The youth's proud livery so gazed on now
sweets with sweets war not,
joy delights in joy.
And, all in war with Time for love of you,
As he takes from you, I lengraft you new.
But day doth daily draw my sorrows longer,
And night doth nightly make grief's length seem stronger.
Gentle thou art, and therefore to be won,
Beauteous thou art,therefore to be assailed
Or, if they sleep, thy picture in my sight
Awakes my heart to heart's and eye's delight
Which but today by feeling is allayed,
Tomorrow sharp'ned in his former might.
Is it thy will thy image should keep open
My heavy eyelids to the weary night?
'Tis thee, myself, that for myself I praise,
Painting my age with beauty of thy days.
Tired with all these, from these would I be gone,
Save that to die,I leave my love alone.
For as the sun is daily new and old,
So is my love still telling what is told.
The worst was this: my love was my decay.
I never saw that you did painting need,
And therefore to your fair no painting set.
Thus have I had thee as a dream doth flatter,
In sleep a king, but waking no such matter.
Such is my love, to thee I so belong,
That for thy right myself will bear all wrong.
Wretched in this alone, that thou mayst take
All this away, and me most wretched make.
For there can live no harted in thine eye;
Therefore in that I cannot know thy change.
For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds;
Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds.
Some say thy fault is youth, some wantonness,
Some say thy grace is youth and gentle sport
Fair, kind, and ture is all my argument,
Fair, kind, and ture, varying to other words;
Finding the first conceit of love there bred
Where time and outward from would show it dead.
For nothing this wide universe I call
Save thou, my Rose; in it thou art my all.
You are so strongly in my purpose bred,
That all the world besides methinks are dead.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come
Since saucy jacks so happy are in this,
Give them thy fingers, me thy lips to kiss.
So shall thou feed on Death, that feeds on men,
And Death once dead, there's no more dying then.
My love is as a fever, longing still
No wanr of conscience hold it that I call
Her' love 'for whose dear love I rise and fall.
