not to give back again. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET XXIII
　　
　　As an unperfect actor on the stage
　　Who with his fear is put besides his part,
　　Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage,
　　Whose strength's abundance weakens his own heart.
　　So I, for fear of trust, forget to say 5
　　The perfect ceremony of love's rite,
　　And in mine own love's strength seem to decay,
　　O'ercharged with burden of mine own love's might.
　　O, let my books be then the eloquence
　　And dumb presagers of my speaking breast, 10
　　Who plead for love and look for recompense
　　More than that tongue that more hath more express'd.
　　 O, learn to read what silent love hath writ:
　　 To hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET XXIV
　　
　　Mine eye hath play'd the painter and hath stell'd
　　Thy beauty's form in table of my heart;
　　My body is the frame wherein 'tis held,
　　And perspective it is the painter's art.
　　For through the painter must you see his skill, 5
　　To find where your true image pictured lies;
　　Which in my bosom's shop is hanging still,
　　That hath his windows glazed with thine eyes.
　　Now see what good turns eyes for eyes have done:
　　Mine eyes have drawn thy shape, and thine for me 10
　　Are windows to my breast, where-through the sun
　　Delights to peep, to gaze therein on thee;
　　 Yet eyes this cunning want to grace their art;
　　 They draw but what they see, know not the heart. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET XXV
　　
　　Let those who are in favour with their stars
　　Of public honour and proud titles boast,
　　Whilst I, whom fortune of such triumph bars,
　　Unlook'd for joy in that I honour most.
　　Great princes' favourites their fair leaves spread 5
　　But as the marigold at the sun's eye,
　　And in themselves their pride lies buried,
　　For at a frown they in their glory die.
　　The painful warrior famoused for fight,
　　After a thousand victories once foil'd, 10
　　Is from the book of honour razed quite,
　　And all the rest forgot for which he toil'd:
　　 Then happy I, that love and am beloved
　　 Where I may not remove nor be removed. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET XXVI
　　
　　Lord of my love, to whom in vassalage
　　Thy merit hath my duty strongly knit,
　　To thee I send this written embassage,
　　To witness duty, not to show my wit:
　　Duty so great, which wit so poor as mine 5
　　May make seem bare, in wanting words to show it,
　　But that I hope some good conceit of thine
　　In thy soul's thought, all naked, will bestow it;
　　Till whatsoever star that guides my moving
　　Points on me graciously with fair aspect 10
　　And puts apparel on my tatter'd loving,
　　To show me worthy of thy sweet respect:
　　 Then may I dare to boast how I do love thee;
　　 Till then not show my head where thou mayst prove me. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET XXVII
　　
　　Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed,
　　The dear repose for limbs with travel tired;
　　But then begins a journey in my head,
　　To work my mind, when body's work's expired:
　　For then my thoughts, from far where I abide, 5
　　Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee,
　　And keep my drooping eyelids open wide,
　　Looking on darkness which the blind do see
　　Save that my soul's imaginary sight
　　Presents thy shadow to my sightless view, 10
　　Which, like a jewel hung in ghastly night,
　　Makes black night beauteous and her old face new.
　　 Lo! thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind,
　　 For thee and for myself no quiet find. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET XXVIII
　　
　　How can I then return in happy plight,
　　That am debarr'd the benefit of rest?
　　When day's oppression is not eased by night,
　　But day by night, and night by day, oppress'd?
　　And each, though enemies to either's reign, 5
　　Do in consent shake hands to torture me;
　　The one by toil, the other to complain
　　How far I toil, still farther off from thee.
　　I tell the day, to please them thou art bright
　　And dost him grace when clouds do blot the heaven: 10
　　So flatter I the swart-complexion'd night,
　　When sparkling stars twire not thou gild'st the even.
　　 But day doth daily draw my sorrows longer
　　 And night doth nightly make grief's strength seem stronger. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET XXIX
　　
　　When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,
　　I all alone beweep my outcast state
　　And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries
　　And look upon myself and curse my fate,
　　Wishing me like to one more rich in hope, 5
　　Featured like him, like him with friends possess'd,
　　Desiring this man's art and that man's scope,
　　With what I most enjoy contented least;
　　Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
　　Haply I think on thee, and then my state, 10
　　Like to the lark at break of day arising
　　From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate;
　　 For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings
　　 That then I scorn to change my state with kings. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET XXX
　　
　　When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
　　I summon up remembrance of things past,
　　I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,
　　And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste:
　　Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow, 5
　　For precious friends hid in death's dateless night,
　　And weep afresh love's long since cancell'd woe,
　　And moan the expense of many a vanish'd sight:
　　Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,
　　And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er 10
　　The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan,
　　Which I new pay as if not paid before.
　　 But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,
　　 All losses are restored and sorrows end. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET XXXI
　　
　　Thy bosom is endeared with all hearts,
　　Which I by lacking have supposed dead,
　　And there reigns love and all love's loving parts,
　　And all those friends which I thought buried.
　　How many a holy and obsequious tear 5
　　Hath dear religious love stol'n from mine eye
　　As interest of the dead, which now appear
　　But things removed that hidden in thee lie!
　　Thou art the grave where buried love doth live,
　　Hung with the trophies of my lovers gone, 10
　　Who all their parts of me to thee did give;
　　That due of many now is thine alone:
　　 Their images I loved I view in thee,
　　 And thou, all they, hast all the all of me. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET XXXII
　　
　　If thou survive my well-contented day,
　　When that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover,
　　And shalt by fortune once more re-survey
　　These poor rude lines of thy deceased lover,
　　Compare them with the bettering of the time, 5
　　And though they be outstripp'd by every pen,
　　Reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme,
　　Exceeded by the height of happier men.
　　O, then vouchsafe me but this loving thought:
　　'Had my friend's Muse grown with this growing age, 10
　　A dearer birth than this his love had brought,
　　To march in ranks of better equipage:
　　 But since he died and poets better prove,
　　 Theirs for their style I'll read, his for his love.' 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET XXXIII
　　
　　Full many a glorious morning have I seen
　　Flatter the mountain-tops with sovereign eye,
　　Kissing with golden face the meadows green,
　　Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy;
　　Anon permit the basest clouds to ride 5
　　With ugly rack on his celestial face,
　　And from the forlorn world his visage hide,
　　Stealing unseen to west with this disgrace:
　　Even so my sun one early morn did shine
　　With all triumphant splendor on my brow; 10
　　But out, alack! he was but one hour mine;
　　The region cloud hath mask'd him from me now.
　　 Yet him for this my love no whit disdaineth;
　　 Suns of the world may stain when heaven's sun staineth. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET XXXIV
　　
　　Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day,
　　And make me travel forth without my cloak,
　　To let base clouds o'ertake me in my way,
　　Hiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke?
　　'Tis not enough that through the cloud thou break, 5
　　To dry the rain on my storm-beaten face,
　　For no man well of such a salve can speak
　　That heals the wound and cures not the disgrace:
　　Nor can thy shame give physic to my grief;
　　Though thou repent, yet I have still the loss: 10
　　The offender's sorrow lends but weak relief
　　To him that bears the strong offence's cross.
　　 Ah! but those tears are pearl which thy love sheds,
　　 And they are rich and ransom all ill deeds. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET XXXV
　　
　　No more be grieved at that which thou hast done:
　　Roses have thorns, and silver fountains mud;
　　Clouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun,
　　And loathsome canker lives in sweetest bud.
　　All men make faults, and even I in this, 5
　　Authorizing thy trespass with compare,
　　Myself corrupting, salving thy amiss,
　　Excusing thy sins more than thy sins are;
　　For to thy sensual fault I bring in sense--
　　Thy adverse party is thy advocate-- 10
　　And 'gainst myself a lawful plea commence:
　　Such civil war is in my love and hate
　　 That I an accessary needs must be
　　 To that sweet thief which sourly robs from me. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET XXXVI
　　
　　Let me confess that we two must be twain,
　　Although our undivided loves are one:
　　So shall those blots that do with me remain
　　Without thy help by me be borne alone.
　　In our two loves there is but one respect, 5
　　Though in our lives a separable spite,
　　Which though it alter not love's sole effect,
　　Yet doth it steal sweet hours from love's delight.
　　I may not evermore acknowledge thee,
　　Lest my bewailed guilt should do thee shame, 10
　　Nor thou with public kindness honour me,
　　Unless thou take that honour from thy name:
　　 But do not so; I love thee in such sort
　　 As, thou being mine, mine is thy good report. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET XXXVII
　　
　　As a decrepit father takes delight
　　To see his active child do deeds of youth,
　　So I, made lame by fortune's dearest spite,
　　Take all my comfort of thy worth and truth.
　　For whether beauty, birth, or wealth, or wit, 5
　　Or any of these all, or all, or more,
　　Entitled in thy parts do crowned sit,
　　I make my love engrafted to this store:
　　So then I am not lame, poor, nor despised,
　　Whilst that this shadow doth such substance give 10
　　That I in thy abundance am sufficed
　　And by a part of all thy glory live.
　　 Look, what is best, that best I wish in thee:
　　 This wish I have; then ten times happy me! 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET XXXVIII
　　
　　How can my Muse want subject to invent,
　　While thou dost breathe, that pour'st into my verse
　　Thine own sweet argument, too excellent
　　For every vulgar paper to rehearse?
　　O, give thyself the thanks, if aught in me 5
　　Worthy perusal stand against thy sight;
　　For who's so dumb that cannot write to thee,
　　When thou thyself dost give invention light?
　　Be thou the tenth Muse, ten times more in worth
　　Than those old nine which rhymers invocate; 10
　　And he that calls on thee, let him bring forth
　　Eternal numbers to outlive long date.
　　 If my slight Muse do please these curious days,
　　 The pain be mine, but thine shall be the praise. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET XXXIX
　　
　　O, how thy worth with manners may I sing,
　　When thou art all the better part of me?
　　What can mine own praise to mine own self bring?
　　And what is 't but mine own when I praise thee?
　　Even for this let us divided live, 5
　　And our dear love lose name of single one,
　　That by this separation I may give
　　That due to thee which thou deservest alone.
　　O absence, what a torment wouldst thou prove,
　　Were it not thy sour leisure gave sweet leave 10
　　To entertain the time with thoughts of love,
　　Which time and thoughts so sweetly doth deceive,
　　 And that thou teachest how to make one twain,
　　 By praising him here who doth hence remain! 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET XL
　　
　　Take all my loves, my love, yea, take them all;
　　What hast thou then more than thou hadst before?
　　No love, my love, that thou mayst true love call;
　　All mine was thine before thou hadst this more.
　　Then if for my love thou my love receivest, 5
　　I cannot blame thee for my love thou usest;
　　But yet be blamed, if thou thyself deceivest
　　By wilful taste of what thyself refusest.
　　I do forgive thy robbery, gentle thief,
　　Although thou steal thee all my poverty; 10
　　And yet, love knows, it is a greater grief
　　To bear love's wrong than hate's known injury.
　　 Lascivious grace, in whom all ill well shows,
　　 Kill me with spites; yet we must not be foes. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET XLI
　　
　　Those petty wrongs that liberty commits,
　　When I am sometime absent from thy heart,
　　Thy beauty and thy years full well befits,
　　For still temptation follows where thou art.
　　Gentle thou art and therefore to be won, 5
　　Beauteous thou art, therefore to be assailed;
　　And when a woman woos, what woman's son
　　Will sourly leave her till she have prevailed?
　　Ay me! but yet thou mightest my seat forbear,
　　And chide try beauty and thy straying youth, 10
　　Who lead thee in their riot even there
　　Where thou art forced to break a twofold truth,
　　 Hers by thy beauty tempting her to thee,
　　 Thine, by thy beauty being false to me. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET XLII
　　
　　That thou hast her, it is not all my grief,
　　And yet it may be said I loved her dearly;
　　That she hath thee, is of my wailing chief,
　　A loss in love that touches me more nearly.
　　Loving offenders, thus I will excuse ye: 5
　　Thou dost love her, because thou knowst I love her;
　　And for my sake even so doth she abuse me,
　　Suffering my friend for my sake to approve her.
　　If I lose thee, my loss is my love's gain,
　　And losing her, my friend hath found that loss; 10
　　Both find each other, and I lose both twain,
　　And both for my sake lay on me this cross:
　　 But here's the joy; my friend and I are one;
　　 Sweet flattery! then she loves but me alone. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET XLIII
　　
　　When most I wink, then do mine eyes best see,
　　For all the day they view things unrespected;
　　But when I sleep, in dreams they look on thee,
　　And darkly bright are bright in dark directed.
　　Then thou, whose shadow shadows doth make bright, 5
　　How would thy shadow's form form happy show
　　To the clear day with thy much clearer light,
　　When to unseeing eyes thy shade shines so!
　　How would, I say, mine eyes be blessed made
　　By looking on thee in the living day, 10
　　When in dead night thy fair imperfect shade
　　Through heavy sleep on sightless eyes doth stay!
　　 All days are nights to see till I see thee,
　　 And nights bright days when dreams do show thee me. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET XLIV
　　
　　If the dull substance of my flesh were thought,
　　Injurious distance should not stop my way;
　　For then despite of space I would be brought,
　　From limits far remote where thou dost stay.
　　No matter then although my foot did stand 5
　　Upon the farthest earth removed from thee;
　　For nimble thought can jump both sea and land
　　As soon as think the place where he would be.
　　But ah! thought kills me that I am not thought,
　　To leap large lengths of miles when thou art gone, 10
　　But that so much of earth and water wrought
　　I must attend time's leisure with my moan,
　　 Receiving nought by elements so slow
　　 But heavy tears, badges of either's woe. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET XLV
　　
　　The other two, slight air and purging fire,
　　Are both with thee, wherever I abide;
　　The first my thought, the other my desire,
　　These present-absent with swift motion slide.
　　For when these quicker elements are gone 5
　　In tender embassy of love to thee,
　　My life, being made of four, with two alone
　　Sinks down to death, oppress'd with melancholy;
　　Until life's composition be recured
　　By those swift messengers return'd from thee, 10
　　Who even but now come back again, assured
　　Of thy fair health, recounting it to me:
　　 This told, I joy; but then no longer glad,
　　 I send them back again and straight grow sad. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET XLVI
　　
　　Mine eye and heart are at a mortal war
　　How to divide the conquest of thy sight;
　　Mine eye my heart thy picture's sight would bar,
　　My heart mine eye the freedom of that right.
　　My heart doth plead that thou in him dost lie-- 5
　　A closet never pierced with crystal eyes--
　　But the defendant doth that plea deny
　　And says in him thy fair appearance lies.
　　To 'cide this title is impanneled
　　A quest of thoughts, all tenants to the heart, 10
　　And by their verdict is determined
　　The clear eye's moiety and the dear heart's part:
　　 As thus; mine eye's due is thy outward part,
　　 And my heart's right thy inward love of heart. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET XLVII
　　
　　Betwixt mine eye and heart a league is took,
　　And each doth good turns now unto the other:
　　When that mine eye is famish'd for a look,
　　Or heart in love with sighs himself doth smother,
　　With my love's picture then my eye doth feast 5
　　And to the painted banquet bids my heart;
　　Another time mine eye is my heart's guest
　　And in his thoughts of love doth share a part:
　　So, either by thy picture or my love,
　　Thyself away art resent still with me; 10
　　For thou not farther than my thoughts canst move,
　　And I am still with them and they with thee;
　　 Or, if they sleep, thy picture in my sight
　　 Awakes my heart to heart's and eye's delight. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET XLVIII
　　
　　How careful was I, when I took my way,
　　Each trifle under truest bars to thrust,
　　That to my use it might unused stay
　　From hands of falsehood, in sure wards of trust!
　　But thou, to whom my jewels trifles are, 5
　　Most worthy of comfort, now my greatest grief,
　　Thou, best of dearest and mine only care,
　　Art left the prey of every vulgar thief.
　　Thee have I not lock'd up in any chest,
　　Save where thou art not, though I feel thou art, 10
　　Within the gentle closure of my breast,
　　From whence at pleasure thou mayst come and part;
　　 And even thence thou wilt be stol'n, I fear,
　　 For truth proves thievish for a prize so dear. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET XLIX
　　
　　Against that time, if ever that time come,
　　When I shall see thee frown on my defects,
　　When as thy love hath cast his utmost sum,
　　Call'd to that audit by advised respects;
　　Against that time when thou shalt strangely pass 5
　　And scarcely greet me with that sun thine eye,
　　When love, converted from the thing it was,
　　Shall reasons find of settled gravity,--
　　Against that time do I ensconce me here
　　Within the knowledge of mine own desert, 10
　　And this my hand against myself uprear,
　　To guard the lawful reasons on thy part:
　　 To leave poor me thou hast the strength of laws,
　　 Since why to love I can allege no cause. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET L
　　
　　How heavy do I journey on the way,
　　When what I seek, my weary travel's end,
　　Doth teach that ease and that repose to say
　　'Thus far the miles are measured from thy friend!'
　　The beast that bears me, tired with my woe, 5
　　Plods dully on, to bear that weight in me,
　　As if by some instinct the wretch did know
　　His rider loved not speed, being made from thee:
　　The bloody spur cannot provoke him on
　　That sometimes anger thrusts into his hide; 10
　　Which heavily he answers with a groan,
　　More sharp to me than spurring to his side;
　　 For that same groan doth put this in my mind;
　　 My grief lies onward and my joy behind. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET LI
　　
　　Thus can my love excuse the slow offence
　　Of my dull bearer when from thee I speed:
　　From where thou art why should I haste me thence?
　　Till I return, of posting is no need.
　　O, what excuse will my poor beast then find, 5
　　When swift extremity can seem but slow?
　　Then should I spur, though mounted on the wind;
　　In winged speed no motion shall I know:
　　Then can no horse with my desire keep pace;
　　Therefore desire of perfect'st love being made, 10
　　Shall neigh--no dull flesh--in his fiery race;
　　But love, for love, thus shall excuse my jade;
　　 Since from thee going he went wilful-slow,
　　 Towards thee I'll run, and give him leave to go. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET LII
　　
　　So am I as the rich, whose blessed key
　　Can bring him to his sweet up-locked treasure,
　　The which he will not every hour survey,
　　For blunting the fine point of seldom pleasure.
　　Therefore are feasts so solemn and so rare, 5
　　Since, seldom coming, in the long year set,
　　Like stones of worth they thinly placed are,
　　Or captain jewels in the carcanet.
　　So is the time that keeps you as my chest,
　　Or as the wardrobe which the robe doth hide, 10
　　To make some special instant special blest,
　　By new unfolding his imprison'd pride.
　　 Blessed are you, whose worthiness gives scope,
　　 Being had, to triumph, being lack'd, to hope. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET LIII
　　
　　What is your substance, whereof are you made,
　　That millions of strange shadows on you tend?
　　Since every one hath, every one, one shade,
　　And you, but one, can every shadow lend.
　　Describe Adonis, and the counterfeit 5
　　Is poorly imitated after you;
　　On Helen's cheek all art of beauty set,
　　And you in Grecian tires are painted new:
　　Speak of the spring and foison of the year;
　　The one doth shadow of your beauty show, 10
　　The other as your bounty doth appear;
　　And you in every blessed shape we know.
　　 In all external grace you have some part,
　　 But you like none, none you, for constant heart. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET LIV
　　
　　O, how much more doth beauty beauteous seem
　　By that sweet ornament which truth doth give!
　　The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem
　　For that sweet odour which doth in it live.
　　The canker-blooms have full as deep a dye 5
　　As the perfumed tincture of the roses,
　　Hang on such thorns and play as wantonly
　　When summer's breath their masked buds discloses:
　　But, for their virtue only is their show,
　　They live unwoo'd and unrespected fade, 10
　　Die to themselves. Sweet roses do not so;
　　Of their sweet deaths are sweetest odours made:
　　 And so of you, beauteous and lovely youth,
　　 When that shall fade, my verse distills your truth. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET LV
　　
　　Not marble, nor the gilded monuments
　　Of princes, shall outlive this powerful rhyme;
　　But you shall shine more bright in these contents
　　Than unswept stone besmear'd with sluttish time.
　　When wasteful war shall statues overturn, 5
　　And broils root out the work of masonry,
　　Nor Mars his sword nor war's quick fire shall burn
　　The living record of your memory.
　　'Gainst death and all-oblivious enmity
　　Shall you pace forth; your praise shall still find room 10
　　Even in the eyes of all posterity
　　That wear this world out to the ending doom.
　　 So, till the judgment that yourself arise,
　　 You live in this, and dwell in lover's eyes. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET LVI
　　
　　Sweet love, renew thy force; be it not said
　　Thy edge should blunter be than appetite,
　　Which but to-day by feeding is allay'd,
　　To-morrow sharpen'd in his former might:
　　So, love, be thou; although to-day thou fill 5
　　Thy hungry eyes even till they wink with fullness,
　　To-morrow see again, and do not kill
　　The spirit of love with a perpetual dullness.
　　Let this sad interim like the ocean be
　　Which parts the shore, where two contracted new 10
　　Come daily to the banks, that, when they see
　　Return of love, more blest may be the view;
　　 Else call it winter, which being full of care
　　 Makes summer's welcome thrice more wish'd, more rare. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET LVII
　　
　　Being your slave, what should I do but tend
　　Upon the hours and times of your desire?
　　I have no precious time at all to spend,
　　Nor services to do, till you require.
　　Nor dare I chide the world-without-end hour 5
　　Whilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for you,
　　Nor think the bitterness of absence sour
　　When you have bid your servant once adieu;
　　Nor dare I question with my jealous thought
　　Where you may be, or your affairs suppose, 10
　　But, like a sad slave, stay and think of nought
　　Save, where you are how happy you make those.
　　 So true a fool is love that in your will,
　　 Though you do any thing, he thinks no ill. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET LVIII
　　
　　That god forbid that made me first your slave,
　　I should in thought control your times of pleasure,
　　Or at your hand the account of hours to crave,
　　Being your vassal, bound to stay your leisure!
　　O, let me suffer, being at your beck, 5
　　The imprison'd absence of your liberty;
　　And patience, tame to sufferance, bide each cheque,
　　Without accusing you of injury.
　　Be where you list, your charter is so strong
　　That you yourself may privilege your time 10
　　To what you will; to you it doth belong
　　Yourself to pardon of self-doing crime.
　　 I am to wait, though waiting so be hell;
　　 Not blame your pleasure, be it ill or well. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET LIX
　　
　　If there be nothing new, but that which is
　　Hath been before, how are our brains beguiled,
　　Which, labouring for invention, bear amiss
　　The second burden of a former child!
　　O, that record could with a backward look, 5
　　Even of five hundred courses of the sun,
　　Show me your image in some antique book,
　　Since mind at first in character was done!
　　That I might see what the old world could say
　　To this composed wonder of your frame; 10
　　Whether we are mended, or whether better they,
　　Or whether revolution be the same.
　　 O, sure I am, the wits of former days
　　 To subjects worse have given admiring praise. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET LX
　　
　　Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore,
　　So do our minutes hasten to their end;
　　Each changing place with that which goes before,
　　In sequent toil all forwards do contend.
　　Nativity, once in the main of light, 5
　　Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crown'd,
　　Crooked elipses 'gainst his glory fight,
　　And Time that gave doth now his gift confound.
　　Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth
　　And delves the parallels in beauty's brow, 10
　　Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth,
　　And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow:
　　 And yet to times in hope my verse shall stand,
　　 Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET LXI
　　
　　Is it thy will thy image should keep open
　　My heavy eyelids to the weary night?
　　Dost thou desire my slumbers should be broken,
　　While shadows like to thee do mock my sight?
　　Is it thy spirit that thou send'st from thee 5
　　So far from home into my deeds to pry,
　　To find out shames and idle hours in me,
　　The scope and tenor of thy jealousy?
　　O, no! thy love, though much, is not so great:
　　It is my love that keeps mine eye awake; 10
　　Mine own true love that doth my rest defeat,
　　To play the watchman ever for thy sake:
　　 For thee watch I whilst thou dost wake elsewhere,
　　 From me far off, with others all too near. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET LXII
　　
　　Sin of self-love possesseth all mine eye
　　And all my soul and all my every part;
　　And for this sin there is no remedy,
　　It is so grounded inward in my heart.
　　Methinks no face so gracious is as mine, 5
　　No shape so true, no truth of such account;
　　And for myself mine own worth do define,
　　As I all other in all worths surmount.
　　But when my glass shows me myself indeed,
　　Beated and chopp'd with tann'd antiquity, 10
　　Mine own self-love quite contrary I read;
　　Self so self-loving were iniquity.
　　 'Tis thee, myself, that for myself I praise,
　　 Painting my age with beauty of thy days. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET LXIII
　　
　　Against my love shall be, as I am now,
　　With Time's injurious hand crush'd and o'er-worn;
　　When hours have drain'd his blood and fill'd his brow
　　With lines and wrinkles; when his youthful morn
　　Hath travell'd on to age's steepy night, 5
　　And all those beauties whereof now he's king
　　Are vanishing or vanish'd out of sight,
　　Stealing away the treasure of his spring;
　　For such a time do I now fortify
　　Against confounding age's cruel knife, 10
　　That he shall never cut from memory
　　My sweet love's beauty, though my lover's life:
　　 His beauty shall in these black lines be seen,
　　 And they shall live, and he in them still green. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET LXIV
　　
　　When I have seen by Time's fell hand defaced
　　The rich proud cost of outworn buried age;
　　When sometime lofty towers I see down-razed
　　And brass eternal slave to mortal rage;
　　When I have seen the hungry ocean gain 5
　　Advantage on the kingdom of the shore,
　　And the firm soil win of the watery main,
　　Increasing store with loss and loss with store;
　　When I have seen such interchange of state,
　　Or state itself confounded to decay; 10
　　Ruin hath taught me thus to ruminate,
　　That Time will come and take my love away.
　　 This thought is as a death, which cannot choose
　　 But weep to have that which it fears to lose. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET LXV
　　
　　Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea,
　　But sad mortality o'er-sways their power,
　　How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea,
　　Whose action is no stronger than a flower?
　　O, how shall summer's honey breath hold out 5
　　Against the wreckful siege of battering days,
　　When rocks impregnable are not so stout,
　　Nor gates of steel so strong, but Time decays?
　　O fearful meditation! where, alack,
　　Shall Time's best jewel from Time's chest lie hid? 10
　　Or what strong hand can hold his swift foot back?
　　Or who his spoil of beauty can forbid?
　　 O, none, unless this miracle have might,
　　 That in black ink my love may still shine bright. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET LXVI
　　
　　Tired with all these, for restful death I cry,
　　As, to behold desert a beggar born,
　　And needy nothing trimm'd in jollity,
　　And purest faith unhappily forsworn,
　　And guilded honour shamefully misplaced, 5
　　And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted,
　　And right perfection wrongfully disgraced,
　　And strength by limping sway disabled,
　　And art made tongue-tied by authority,
　　And folly doctor-like controlling skill, 10
　　And simple truth miscall'd simplicity,
　　And captive good attending captain ill:
　　 Tired with all these, from these would I be gone,
　　 Save that, to die, I leave my love alone. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET LXVII
　　
　　Ah! wherefore with infection should he live,
　　And with his presence grace impiety,
　　That sin by him advantage should achieve
　　And lace itself with his society?
　　Why should false painting imitate his cheek 5
　　And steal dead seeing of his living hue?
　　Why should poor beauty indirectly seek
　　Roses of shadow, since his rose is true?
　　Why should he live, now Nature bankrupt is,
　　Beggar'd of blood to blush through lively veins? 10
　　For she hath no exchequer now but his,
　　And, proud of many, lives upon his gains.
　　 O, him she stores, to show what wealth she had
　　 In days long since, before these last so bad. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET LXVIII
　　
　　Thus is his cheek the map of days outworn,
　　When beauty lived and died as flowers do now,
　　Before the bastard signs of fair were born,
　　Or durst inhabit on a living brow;
　　Before the golden tresses of the dead, 5
　　The right of sepulchres, were shorn away,
　　To live a second life on second head;
　　Ere beauty's dead fleece made another gay:
　　In him those holy antique hours are seen,
　　Without all ornament, itself and true, 10
　　Making no summer of another's green,
　　Robbing no old to dress his beauty new;
　　 And him as for a map doth Nature store,
　　 To show false Art what beauty was of yore. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET LXIX
　　
　　Those parts of thee that the world's eye doth view
　　Want nothing that the thought of hearts can mend;
　　All tongues, the voice of souls, give thee that due,
　　Uttering bare truth, even so as foes commend.
　　Thy outward thus with outward praise is crown'd; 5
　　But those same tongues that give thee so thine own
　　In other accents do this praise confound
　　By seeing farther than the eye hath shown.
　　They look into the beauty of thy mind,
　　And that, in guess, they measure by thy deeds; 10
　　Then, churls, their thoughts, although their eyes were kind,
　　To thy fair flower add the rank smell of weeds:
　　 But why thy odour matcheth not thy show,
　　 The solve is this, that thou dost common grow. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET LXX
　　
　　That thou art blamed shall not be thy defect,
　　For slander's mark was ever yet the fair;
　　The ornament of beauty is suspect,
　　A crow that flies in heaven's sweetest air.
　　So thou be good, slander doth but approve 5
　　Thy worth the greater, being woo'd of time;
　　For canker vice the sweetest buds doth love,
　　And thou present'st a pure unstained prime.
　　Thou hast pass'd by the ambush of young days,
　　Either not assail'd or victor being charged; 10
　　Yet this thy praise cannot be so thy praise,
　　To tie up envy evermore enlarged:
　　 If some suspect of ill mask'd not thy show,
　　 Then thou alone kingdoms of hearts shouldst owe. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET LXXI
　　
　　No longer mourn for me when I am dead
　　Then you shall hear the surly sullen bell
　　Give warning to the world that I am fled
　　From this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell:
　　Nay, if you read this line, remember not 5
　　The hand that writ it; for I love you so
　　That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot
　　If thinking on me then should make you woe.
　　O, if, I say, you look upon this verse
　　When I perhaps compounded am with clay, 10
　　Do not so much as my poor name rehearse.
　　But let your love even with my life decay,
　　 Lest the wise world should look into your moan
　　 And mock you with me after I am gone. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET LXXII
　　
　　O, lest the world should task you to recite
　　What merit lived in me, that you should love
　　After my death, dear love, forget me quite,
　　For you in me can nothing worthy prove;
　　Unless you would devise some virtuous lie, 5
　　To do more for me than mine own desert,
　　And hang more praise upon deceased I
　　Than niggard truth would willingly impart:
　　O, lest your true love may seem false in this,
　　That you for love speak well of me untrue, 10
　　My name be buried where my body is,
　　And live no more to shame nor me nor you.
　　 For I am shamed by that which I bring forth,
　　 And so should you, to love things nothing worth. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET LXXIII
　　
　　That time of year thou mayst in me behold
　　When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
　　Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
　　Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
　　In me thou seest the twilight of such day 5
　　As after sunset fadeth in the west,
　　Which by and by black night doth take away,
　　Death's second self, that seals up all in rest.
　　In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire
　　That on the ashes of his youth doth lie, 10
　　As the death-bed whereon it must expire
　　Consumed with that which it was nourish'd by.
　　 This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more strong,
　　 To love that well which thou must leave ere long. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET LXXIV
　　
　　But be contented: when that fell arrest
　　Without all bail shall carry me away,
　　My life hath in this line some interest,
　　Which for memorial still with thee shall stay.
　　When thou reviewest this, thou dost review 5
　　The very part was consecrate to thee:
　　The earth can have but earth, which is his due;
　　My spirit is thine, the better part of me:
　　So then thou hast but lost the dregs of life,
　　The prey of worms, my body being dead, 10
　　The coward conquest of a wretch's knife,
　　Too base of thee to be remembered.
　　 The worth of that is that which it contains,
　　 And that is this, and this with thee remains. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET LXXV
　　
　　So are you to my thoughts as food to life,
　　Or as sweet-season'd showers are to the ground;
　　And for the peace of you I hold such strife
　　As 'twixt a miser and his wealth is found;
　　Now proud as an enjoyer and anon 5
　　Doubting the filching age will steal his treasure,
　　Now counting best to be with you alone,
　　Then better'd that the world may see my pleasure;
　　Sometime all full with feasting on your sight
　　And by and by clean starved for a look; 10
　　Possessing or pursuing no delight,
　　Save what is had or must from you be took.
　　 Thus do I pine and surfeit day by day,
　　 Or gluttoning on all, or all away. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET LXXVI
　　
　　Why is my verse so barren of new pride,
　　So far from variation or quick change?
　　Why with the time do I not glance aside
　　To new-found methods and to compounds strange?
　　Why write I still all one, ever the same, 5
　　And keep invention in a noted weed,
　　That every word doth almost tell my name,
　　Showing their birth and where they did proceed?
　　O, know, sweet love, I always write of you,
　　And you and love are still my argument; 10
　　So all my best is dressing old words new,
　　Spending again what is already spent:
　　 For as the sun is daily new and old,
　　 So is my love still telling what is told. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET LXXVII
　　
　　Thy glass will show thee how thy beauties wear,
　　Thy dial how thy precious minutes waste;
　　The vacant leaves thy mind's imprint will bear,
　　And of this book this learning mayst thou taste.
　　The wrinkles which thy glass will truly show 5
　　Of mouthed graves will give thee memory;
　　Thou by thy dial's shady stealth mayst know
　　Time's thievish progress to eternity.
　　Look, what thy memory can not contain
　　Commit to these waste blanks, and thou shalt find 10
　　Those children nursed, deliver'd from thy brain,
　　To take a new acquaintance of thy mind.
　　 These offices, so oft as thou wilt look,
　　 Shall profit thee and much enrich thy book. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET LXXVIII
　　
　　So oft have I invoked thee for my Muse
　　And found such fair assistance in my verse
　　As every alien pen hath got my use
　　And under thee their poesy disperse.
　　Thine eyes that taught the dumb on high to sing 5
　　And heavy ignorance aloft to fly
　　Have added feathers to the learned's wing
　　And given grace a double majesty.
　　Yet be most proud of that which I compile,
　　Whose influence is thine and born of thee: 10
　　In others' works thou dost but mend the style,
　　And arts with thy sweet graces graced be;
　　 But thou art all my art and dost advance
　　 As high as learning my rude ignorance. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET LXXIX
　　
　　Whilst I alone did call upon thy aid,
　　My verse alone had all thy gentle grace,
　　But now my gracious numbers are decay'd
　　And my sick Muse doth give another place.
　　I grant, sweet love, thy lovely argument 5
　　Deserves the travail of a worthier pen,
　　Yet what of thee thy poet doth invent
　　He robs thee of and pays it thee again.
　　He lends thee virtue and he stole that word
　　From thy behavior; beauty doth he give 10
　　And found it in thy cheek; he can afford
　　No praise to thee but what in thee doth live.
　　 Then thank him not for that which he doth say,
　　 Since what he owes thee thou thyself dost pay. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET LXXX
　　
　　O, how I faint when I of you do write,
　　Knowing a better spirit doth use your name,
　　And in the praise thereof spends all his might,
　　To make me tongue-tied, speaking of your fame!
　　But since your worth, wide as the ocean is, 5
　　The humble as the proudest sail doth bear,
　　My saucy bark inferior far to his
　　On your broad main doth wilfully appear.
　　Your shallowest help will hold me up afloat,
　　Whilst he upon your soundless deep doth ride; 10
　　Or being wreck'd, I am a worthless boat,
　　He of tall building and of goodly pride:
　　 Then if he thrive and I be cast away,
　　 The worst was this; my love was my decay. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET LXXXI
　　
　　Or I shall live your epitaph to make,
　　Or you survive when I in earth am rotten;
　　From hence your memory death cannot take,
　　Although in me each part will be forgotten.
　　Your name from hence immortal life shall have, 5
　　Though I, once gone, to all the world must die:
　　The earth can yield me but a common grave,
　　When you entombed in men's eyes shall lie.
　　Your monument shall be my gentle verse,
　　Which eyes not yet created shall o'er-read, 10
　　And tongues to be your being shall rehearse
　　When all the breathers of this world are dead;
　　 You still shall live--such virtue hath my pen--
　　 Where breath most breathes, even in the mouths of men. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET LXXXII
　　
　　I grant thou wert not married to my Muse
　　And therefore mayst without attaint o'erlook
　　The dedicated words which writers use
　　Of their fair subject, blessing every book
　　Thou art as fair in knowledge as in hue, 5
　　Finding thy worth a limit past my praise,
　　And therefore art enforced to seek anew
　　Some fresher stamp of the time-bettering days
　　And do so, love; yet when they have devised
　　What strained touches rhetoric can lend, 10
　　Thou truly fair wert truly sympathized
　　In true plain words by thy true-telling friend;
　　 And their gross painting might be better used
　　 Where cheeks need blood; in thee it is abused. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET LXXXIII
　　
　　I never saw that you did painting need
　　And therefore to your fair no painting set;
　　I found, or thought I found, you did exceed
　　The barren tender of a poet's debt;
　　And therefore have I slept in your report, 5
　　That you yourself being extant well might show
　　How far a modern quill doth come too short,
　　Speaking of worth, what worth in you doth grow.
　　This silence for my sin you did impute,
　　Which shall be most my glory, being dumb; 10
　　For I impair not beauty being mute,
　　When others would give life and bring a tomb.
　　 There lives more life in one of your fair eyes
　　 Than both your poets can in praise devise. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET LXXXIV
　　
　　Who is it that says most? which can say more
　　Than this rich praise, that you alone are you?
　　In whose confine immured is the store
　　Which should example where your equal grew.
　　Lean penury within that pen doth dwell 5
　　That to his subject lends not some small glory;
　　But he that writes of you, if he can tell
　　That you are you, so dignifies his story,
　　Let him but copy what in you is writ,
　　Not making worse what nature made so clear, 10
　　And such a counterpart shall fame his wit,
　　Making his style admired every where.
　　 You to your beauteous blessings add a curse,
　　 Being fond on praise, which makes your praises worse. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET LXXXV
　　
　　My tongue-tied Muse in manners holds her still,
　　While comments of your praise, richly compiled,
　　Reserve their character with golden quill
　　And precious phrase by all the Muses filed.
　　I think good thoughts whilst other write good words, 5
　　And like unletter'd clerk still cry 'Amen'
　　To every hymn that able spirit affords
　　In polish'd form of well-refined pen.
　　Hearing you praised, I say 'Tis so, 'tis true,'
　　And to the most of praise add something more; 10
　　But that is in my thought, whose love to you,
　　Though words come hindmost, holds his rank before.
　　 Then others for the breath of words respect,
　　 Me for my dumb thoughts, speaking in effect. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET LXXXVI
　　
　　Was it the proud full sail of his great verse,
　　Bound for the prize of all too precious you,
　　That did my ripe thoughts in my brain inhearse,
　　Making their tomb the womb wherein they grew?
　　Was it his spirit, by spirits taught to write 5
　　Above a mortal pitch, that struck me dead?
　　No, neither he, nor his compeers by night
　　Giving him aid, my verse astonished.
　　He, nor that affable familiar ghost
　　Which nightly gulls him with intelligence 10
　　As victors of my silence cannot boast;
　　I was not sick of any fear from thence:
　　 But when your countenance fill'd up his line,
　　 Then lack'd I matter; that enfeebled mine. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET LXXXVII
　　
　　Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing,
　　And like enough thou know'st thy estimate:
　　The charter of thy worth gives thee releasing;
　　My bonds in thee are all determinate.
　　For how do I hold thee but by thy granting? 5
　　And for that riches where is my deserving?
　　The cause of this fair gift in me is wanting,
　　And so my patent back again is swerving.
　　Thyself thou gavest, thy own worth then not knowing,
　　Or me, to whom thou gavest it, else mistaking; 10
　　So thy great gift, upon misprision growing,
　　Comes home again, on better judgment making.
　　 Thus have I had thee, as a dream doth flatter,
　　 In sleep a king, but waking no such matter. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET LXXXVIII
　　
　　When thou shalt be disposed to set me light,
　　And place my merit in the eye of scorn,
　　Upon thy side against myself I'll fight,
　　And prove thee virtuous, though thou art forsworn.
　　With mine own weakness being best acquainted, 5
　　Upon thy part I can set down a story
　　Of faults conceal'd, wherein I am attainted,
　　That thou in losing me shalt win much glory:
　　And I by this will be a gainer too;
　　For bending all my loving thoughts on thee, 10
　　The injuries that to myself I do,
　　Doing thee vantage, double-vantage me.
　　 Such is my love, to thee I so belong,
　　 That for thy right myself will bear all wrong. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET LXXXIX
　　
　　Say that thou didst forsake me for some fault,
　　And I will comment upon that offence;
　　Speak of my lameness, and I straight will halt,
　　Against thy reasons making no defence.
　　Thou canst not, love, disgrace me half so ill, 5
　　To set a form upon desired change,
　　As I'll myself disgrace: knowing thy will,
　　I will acquaintance strangle and look strange,
　　Be absent from thy walks, and in my tongue
　　Thy sweet beloved name no more shall dwell, 10
　　Lest I, too much profane, should do it wrong
　　And haply of our old acquaintance tell.
　　 For thee against myself I'll vow debate,
　　 For I must ne'er love him whom thou dost hate. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET XC
　　
　　Then hate me when thou wilt; if ever, now;
　　Now, while the world is bent my deeds to cross,
　　Join with the spite of fortune, make me bow,
　　And do not drop in for an after-loss:
　　Ah, do not, when my heart hath 'scoped this sorrow, 5
　　Come in the rearward of a conquer'd woe;
　　Give not a windy night a rainy morrow,
　　To linger out a purposed overthrow.
　　If thou wilt leave me, do not leave me last,
　　When other petty griefs have done their spite 10
　　But in the onset come; so shall I taste
　　At first the very worst of fortune's might,
　　 And other strains of woe, which now seem woe,
　　 Compared with loss of thee will not seem so. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET XCI
　　
　　Some glory in their birth, some in their skill,
　　Some in their wealth, some in their bodies' force,
　　Some in their garments, though new-fangled ill,
　　Some in their hawks and hounds, some in their horse;
　　And every humour hath his adjunct pleasure, 5
　　Wherein it finds a joy above the rest:
　　But these particulars are not my measure;
　　All these I better in one general best.
　　Thy love is better than high birth to me,
　　Richer than wealth, prouder than garments' cost, 10
　　Of more delight than hawks or horses be;
　　And having thee, of all men's pride I boast:
　　 Wretched in this alone, that thou mayst take
　　 All this away and me most wretched make. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET XCII
　　
　　But do thy worst to steal thyself away,
　　For term of life thou art assured mine,
　　And life no longer than thy love will stay,
　　For it depends upon that love of thine.
　　Then need I not to fear the worst of wrongs, 5
　　When in the least of them my life hath end.
　　I see a better state to me belongs
　　Than that which on thy humour doth depend;
　　Thou canst not vex me with inconstant mind,
　　Since that my life on thy revolt doth lie. 10
　　O, what a happy title do I find,
　　Happy to have thy love, happy to die!
　　 But what's so blessed-fair that fears no blot?
　　 Thou mayst be false, and yet I know it not. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET XCIII
　　
　　So shall I live, supposing thou art true,
　　Like a deceived husband; so love's face
　　May still seem love to me, though alter'd new;
　　Thy looks with me, thy heart in other place:
　　For there can live no hatred in thine eye, 5
　　Therefore in that I cannot know thy change.
　　In many's looks the false heart's history
　　Is writ in moods and frowns and wrinkles strange,
　　But heaven in thy creation did decree
　　That in thy face sweet love should ever dwell; 10
　　Whate'er thy thoughts or thy heart's workings be,
　　Thy looks should nothing thence but sweetness tell.
　　 How like Eve's apple doth thy beauty grow,
　　 if thy sweet virtue answer not thy show! 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET XCIV
　　
　　They that have power to hurt and will do none,
　　That do not do the thing they most do show,
　　Who, moving others, are themselves as stone,
　　Unmoved, cold, and to temptation slow,
　　They rightly do inherit heaven's graces 5
　　And husband nature's riches from expense;
　　They are the lords and owners of their faces,
　　Others but stewards of their excellence.
　　The summer's flower is to the summer sweet,
　　Though to itself it only live and die, 10
　　But if that flower with base infection meet,
　　The basest weed outbraves his dignity:
　　 For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds;
　　 Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET XCV
　　
　　How sweet and lovely dost thou make the shame
　　Which, like a canker in the fragrant rose,
　　Doth spot the beauty of thy budding name!
　　O, in what sweets dost thou thy sins enclose!
　　That tongue that tells the story of thy days, 5
　　Making lascivious comments on thy sport,
　　Cannot dispraise but in a kind of praise;
　　Naming thy name blesses an ill report.
　　O, what a mansion have those vices got
　　Which for their habitation chose out thee, 10
　　Where beauty's veil doth cover every blot,
　　And all things turn to fair that eyes can see!
　　 Take heed, dear heart, of this large privilege;
　　 The hardest knife ill-used doth lose his edge. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET XCVI
　　
　　Some say thy fault is youth, some wantonness;
　　Some say thy grace is youth and gentle sport;
　　Both grace and faults are loved of more and less;
　　Thou makest faults graces that to thee resort.
　　As on the finger of a throned queen 5
　　The basest jewel will be well esteem'd,
　　So are those errors that in thee are seen
　　To truths translated and for true things deem'd.
　　How many lambs might the stem wolf betray,
　　If like a lamb he could his looks translate! 10
　　How many gazers mightst thou lead away,
　　If thou wouldst use the strength of all thy state!
　　 But do not so; I love thee in such sort
　　 As, thou being mine, mine is thy good report. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET XCVII
　　
　　How like a winter hath my absence been
　　From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year!
　　What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen!
　　What old December's bareness every where!
　　And yet this time removed was summer's time, 5
　　The teeming autumn, big with rich increase,
　　Bearing the wanton burden of the prime,
　　Like widow'd wombs after their lords' decease:
　　Yet this abundant issue seem'd to me
　　But hope of orphans and unfather'd fruit; 10
　　For summer and his pleasures wait on thee,
　　And, thou away, the very birds are mute;
　　 Or, if they sing, 'tis with so dull a cheer
　　 That leaves look pale, dreading the winter's near. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET XCVIII
　　
　　From you have I been absent in the spring,
　　When proud-pied April dress'd in all his trim
　　Hath put a spirit of youth in every thing,
　　That heavy Saturn laugh'd and leap'd with him.
　　Yet nor the lays of birds nor the sweet smell 5
　　Of different flowers in odour and in hue
　　Could make me any summer's story tell,
　　Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew;
　　Nor did I wonder at the lily's white,
　　Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose; 10
　　They were but sweet, but figures of delight,
　　Drawn after you, you pattern of all those.
　　 Yet seem'd it winter still, and, you away,
　　 As with your shadow I with these did play: 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET XCIX
　　
　　The forward violet thus did I chide:
　　Sweet thief, whence didst thou steal thy sweet that smells,
　　If not from my love's breath? The purple pride
　　Which on thy soft cheek for complexion dwells
　　In my love's veins thou hast too grossly dyed. 5
　　The lily I condemned for thy hand,
　　And buds of marjoram had stol'n thy hair:
　　The roses fearfully on thorns did stand,
　　One blushing shame, another white despair;
　　A third, nor red nor white, had stol'n of both 10
　　And to his robbery had annex'd thy breath;
　　But, for his theft, in pride of all his growth
　　A vengeful canker eat him up to death.
　　 More flowers I noted, yet I none could see
　　 But sweet or colour it had stol'n from thee. 15
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET C
　　
　　Where art thou, Muse, that thou forget'st so long
　　To speak of that which gives thee all thy might?
　　Spend'st thou thy fury on some worthless song,
　　Darkening thy power to lend base subjects light?
　　Return, forgetful Muse, and straight redeem 5
　　In gentle numbers time so idly spent;
　　Sing to the ear that doth thy lays esteem
　　And gives thy pen both skill and argument.
　　Rise, resty Muse, my love's sweet face survey,
　　If Time have any wrinkle graven there; 10
　　If any, be a satire to decay,
　　And make Time's spoils despised every where.
　　 Give my love fame faster than Time wastes life;
　　 So thou prevent'st his scythe and crooked knife. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET CI
　　
　　O truant Muse, what shall be thy amends
　　For thy neglect of truth in beauty dyed?
　　Both truth and beauty on my love depends;
　　So dost thou too, and therein dignified.
　　Make answer, Muse: wilt thou not haply say 5
　　'Truth needs no colour, with his colour fix'd;
　　Beauty no pencil, beauty's truth to lay;
　　But best is best, if never intermix'd?'
　　Because he needs no praise, wilt thou be dumb?
　　Excuse not silence so; for't lies in thee 10
　　To make him much outlive a gilded tomb,
　　And to be praised of ages yet to be.
　　 Then do thy office, Muse; I teach thee how
　　 To make him seem long hence as he shows now. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET CII
　　
　　My love is strengthen'd, though more weak in seeming;
　　I love not less, though less the show appear:
　　That love is merchandized whose rich esteeming
　　The owner's tongue doth publish every where.
　　Our love was new and then but in the spring 5
　　When I was wont to greet it with my lays,
　　As Philomel in summer's front doth sing
　　And stops her pipe in growth of riper days:
　　Not that the summer is less pleasant now
　　Than when her mournful hymns did hush the night, 10
　　But that wild music burthens every bough
　　And sweets grown common lose their dear delight.
　　 Therefore like her I sometime hold my tongue,
　　 Because I would not dull you with my song. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET CIII
　　
　　Alack, what poverty my Muse brings forth,
　　That having such a scope to show her pride,
　　The argument all bare is of more worth
　　Than when it hath my added praise beside!
　　O, blame me not, if I no more can write! 5
　　Look in your glass, and there appears a face
　　That over-goes my blunt invention quite,
　　Dulling my lines and doing me disgrace.
　　Were it not sinful then, striving to mend,
　　To mar the subject that before was well? 10
　　For to no other pass my verses tend
　　Than of your graces and your gifts to tell;
　　 And more, much more, than in my verse can sit
　　 Your own glass shows you when you look in it. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET CIV
　　
　　To me, fair friend, you never can be old,
　　For as you were when first your eye I eyed,
　　Such seems your beauty still. Three winters cold
　　Have from the forests shook three summers' pride,
　　Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn turn'd 5
　　In process of the seasons have I seen,
　　Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burn'd,
　　Since first I saw you fresh, which yet are green.
　　Ah! yet doth beauty, like a dial-hand,
　　Steal from his figure and no pace perceived; 10
　　So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand,
　　Hath motion and mine eye may be deceived:
　　 For fear of which, hear this, thou age unbred;
　　 Ere you were born was beauty's summer dead. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET CV
　　
　　Let not my love be call'd idolatry,
　　Nor my beloved as an idol show,
　　Since all alike my songs and praises be
　　To one, of one, still such, and ever so.
　　Kind is my love to-day, to-morrow kind, 5
　　Still constant in a wondrous excellence;
　　Therefore my verse to constancy confined,
　　One thing expressing, leaves out difference.
　　'Fair, kind and true' is all my argument,
　　'Fair, kind, and true' varying to other words; 10
　　And in this change is my invention spent,
　　Three themes in one, which wondrous scope affords.
　　 'Fair, kind, and true,' have often lived alone,
　　 Which three till now never kept seat in one. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET CVI
　　
　　When in the chronicle of wasted time
　　I see descriptions of the fairest wights,
　　And beauty making beautiful old rhyme
　　In praise of ladies dead and lovely knights,
　　Then, in the blazon of sweet beauty's best, 5
　　Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow,
　　I see their antique pen would have express'd
　　Even such a beauty as you master now.
　　So all their praises are but prophecies
　　Of this our time, all you prefiguring; 10
　　And, for they look'd but with divining eyes,
　　They had not skill enough your worth to sing:
　　 For we, which now behold these present days,
　　 Had eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET CVII
　　
　　Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul
　　Of the wide world dreaming on things to come,
　　Can yet the lease of my true love control,
　　Supposed as forfeit to a confined doom.
　　The mortal moon hath her eclipse endured 5
　　And the sad augurs mock their own presage;
　　Incertainties now crown themselves assured
　　And peace proclaims olives of endless age.
　　Now with the drops of this most balmy time
　　My love looks fresh, and death to me subscribes, 10
　　Since, spite of him, I'll live in this poor rhyme,
　　While he insults o'er dull and speechless tribes:
　　 And thou in this shalt find thy monument,
　　 When tyrants' crests and tombs of brass are spent. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET CVIII
　　
　　What's in the brain that ink may character
　　Which hath not figured to thee my true spirit?
　　What's new to speak, what new to register,
　　That may express my love or thy dear merit?
　　Nothing, sweet boy; but yet, like prayers divine, 5
　　I must, each day say o'er the very same,
　　Counting no old thing old, thou mine, I thine,
　　Even as when first I hallow'd thy fair name.
　　So that eternal love in love's fresh case
　　Weighs not the dust and injury of age, 10
　　Nor gives to necessary wrinkles place,
　　But makes antiquity for aye his page,
　　 Finding the first conceit of love there bred
　　 Where time and outward form would show it dead. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET CIX
　　
　　O, never say that I was false of heart,
　　Though absence seem'd my flame to qualify.
　　As easy might I from myself depart
　　As from my soul, which in thy breast doth lie:
　　That is my home of love: if I have ranged, 5
　　Like him that travels I return again,
　　Just to the time, not with the time exchanged,
　　So that myself bring water for my stain.
　　Never believe, though in my nature reign'd
　　All frailties that besiege all kinds of blood, 10
　　That it could so preposterously be stain'd,
　　To leave for nothing all thy sum of good;
　　 For nothing this wide universe I call,
　　 Save thou, my rose; in it thou art my all. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET CX
　　
　　Alas, 'tis true I have gone here and there
　　And made myself a motley to the view,
　　Gored mine own thoughts, sold cheap what is most dear,
　　Made old offences of affections new;
　　Most true it is that I have look'd on truth 5
　　Askance and strangely: but, by all above,
　　These blenches gave my heart another youth,
　　And worse essays proved thee my best of love.
　　Now all is done, have what shall have no end:
　　Mine appetite I never more will grind 10
　　On newer proof, to try an older friend,
　　A god in love, to whom I am confined.
　　 Then give me welcome, next my heaven the best,
　　 Even to thy pure and most most loving breast. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET CXI
　　
　　O, for my sake do you with Fortune chide,
　　The guilty goddess of my harmful deeds,
　　That did not better for my life provide
　　Than public means which public manners breeds.
　　Thence comes it that my name receives a brand, 5
　　And almost thence my nature is subdued
　　To what it works in, like the dyer's hand:
　　Pity me then and wish I were renew'd;
　　Whilst, like a willing patient, I will drink
　　Potions of eisel 'gainst my strong infection 10
　　No bitterness that I will bitter think,
　　Nor double penance, to correct correction.
　　 Pity me then, dear friend, and I assure ye
　　 Even that your pity is enough to cure me. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET CXII
　　
　　Your love and pity doth the impression fill
　　Which vulgar scandal stamp'd upon my brow;
　　For what care I who calls me well or ill,
　　So you o'er-green my bad, my good allow?
　　You are my all the world, and I must strive 5
　　To know my shames and praises from your tongue:
　　None else to me, nor I to none alive,
　　That my steel'd sense or changes right or wrong.
　　In so profound abysm I throw all care
　　Of others' voices, that my adder's sense 10
　　To critic and to flatterer stopped are.
　　Mark how with my neglect I do dispense:
　　 You are so strongly in my purpose bred
　　 That all the world besides methinks are dead. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET CXIII
　　
　　Since I left you, mine eye is in my mind;
　　And that which governs me to go about
　　Doth part his function and is partly blind,
　　Seems seeing, but effectually is out;
　　For it no form delivers to the heart 5
　　Of bird of flower, or shape, which it doth latch:
　　Of his quick objects hath the mind no part,
　　Nor his own vision holds what it doth catch:
　　For if it see the rudest or gentlest sight,
　　The most sweet favour or deformed'st creature, 10
　　The mountain or the sea, the day or night,
　　The crow or dove, it shapes them to your feature:
　　 Incapable of more, replete with you,
　　 My most true mind thus makes mine eye untrue. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET CXIV
　　
　　Or whether doth my mind, being crown'd with you,
　　Drink up the monarch's plague, this flattery?
　　Or whether shall I say, mine eye saith true,
　　And that your love taught it this alchemy,
　　To make of monsters and things indigest 5
　　Such cherubins as your sweet self resemble,
　　Creating every bad a perfect best,
　　As fast as objects to his beams assemble?
　　O,'tis the first; 'tis flattery in my seeing,
　　And my great mind most kingly drinks it up: 10
　　Mine eye well knows what with his gust is 'greeing,
　　And to his palate doth prepare the cup:
　　 If it be poison'd, 'tis the lesser sin
　　 That mine eye loves it and doth first begin. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET CXV
　　
　　Those lines that I before have writ do lie,
　　Even those that said I could not love you dearer:
　　Yet then my judgment knew no reason why
　　My most full flame should afterwards burn clearer.
　　But reckoning time, whose million'd accidents 5
　　Creep in 'twixt vows and change decrees of kings,
　　Tan sacred beauty, blunt the sharp'st intents,
　　Divert strong minds to the course of altering things;
　　Alas, why, fearing of time's tyranny,
　　Might I not then say 'Now I love you best,' 10
　　When I was certain o'er incertainty,
　　Crowning the present, doubting of the rest?
　　 Love is a babe; then might I not say so,
　　 To give full growth to that which still doth grow? 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET CXVI
　　
　　Let me not to the marriage of true minds
　　Admit impediments. Love is not love
　　Which alters when it alteration finds,
　　Or bends with the remover to remove:
　　O no! it is an ever-fixed mark 5
　　That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
　　It is the star to every wandering bark,
　　Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
　　Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
　　Within his bending sickle's compass come: 10
　　Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
　　But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
　　 If this be error and upon me proved,
　　 I never writ, nor no man ever loved. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET CXVII
　　
　　Accuse me thus: that I have scanted all
　　Wherein I should your great deserts repay,
　　Forgot upon your dearest love to call,
　　Whereto all bonds do tie me day by day;
　　That I have frequent been with unknown minds 5
　　And given to time your own dear-purchased right
　　That I have hoisted sail to all the winds
　　Which should transport me farthest from your sight.
　　Book both my wilfulness and errors down
　　And on just proof surmise accumulate; 10
　　Bring me within the level of your frown,
　　But shoot not at me in your waken'd hate;
　　 Since my appeal says I did strive to prove
　　 The constancy and virtue of your love. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET CXVIII
　　
　　Like as, to make our appetites more keen,
　　With eager compounds we our palate urge,
　　As, to prevent our maladies unseen,
　　We sicken to shun sickness when we purge,
　　Even so, being tuff of your ne'er-cloying sweetness, 5
　　To bitter sauces did I frame my feeding
　　And, sick of welfare, found a kind of meetness
　　To be diseased ere that there was true needing.
　　Thus policy in love, to anticipate
　　The ills that were not, grew to faults assured 10
　　And brought to medicine a healthful state
　　Which, rank of goodness, would by ill be cured:
　　 But thence I learn, and find the lesson true,
　　 Drugs poison him that so fell sick of you. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET CXIX
　　
　　What potions have I drunk of Siren tears,
　　Distill'd from limbecks foul as hell within,
　　Applying fears to hopes and hopes to fears,
　　Still losing when I saw myself to win!
　　What wretched errors hath my heart committed, 5
　　Whilst it hath thought itself so blessed never!
　　How have mine eyes out of their spheres been fitted
　　In the distraction of this madding fever!
　　O benefit of ill! now I find true
　　That better is by evil still made better; 10
　　And ruin'd love, when it is built anew,
　　Grows fairer than at first, more strong, far greater.
　　 So I return rebuked to my content
　　 And gain by ill thrice more than I have spent. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET CXX
　　
　　That you were once unkind befriends me now,
　　And for that sorrow which I then did feel
　　Needs must I under my transgression bow,
　　Unless my nerves were brass or hammer'd steel.
　　For if you were by my unkindness shaken 5
　　As I by yours, you've pass'd a hell of time,
　　And I, a tyrant, have no leisure taken
　　To weigh how once I suffered in your crime.
　　O, that our night of woe might have remember'd
　　My deepest sense, how hard true sorrow hits, 10
　　And soon to you, as you to me, then tender'd
　　The humble slave which wounded bosoms fits!
　　 But that your trespass now becomes a fee;
　　 Mine ransoms yours, and yours must ransom me. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET CXXI
　　
　　'Tis better to be vile than vile esteem'd,
　　When not to be receives reproach of being,
　　And the just pleasure lost which is so deem'd
　　Not by our feeling but by others' seeing:
　　For why should others false adulterate eyes 5
　　Give salutation to my sportive blood?
　　Or on my frailties why are frailer spies,
　　Which in their wills count bad what I think good?
　　No, I am that I am, and they that level
　　At my abuses reckon up their own: 10
　　I may be straight, though they themselves be bevel;
　　By their rank thoughts my deeds must not be shown;
　　 Unless this general evil they maintain,
　　 All men are bad, and in their badness reign. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET CXXII
　　
　　Thy gift, thy tables, are within my brain
　　Full character'd with lasting memory,
　　Which shall above that idle rank remain
　　Beyond all date, even to eternity;
　　Or at the least, so long as brain and heart 5
　　Have faculty by nature to subsist;
　　Till each to razed oblivion yield his part
　　Of thee, thy record never can be miss'd.
　　That poor retention could not so much hold,
　　Nor need I tallies thy dear love to score; 10
　　Therefore to give them from me was I bold,
　　To trust those tables that receive thee more:
　　 To keep an adjunct to remember thee
　　 Were to import forgetfulness in me. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET CXXIII
　　
　　No, Time, thou shalt not boast that I do change:
　　Thy pyramids built up with newer might
　　To me are nothing novel, nothing strange;
　　They are but dressings of a former sight.
　　Our dates are brief, and therefore we admire 5
　　What thou dost foist upon us that is old,
　　And rather make them born to our desire
　　Than think that we before have heard them told.
　　Thy registers and thee I both defy,
　　Not wondering at the present nor the past, 10
　　For thy records and what we see doth lie,
　　Made more or less by thy continual haste.
　　 This I do vow and this shall ever be;
　　 I will be true, despite thy scythe and thee. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET CXXIV
　　
　　If my dear love were but the child of state,
　　It might for Fortune's bastard be unfather'd'
　　As subject to Time's love or to Time's hate,
　　Weeds among weeds, or flowers with flowers gather'd.
　　No, it was builded far from accident; 5
　　It suffers not in smiling pomp, nor falls
　　Under the blow of thralled discontent,
　　Whereto the inviting time our fashion calls:
　　It fears not policy, that heretic,
　　Which works on leases of short-number'd hours, 10
　　But all alone stands hugely politic,
　　That it nor grows with heat nor drowns with showers.
　　 To this I witness call the fools of time,
　　 Which die for goodness, who have lived for crime. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET CXXV
　　
　　Were 't aught to me I bore the canopy,
　　With my extern the outward honouring,
　　Or laid great bases for eternity,
　　Which prove more short than waste or ruining?
　　Have I not seen dwellers on form and favour 5
　　Lose all, and more, by paying too much rent,
　　For compound sweet forgoing simple savour,
　　Pitiful thrivers, in their gazing spent?
　　No, let me be obsequious in thy heart,
　　And take thou my oblation, poor but free, 10
　　Which is not mix'd with seconds, knows no art,
　　But mutual render, only me for thee.
　　 Hence, thou suborn'd informer! a true soul
　　 When most impeach'd stands least in thy control. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET CXXVI
　　
　　O thou, my lovely boy, who in thy power
　　Dost hold Time's fickle glass, his sickle, hour;
　　Who hast by waning grown, and therein show'st
　　Thy lovers withering as thy sweet self grow'st;
　　If Nature, sovereign mistress over wrack, 5
　　As thou goest onwards, still will pluck thee back,
　　She keeps thee to this purpose, that her skill
　　May time disgrace and wretched minutes kill.
　　Yet fear her, O thou minion of her pleasure!
　　She may detain, but not still keep, her treasure: 10
　　Her audit, though delay'd, answer'd must be,
　　And her quietus is to render thee.
　　 ( )
　　 ( ) 14

　　SONNET CXXVII
　　
　　In the old age black was not counted fair,
　　Or if it were, it bore not beauty's name;
　　But now is black beauty's successive heir,
　　And beauty slander'd with a bastard shame:
　　For since each hand hath put on nature's power, 5
　　Fairing the foul with art's false borrow'd face,
　　Sweet beauty hath no name, no holy bower,
　　But is profaned, if not lives in disgrace.
　　Therefore my mistress' brows are raven black,
　　Her eyes so suited, and they mourners seem 10
　　At such who, not born fair, no beauty lack,
　　Slandering creation with a false esteem:
　　 Yet so they mourn, becoming of their woe,
　　 That every tongue says beauty should look so. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET CXXVIII
　　
　　How oft, when thou, my music, music play'st,
　　Upon that blessed wood whose motion sounds
　　With thy sweet fingers, when thou gently sway'st
　　The wiry concord that mine ear confounds,
　　Do I envy those jacks that nimble leap 5
　　To kiss the tender inward of thy hand,
　　Whilst my poor lips, which should that harvest reap,
　　At the wood's boldness by thee blushing stand!
　　To be so tickled, they would change their state
　　And situation with those dancing chips, 10
　　O'er whom thy fingers walk with gentle gait,
　　Making dead wood more blest than living lips.
　　 Since saucy jacks so happy are in this,
　　 Give them thy fingers, me thy lips to kiss. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET CXXIX
　　
　　The expense of spirit in a waste of shame
　　Is lust in action; and till action, lust
　　Is perjured, murderous, bloody, full of blame,
　　Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust,
　　Enjoy'd no sooner but despised straight, 5
　　Past reason hunted, and no sooner had
　　Past reason hated, as a swallow'd bait
　　On purpose laid to make the taker mad;
　　Mad in pursuit and in possession so;
　　Had, having, and in quest to have, extreme; 10
　　A bliss in proof, and proved, a very woe;
　　Before, a joy proposed; behind, a dream.
　　 All this the world well knows; yet none knows well
　　 To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET CXXX
　　
　　My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
　　Coral is far more red than her lips' red;
　　If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
　　If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
　　I have seen roses damask'd, red and white, 5
　　But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
　　And in some perfumes is there more delight
　　Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
　　I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
　　That music hath a far more pleasing sound; 10
　　I grant I never saw a goddess go;
　　My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:
　　 And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
　　 As any she belied with false compare. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET CXXXI
　　
　　Thou art as tyrannous, so as thou art,
　　As those whose beauties proudly make them cruel;
　　For well thou know'st to my dear doting heart
　　Thou art the fairest and most precious jewel.
　　Yet, in good faith, some say that thee behold 5
　　Thy face hath not the power to make love groan:
　　To say they err I dare not be so bold,
　　Although I swear it to myself alone.
　　And, to be sure that is not false I swear,
　　A thousand groans, but thinking on thy face, 10
　　One on another's neck, do witness bear
　　Thy black is fairest in my judgment's place.
　　 In nothing art thou black save in thy deeds,
　　 And thence this slander, as I think, proceeds. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET CXXXII
　　
　　Thine eyes I love, and they, as pitying me,
　　Knowing thy heart torments me with disdain,
　　Have put on black and loving mourners be,
　　Looking with pretty ruth upon my pain.
　　And truly not the morning sun of heaven 5
　　Better becomes the grey cheeks of the east,
　　Nor that full star that ushers in the even
　　Doth half that glory to the sober west,
　　As those two mourning eyes become thy face:
　　O, let it then as well beseem thy heart 10
　　To mourn for me, since mourning doth thee grace,
　　And suit thy pity like in every part.
　　 Then will I swear beauty herself is black
　　 And all they foul that thy complexion lack. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET CXXXIII
　　
　　Beshrew that heart that makes my heart to groan
　　For that deep wound it gives my friend and me!
　　Is't not enough to torture me alone,
　　But slave to slavery my sweet'st friend must be?
　　Me from myself thy cruel eye hath taken, 5
　　And my next self thou harder hast engross'd:
　　Of him, myself, and thee, I am forsaken;
　　A torment thrice threefold thus to be cross'd.
　　Prison my heart in thy steel bosom's ward,
　　But then my friend's heart let my poor heart bail; 10
　　Whoe'er keeps me, let my heart be his guard;
　　Thou canst not then use rigor in my gaol:
　　 And yet thou wilt; for I, being pent in thee,
　　 Perforce am thine, and all that is in me. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET CXXXIV
　　
　　So, now I have confess'd that he is thine,
　　And I myself am mortgaged to thy will,
　　Myself I'll forfeit, so that other mine
　　Thou wilt restore, to be my comfort still:
　　But thou wilt not, nor he will not be free, 5
　　For thou art covetous and he is kind;
　　He learn'd but surety-like to write for me
　　Under that bond that him as fast doth bind.
　　The statute of thy beauty thou wilt take,
　　Thou usurer, that put'st forth all to use, 10
　　And sue a friend came debtor for my sake;
　　So him I lose through my unkind abuse.
　　 Him have I lost; thou hast both him and me:
　　 He pays the whole, and yet am I not free. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET CXXXV
　　
　　Whoever hath her wish, thou hast thy 'Will,'
　　And 'Will' to boot, and 'Will' in overplus;
　　More than enough am I that vex thee still,
　　To thy sweet will making addition thus.
　　Wilt thou, whose will is large and spacious, 5
　　Not once vouchsafe to hide my will in thine?
　　Shall will in others seem right gracious,
　　And in my will no fair acceptance shine?
　　The sea all water, yet receives rain still
　　And in abundance addeth to his store; 10
　　So thou, being rich in 'Will,' add to thy 'Will'
　　One will of mine, to make thy large 'Will' more.
　　 Let no unkind, no fair beseechers kill;
　　 Think all but one, and me in that one 'Will.' 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET CXXXVI
　　
　　If thy soul cheque thee that I come so near,
　　Swear to thy blind soul that I was thy 'Will,'
　　And will, thy soul knows, is admitted there;
　　Thus far for love my love-suit, sweet, fulfil.
　　'Will' will fulfil the treasure of thy love, 5
　　Ay, fill it full with wills, and my will one.
　　In things of great receipt with ease we prove
　　Among a number one is reckon'd none:
　　Then in the number let me pass untold,
　　Though in thy stores' account I one must be; 10
　　For nothing hold me, so it please thee hold
　　That nothing me, a something sweet to thee:
　　 Make but my name thy love, and love that still,
　　 And then thou lovest me, for my name is 'Will.' 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET CXXXVII
　　
　　Thou blind fool, Love, what dost thou to mine eyes,
　　That they behold, and see not what they see?
　　They know what beauty is, see where it lies,
　　Yet what the best is take the worst to be.
　　If eyes corrupt by over-partial looks 5
　　Be anchor'd in the bay where all men ride,
　　Why of eyes' falsehood hast thou forged hooks,
　　Whereto the judgment of my heart is tied?
　　Why should my heart think that a several plot
　　Which my heart knows the wide world's common place? 10
　　Or mine eyes seeing this, say this is not,
　　To put fair truth upon so foul a face?
　　 In things right true my heart and eyes have erred,
　　 And to this false plague are they now transferr'd. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET CXXXVIII
　　
　　When my love swears that she is made of truth
　　I do believe her, though I know she lies,
　　That she might think me some untutor'd youth,
　　Unlearned in the world's false subtleties.
　　Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me young, 5
　　Although she knows my days are past the best,
　　Simply I credit her false speaking tongue:
　　On both sides thus is simple truth suppress'd.
　　But wherefore says she not she is unjust?
　　And wherefore say not I that I am old? 10
　　O, love's best habit is in seeming trust,
　　And age in love loves not to have years told:
　　 Therefore I lie with her and she with me,
　　 And in our faults by lies we flatter'd be. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET CXXXIX
　　
　　O, call not me to justify the wrong
　　That thy unkindness lays upon my heart;
　　Wound me not with thine eye but with thy tongue;
　　Use power with power and slay me not by art.
　　Tell me thou lovest elsewhere, but in my sight, 5
　　Dear heart, forbear to glance thine eye aside:
　　What need'st thou wound with cunning when thy might
　　Is more than my o'er-press'd defense can bide?
　　Let me excuse thee: ah! my love well knows
　　Her pretty looks have been mine enemies, 10
　　And therefore from my face she turns my foes,
　　That they elsewhere might dart their injuries:
　　 Yet do not so; but since I am near slain,
　　 Kill me outright with looks and rid my pain. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET CXL
　　
　　Be wise as thou art cruel; do not press
　　My tongue-tied patience with too much disdain;
　　Lest sorrow lend me words and words express
　　The manner of my pity-wanting pain.
　　If I might teach thee wit, better it were, 5
　　Though not to love, yet, love, to tell me so;
　　As testy sick men, when their deaths be near,
　　No news but health from their physicians know;
　　For if I should despair, I should grow mad,
　　And in my madness might speak ill of thee: 10
　　Now this ill-wresting world is grown so bad,
　　Mad slanderers by mad ears believed be,
　　 That I may not be so, nor thou belied,
　　 Bear thine eyes straight, though thy proud heart go wide. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET CXLI
　　
　　In faith, I do not love thee with mine eyes,
　　For they in thee a thousand errors note;
　　But 'tis my heart that loves what they despise,
　　Who in despite of view is pleased to dote;
　　Nor are mine ears with thy tongue's tune delighted, 5
　　Nor tender feeling, to base touches prone,
　　Nor taste, nor smell, desire to be invited
　　To any sensual feast with thee alone:
　　But my five wits nor my five senses can
　　Dissuade one foolish heart from serving thee, 10
　　Who leaves unsway'd the likeness of a man,
　　Thy proud hearts slave and vassal wretch to be:
　　 Only my plague thus far I count my gain,
　　 That she that makes me sin awards me pain. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET CXLII
　　
　　Love is my sin and thy dear virtue hate,
　　Hate of my sin, grounded on sinful loving:
　　O, but with mine compare thou thine own state,
　　And thou shalt find it merits not reproving;
　　Or, if it do, not from those lips of thine, 5
　　That have profaned their scarlet ornaments
　　And seal'd false bonds of love as oft as mine,
　　Robb'd others' beds' revenues of their rents.
　　Be it lawful I love thee, as thou lovest those
　　Whom thine eyes woo as mine importune thee: 10
　　Root pity in thy heart, that when it grows
　　Thy pity may deserve to pitied be.
　　 If thou dost seek to have what thou dost hide,
　　 By self-example mayst thou be denied! 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET CXLIII
　　
　　Lo! as a careful housewife runs to catch
　　One of her feather'd creatures broke away,
　　Sets down her babe and makes an swift dispatch
　　In pursuit of the thing she would have stay,
　　Whilst her neglected child holds her in chase, 5
　　Cries to catch her whose busy care is bent
　　To follow that which flies before her face,
　　Not prizing her poor infant's discontent;
　　So runn'st thou after that which flies from thee,
　　Whilst I thy babe chase thee afar behind; 10
　　But if thou catch thy hope, turn back to me,
　　And play the mother's part, kiss me, be kind:
　　 So will I pray that thou mayst have thy 'Will,'
　　 If thou turn back, and my loud crying still. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET CXLIV
　　
　　Two loves I have of comfort and despair,
　　Which like two spirits do suggest me still:
　　The better angel is a man right fair,
　　The worser spirit a woman colour'd ill.
　　To win me soon to hell, my female evil 5
　　Tempteth my better angel from my side,
　　And would corrupt my saint to be a devil,
　　Wooing his purity with her foul pride.
　　And whether that my angel be turn'd fiend
　　Suspect I may, but not directly tell; 10
　　But being both from me, both to each friend,
　　I guess one angel in another's hell:
　　 Yet this shall I ne'er know, but live in doubt,
　　 Till my bad angel fire my good one out. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET CXLV
　　
　　Those lips that Love's own hand did make
　　Breathed forth the sound that said 'I hate'
　　To me that languish'd for her sake;
　　But when she saw my woeful state,
　　Straight in her heart did mercy come, 5
　　Chiding that tongue that ever sweet
　　Was used in giving gentle doom,
　　And taught it thus anew to greet:
　　'I hate' she alter'd with an end,
　　That follow'd it as gentle day 10
　　Doth follow night, who like a fiend
　　From heaven to hell is flown away;
　　 'I hate' from hate away she threw,
　　 And saved my life, saying 'not you.' 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET CXLVI
　　
　　Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth,
　　[ ] these rebel powers that thee array;
　　Why dost thou pine within and suffer dearth,
　　Painting thy outward walls so costly gay?
　　Why so large cost, having so short a lease, 5
　　Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend?
　　Shall worms, inheritors of this excess,
　　Eat up thy charge? is this thy body's end?
　　Then soul, live thou upon thy servant's loss,
　　And let that pine to aggravate thy store; 10
　　Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross;
　　Within be fed, without be rich no more:
　　 So shalt thou feed on Death, that feeds on men,
　　 And Death once dead, there's no more dying then. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET CXLVII
　　
　　My love is as a fever, longing still
　　For that which longer nurseth the disease,
　　Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill,
　　The uncertain sickly appetite to please.
　　My reason, the physician to my love, 5
　　Angry that his prescriptions are not kept,
　　Hath left me, and I desperate now approve
　　Desire is death, which physic did except.
　　Past cure I am, now reason is past care,
　　And frantic-mad with evermore unrest; 10
　　My thoughts and my discourse as madmen's are,
　　At random from the truth vainly express'd;
　　 For I have sworn thee fair and thought thee bright,
　　 Who art as black as hell, as dark as night. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET CXLVIII
　　
　　O me, what eyes hath Love put in my head,
　　Which have no correspondence with true sight!
　　Or, if they have, where is my judgment fled,
　　That censures falsely what they see aright?
　　If that be fair whereon my false eyes dote, 5
　　What means the world to say it is not so?
　　If it be not, then love doth well denote
　　Love's eye is not so true as all men's 'No.'
　　How can it? O, how can Love's eye be true,
　　That is so vex'd with watching and with tears? 10
　　No marvel then, though I mistake my view;
　　The sun itself sees not till heaven clears.
　　 O cunning Love! with tears thou keep'st me blind,
　　 Lest eyes well-seeing thy foul faults should find. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET CXLIX
　　
　　Canst thou, O cruel! say I love thee not,
　　When I against myself with thee partake?
　　Do I not think on thee, when I forgot
　　Am of myself, all tyrant, for thy sake?
　　Who hateth thee that I do call my friend? 5
　　On whom frown'st thou that I do fawn upon?
　　Nay, if thou lour'st on me, do I not spend
　　Revenge upon myself with present moan?
　　What merit do I in myself respect,
　　That is so proud thy service to despise, 10
　　When all my best doth worship thy defect,
　　Commanded by the motion of thine eyes?
　　 But, love, hate on, for now I know thy mind;
　　 Those that can see thou lovest, and I am blind. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET CL
　　
　　O, from what power hast thou this powerful might
　　With insufficiency my heart to sway?
　　To make me give the lie to my true sight,
　　And swear that brightness doth not grace the day?
　　Whence hast thou this becoming of things ill, 5
　　That in the very refuse of thy deeds
　　There is such strength and warrantize of skill
　　That, in my mind, thy worst all best exceeds?
　　Who taught thee how to make me love thee more
　　The more I hear and see just cause of hate? 10
　　O, though I love what others do abhor,
　　With others thou shouldst not abhor my state:
　　 If thy unworthiness raised love in me,
　　 More worthy I to be beloved of thee. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET CLI
　　
　　Love is too young to know what conscience is;
　　Yet who knows not conscience is born of love?
　　Then, gentle cheater, urge not my amiss,
　　Lest guilty of my faults thy sweet self prove:
　　For, thou betraying me, I do betray 5
　　My nobler part to my gross body's treason;
　　My soul doth tell my body that he may
　　Triumph in love; flesh stays no father reason;
　　But, rising at thy name, doth point out thee
　　As his triumphant prize. Proud of this pride, 10
　　He is contented thy poor drudge to be,
　　To stand in thy affairs, fall by thy side.
　　 No want of conscience hold it that I call
　　 Her 'love' for whose dear love I rise and fall. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET CLII
　　
　　In loving thee thou know'st I am forsworn,
　　But thou art twice forsworn, to me love swearing,
　　In act thy bed-vow broke and new faith torn,
　　In vowing new hate after new love bearing.
　　But why of two oaths' breach do I accuse thee, 5
　　When I break twenty? I am perjured most;
　　For all my vows are oaths but to misuse thee
　　And all my honest faith in thee is lost,
　　For I have sworn deep oaths of thy deep kindness,
　　Oaths of thy love, thy truth, thy constancy, 10
　　And, to enlighten thee, gave eyes to blindness,
　　Or made them swear against the thing they see;
　　 For I have sworn thee fair; more perjured I,
　　 To swear against the truth so foul a lie! 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET CLIII
　　
　　Cupid laid by his brand, and fell asleep:
　　A maid of Dian's this advantage found,
　　And his love-kindling fire did quickly steep
　　In a cold valley-fountain of that ground;
　　Which borrow'd from this holy fire of Love 5
　　A dateless lively heat, still to endure,
　　And grew a seething bath, which yet men prove
　　Against strange maladies a sovereign cure.
　　But at my mistress' eye Love's brand new-fired,
　　The boy for trial needs would touch my breast; 10
　　I, sick withal, the help of bath desired,
　　And thither hied, a sad distemper'd guest,
　　 But found no cure: the bath for my help lies
　　 Where Cupid got new fire--my mistress' eyes. 14
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNET CLIV
　　
　　The little Love-god lying once asleep
　　Laid by his side his heart-inflaming brand,
　　Whilst many nymphs that vow'd chaste life to keep
　　Came tripping by; but in her maiden hand
　　The fairest votary took up that fire 5
　　Which many legions of true hearts had warm'd;
　　And so the general of hot desire
　　Was sleeping by a virgin hand disarm'd.
　　This brand she quenched in a cool well by,
　　Which from Love's fire took heat perpetual, 10
　　Growing a bath and healthful remedy
　　For men diseased; but I, my mistress' thrall,
　　 Came there for cure, and this by that I prove,
　　 Love's fire heats water, water cools not love. 14