Viola Fair Website   

 

Sonnets of William Shakespeare

CXXXIV

So now I have confess'd that he is thine,

And I myself am mortgag'd 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,

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 stature of thy beauty thou wilt take,

Thou usurer, that putt'st forth all to use,

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 I am not free.

 

CXXXV

Whoever hath her wish, thou hast thy will,

And will to boot, and will in over-plus;

More than enough am I that vex thee still,

To thy sweet will making addition thus.

Wilt thou, whose will is large and spacious,

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;

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
.

 

CXXXVI

If thy soul check 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,

Ay, fill it full with wills, and my will one,

In things of great receipt with ease we prove;

Among a number one is reckoned none.

Then in the number let me pass untold,

Though in thy stores' account I one must be;

For nothing hold me, so it please thee hold

That nothing me, a something sweet to thee;

Make but thy name thy love, and love that still,

And then thou lov'st me,—for my name is Will
.

 

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,

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?

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 err'd,

And to this false plague are they now transferr'd.

 

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,

Although she knows my days are past the best,

Simply I credit her false-speaking tongue;

On both sides thus is simple truth supprest,

But wherefore says she not she is unjust?

And wherefore say not I that I am old?

O, love's best habit is in seeming trust,

An 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.

 

CXXXIX

O, call not me to justify the wrong

That thy unkindness lays upon my heart;

Wound me not with thine eye, but with thine tongue;

Use power with power, and slay me not by art.

Tell me thou lov'st elsewhere; but in my sight,

Dear heart, forbear to glance thine eye aside.

What need'st thou wound with cunning, when thy might

Is more than my o'erexpress'd defence can 'bide?

Let me excuse thee: ah! my love well knows

Her pretty looks have been mine enemies;

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.

 

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,

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:

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.

 

Back to Shakespeare

     

Art        Internet        Music        Poetry        Vaping

Site Map

 

vfssmail (at) gmail (dot) com