POEMAS LITERATURA INGLESA II

Sometimes I joy when glad occasion fits,

And mask in myrth lyke to a Comedy

Sonnet 54

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:

Sonnet 18

Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,

And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;

And every fair from fair sometime declines,

By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd;

Sonnet 18

But thy eternal summer shall not fade

Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest;

Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,

When in eternal lines to time thou growest:

Sonnet 18

So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,

So long lives this and this gives life to thee.

Sonnet 18

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.

Sonnet 60

Nativity, once in the main of light,

Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crown'd,

Crooked eclipses 'gainst his glory fight,

And Time that gave doth now his gift confound.

Sonnet 60

Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth

And delves the parallels in beauty's brow,

Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth,

And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow:

Sonnet 60

And yet to times in hope my verse shall stand,

Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand.

Sonnet 60

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.

Sonnet 130

I have seen roses damask'd, red and white,

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.

Sonnet 130

I love to hear her speak, yet well I know

That music hath a far more pleasing sound;

I grant I never saw a goddess go;

My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:

Sonnet 130

And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare As any she belied with false compare.

Sonnet 130

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.

Sonnet 144

To win me soon to hell, my female evil

Tempteth my better angel from my side,

And would corrupt my saint to be a devil,

Wooing his purity with her foul pride.

Sonnet 144

And whether that my angel be turn'd fiend

Suspect I may, but not directly tell;

But being both from me, both to each friend,

I guess one angel in another's hell:

Sonnet 144

Yet this shall I ne'er know, but live in doubt,

Till my bad angel fire my good one out.

Sonnet 144

Of this worlds Theatre in which we stay, My love lyke the Spectator ydly sits

Sonnet 54

Beholding me that all the pageants play, Disguysing diversly my troubled wits.

Sonnet 54

Soone after when my joy to sorrow flits, I waile and make my woes a Tragedy.,

Sonnet 54

Yet she beholding me with constant eye, Delights not in my merth nor rues my smart:

Sonnet 54

But when I laugh she mocks, and when I cry

She laughes, and hardens evermore her hart.,

Sonnet 54

What then can move her? if not merth nor mone

She is no woman, but a sencelesse stone.,

Sonnet 54

One day I wrote her name upon the strand,

But came the waves and washed it away:

Sonnet 75

Again I wrote it with a second hand,

But came the tide, and made my pains his prey.

Sonnet 75

"Vain man," said she, "that dost in vain assay,

A mortal thing so to immortalize

Sonnet 75

For I myself shall like to this decay,

And eke my name be wiped out likewise."

Sonnet 75

"Not so," (quod I) "let baser things devise

To die in dust, but you shall live by fame:

Sonnet 75

My verse your vertues rare shall eternize,

And in the heavens write your glorious name:

Sonnet 75

Where whenas death shall all the world subdue,

Our love shall live, and later life renew."

Sonnet 75

Mark but this flea, and mark in this, How little that which thou deniest me is

The Flea

It sucked me first, and now sucks thee, And in this flea our two bloods mingled be

The Flea

Thou know'st that this cannot be said, A sin, nor shame, nor loss of maidenhead,

The Flea

Yet this enjoys before it woo, And pampered swells with one blood made of two,

The Flea

And this, alas, is more than we would do. Oh stay, three lives in one flea spare,

The Flea

Where we almost, nay more than married are. This flea is you and I, and this

The Flea

Our marriage bed, and marriage temple is Though parents grudge, and you, w'are met,

The Flea

And cloistered in these living walls of jet. Though use make you apt to kill me,

The Flea

Let not to that, self-murder added be, And sacrilege, three sins in killing three.

The Flea

Cruel and sudden, hast thou since Purpled thy nail, in blood of innocence?

The Flea

Wherein could this flea guilty be,Except in that drop which it sucked from thee?

The Flea

Yet thou triumph'st, and say'st that thou Find'st not thy self, nor me the weaker now

The Flea

'Tis true then learn how false, fears be: Just so much honor, when thou yield'st to me,

The Flea

Will waste, as this flea's death took life from thee.

The Flea

Had we but world enough and time

This coyness, lady, were no crime.

We would sit down, and think which way,

To walk, and pass our long love's day.

To his coy mistress

Thou by the Indian Ganges' side,

Shouldst rubies find: I by the tide

Of Humber would complain. I would,

Love you ten years before the flood,

To his coy mistress

And you should, if you please, refuse

Till the conversion of the Jews.

My vegetable love should grow

Vaster than empires and more slow

To his coy mistress

An hundred years should go to praise

Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze

Two hundred to adore each breast,

But thirty thousand to the rest

To his coy mistress

An age at least to every part,

And the last age should show your heart.

For, lady, you deserve this state,

Nor would I love at lower rate.

To his coy mistress

But at my back I always hear

Time's wingèd chariot hurrying near

And yonder all before us lie

Deserts of vast eternity.

To his coy mistress

Thy beauty shall no more be found

Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound

My echoing song; then worms shall try

That long-preserved virginity,

To his coy mistress

And your quaint honour turn to dust,

And into ashes all my lust

The grave's a fine and private place,

But none, I think, do there embrace.

To his coy mistress

Now therefore, while the youthful hue

Sits on thy skin like morning dew,

And while thy willing soul transpires

At every pore with instant fires,

To his coy mistress

Now let us sport us while we may,

And now, like amorous birds of prey,

Rather at once our time devour

Than languish in his slow-chapped power.

To his coy mistress

Let us roll all our strength and all

Our sweetness up into one ball,

And tear our pleasures with rough strife

Through the iron gates of life:

To his coy mistress

Thus, though we cannot make our sun

Stand still, yet we will make him run.

To his coy mistress

Drink to me only with thine eyes,

And I will pledge with mine

Drink to me only with thine eyes

Or leave a kiss but in the cup,

And I'll not look for wine.

Drink to me only with thine eyes

The thirst that from the soul doth rise

Doth ask a drink divine

Drink to me only with thine eyes

But might I of Jove's nectar sup,

I would not change for thine.

Drink to me only with thine eyes

I sent thee late a rosy wreath,

Not so much honouring thee

Drink to me only with thine eyes

As giving it a hope, that there

It could not withered be.

Drink to me only with thine eyes

But thou thereon didst only breathe,

And sent'st it back to me

Drink to me only with thine eyes

Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,

Not of itself, but thee.

Drink to me only with thine eyes

In this strange Labyrinth how shall I turn,

Ways are on all sides while the way I miss:

Sonnet 77

If to the right hand, there, in love I burn,

Let me go forward, therein danger is.

Sonnet 77

If to the left, suspicion hinders bliss

Let me turn back, shame cries I ought return:

Sonnet 77

Nor faint, though crosses my fortunes kiss,

Stand still is harder, although sure to mourn.

Sonnet 77

Thus let me take the right, or left hand way,

Go forward, or stand still, or back retire:

Sonnet 77

I must these doubts endure without allay

Or help, but travail find for my best hire.

Sonnet 77

Yet that which most my troubled sense doth move,

Is to leave all, and take the thread of Love.

Sonnet 77

Busy old fool, unruly sun,

Why dost thou thus,

Through windows, and through curtains call on us?

Must to thy motions lovers' seasons run?

The sun rising

Saucy pedantic wretch, go chide

Late school boys and sour prentices,

Go tell court huntsmen that the king will ride,

Call country ants to harvest offices,

The sun rising

Love, all alike, no season knows nor clime,

Nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time.

Thy beams, so reverend and strong

Why shouldst thou think?

The sun rising