Music to hear, why hear'st thou music sadly?1
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,
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;
Resembling sire, and child, and happy mother;
Who, all in one, one pleasing note do sing :
Whose speechless song, being many, seeming
Sings this to thee;-Thou single wilt prove none.'
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 :
1 i. e. O thou, whom to hear is music, why hearest thou. &c.
• i. e. mateless. Make and mate were formerly synony
The world will be thy widow, and still weep,
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;
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.
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,
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
Shall hate be fairer lodged than gentle love?
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.
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 con
Herein lives wisdom, beauty, and increase;
Without this, folly, age, and cold decay :
If all were minded so, the times should cease,
And threescore years would make the world away.
Let those, whom Nature hath not made for store,1
Harsh, featureless, and rude, barrenly perish :
Look, whom she best endow'd, she gave thee
Which bounteous gift thou shouldst in bounty cherish :
She carved thee for her seal, and meant thereby, Thou shouldst print more, nor let that copy die.
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,
Which erst from heat did canopy the herd;
i. e. to be preserved for use.
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,
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
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,
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 honor might uphold
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.
Not from the stars do I my judgment pluck;
And yet, methinks, I have astronomy;
But not to tell of good or eviì luck,
Of plagues, of dearths, or seasons' quality :
Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell,
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 knowlege I derive;
And, constant stars, in them I read such art,
As truth and beauty shall together thrive,
If from thyself to store thou wouldst convert;1
Or else of thee this I prognosticate;—
Thy end is truth's and beauty's doom and date.
When I consider every thing that grows
Holds in perfection but a little moment;
That this huge state presenteth naught but shows, Whereon the stars in secret influence comment; When I perceive that men as plants increase, Cheered and check'd even by the selfsame sky; Vaunt in their youthful sap, at height decrease, And wear their brave state out of memory;—
i. e. if thou wouldst change thy single state, and beget a numerous progeny.
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