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

 

 

  William Shakespeare, The Oxford Shakespeare: The Complete Works

 

 

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