William Shakespeare: The Complete Works 2nd Edition (618 page)

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Authors: William Shakespeare

Tags: #Drama, #Literary Criticism, #Shakespeare

BOOK: William Shakespeare: The Complete Works 2nd Edition
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writhled
, wrinkled
wry
, to swerve
 
Xantippe
, scolding wife of the philosopher Socrates
 
yard
, yard measure, penis
yare
, ready, quick, moving lightly
yaw,
sail out of course, lose direction
yellowness
, jealousy
yellows
, jaundice
yerk
, thrust suddenly
youngly
, youthfully, without experience
younker
, fine young man, novice, greenhorn
 
zany
, comic performer awkwardly imitating a clown or mountebank
INDEX OF FIRST LINES OF SONNETS
 
THE Sonnets are to be found on pp.. The numbers refer to their position in the sequence.
 
A woman’s face with nature’s own hand painted
 
Accuse me thus : that I have scanted all
 
Against my love shall be as I am now
 
Against that time—if ever that time come
 
Ah, wherefore with infection should he live
 
Alack, what poverty my muse brings forth
 
Alas, ’tis true, I have gone here and there
 
As a decrepit father takes delight
 
As an unperfect actor on the stage
 
As fast as thou shalt wane, so fast thou grow’st
 
 
Be wise as thou art cruel; do not press
 
Being your slave, what should I do but tend
 
Beshrew that heart that makes my heart to groan
 
Betwixt mine eye and heart a league is took
 
But be contented when that fell arrest
 
But do thy worst to steal thyself away
 
But wherefore do not you a mightier way
 
 
Canst thou, Ocruel, say I love thee not
 
Cupid laid by his brand and fell asleep
 
 
Devouring time, blunt thou the lion’s paws
 
 
Farewell—thou art too dear for my possessing
 
For shame deny that thou bear’st love to any
 
From fairest creatures we desire increase
 
From you have I been absent in the spring
 
Full many a glorious morning have I seen
 
 
How can I then return in happy plight
 
How can my muse want subject to invent
 
How careful was I when I took my way
 
How heavy do I journey on the way
 
How like a winter hath my absence been
 
How oft, when thou, my music, music play’st
 
How sweet and lovely dost thou make the shame
 
 
I grant thou wert not married to my muse
 
I never saw that youpainting need
 
If my dear love were but the child of state
 
If the dull substance of my flesh were thought
 
If there be nothing new, but that which is
 
If thou survive my well-contented day
 
If thy soul check thee that I come so near
 
In faith, I do not love thee with mine eyes
 
In loving thee thou know’st I am forsworn
 
In the old age black was not counted fair
 
Is it for fear to wet a widow’s eye
 
Is it thy will thy image should keep open
 
 
Let me confess that we two must be twain
 
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
 
Let not my love be called idolatry
 
Let those who are in favour with their stars
 
Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore
 
Like as, to make our appetites more keen
 
Lo, as a care-full housewife runs to catch
 
Lo, in the orient when the gracious light
 
Look in thy glass, and tell the face thou viewest
 
Lord of my love, to whom in vassalage
 
Love is my sin, and thy dear virtue hate
 
Love is too young to know what conscience is I
 
 
Mine eye and heart are at a mortal war
 
Mine eye hath played the painter, and hath steeled
 
Music to hear, why hear’st thou music sadly?
 
My glass shall not persuade me I am old
 
My love is as a fever, longing still
 
My love is strengthened, though more weak in seeming
 
My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun
 
My tongue-tied muse in manners holds her still
 
 
No longer mourn for me when I am dead
 
No more be grieved at that which thou hast done
 
No, time, thou shalt not boast that I do change!
 
Not from the stars do I my judgement pluck
 
Not marble nor the gilded monuments
 
Not mine own fears nor the prophetic soul
 
 
O, call not me to justify the wrong
 
O, for my sake do you with fortune chide win
 
O, from what power hast thou this powerful might
 
O, how I faint when I of you do write
 
O how much more doth beauty beauteous seem
 
O, how thy worth with manners maysing
 
O, lest the world should task you to recite
 
O me, what eyes hath love put in my head
 
O never say that I was false of heart
 
O that you were yourself! But, love, you are
 
O thou my lovely boy, who in thy power
 
O truant muse, what shall be thy amends
 
Or I shall live your epitaph to make
 
Or whether doth my mind, being crowned with you
 
 
Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth
 
 
Say that thou didst forsake me for some fault
 
Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
 
Sin of self-love possesseth all mine eye
 
Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea
 
Since I left you mine eye is in my mind
 
So am I as the rich whose blessed key
 
So are you to my thoughts as food to life
 
So is it not with me as with that muse
 
So, now I have confessed that he is thine
 
So oft have I invoked thee for my muse
 
So shall I live supposing thou art true
 
Some glory in their birth, some in their skill
 
Some say thy fault is youth, some wantonness
 
Sweet love, renew thy force. Be it not said
 
 
Take all my loves, my love, yea, take them all
 
That god forbid, that made me first your slave
 
That thou are blamed shall not be thy defect
 
That thou hast her, it is not all my grief
 
That time of year thou mayst in me behold
 
That you were once unkind befriends me now
 
The forward violet thus did I chide
 
The little love-god lying once asleep
 
The other two, slight air and purging fire
 
Then hate me when thou wilt, if ever, now
 
Then let not winter’s ragged hand deface
 
Th’expense of spirit in a waste of shame
 
They that have power to hurt and will do none
 
Thine eyes I love, and they, as pitying me
 
Those hours that with gentle work did frame
 
Those lines that I before have writ do lie
 
Those lips that love’s own hand did make
 
Those parts of thee that the world’s eye doth view
 
Those pretty wrongs that liberty commits
 
Thou art as tyrannous so as thou art
 
Thou blind fool love, what dost thou to mine eyes
 
Thus can my love excuse the slow offence
 
Thus is his cheek the map of days outworn
 
Thy bosom is endeared with all hearts
 
Thy gift, thy tables, are within my brain
 
Thy glass will show thee how thy beauties wear
 
Tired with all these, for restful death I cry
 
’Tis better to be vile than vile esteemed
 
To me, fair friend, you never can be old
 
Two loves I have, of comfort and despair
 
 
Unthrifty loveliness, why dost thou spend
 
 
Was it the proud full sail of his great verse
 
Weary with toil I haste me to my bed
 
Were’t aught to me I bore the canopy
 
What is your substance, whereof are you made
 
What potions have I drunk of siren tears
 
What’s in the brain that ink may character
 
When forty winters shall besiege thy brow
 
When I consider every thing that grows
 
When I do count the clock that tells the time
 
When I have seen by time’s fell hand defaced
 
When, in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes
 
When in the chronicle of wasted time
 
When most I wink, then do mine eyes best see
 
When my love swears that she is made of truth
 
When thou shalt be disposed to set me light
 
When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
 
Where art thou, muse, that thou forget’st so long
 
Whilst I alonecall upon thy aid
 
Who is it that says most which can say more
 
Who will believe my verse in time to come
 
Whoever hath her wish, thou hast thy Will
 
Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day
 
Why is my verse so barren of new pride
 
 
Your love and pity doth th‘impression fill
 

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