The Shakespearian Sonnets(莎士比亚十四行诗)

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THE SONNETS

William Shakespeare

THE SONNETS

1 From fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose

might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir

might bear his memory: But thou contracted to thine own bright eyes,

Feed'st thy light's flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where

abundance lies, Thy self thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel: Thou that art

now the world's fresh ornament, And only herald to the gaudy spring,

Within thine own bud buriest thy content, And tender churl mak'st waste in

niggarding: Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world's due,

by the grave and thee.

2 When forty winters shall besiege thy brow, And dig deep trenches

in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery so gazed on now, Will be a

tattered weed of small worth held: Then being asked, where all thy beauty

lies, Where all the treasure of thy lusty days; To say within thine own deep

sunken eyes, Were an all-eating shame, and thriftless praise. How much

more praise deserved thy beauty's use, If thou couldst answer 'This fair

child of mine Shall sum my count, and make my old excuse' Proving his

beauty by succession thine. This were to be new made when thou art old,

And see thy blood warm when thou feel'st it cold.

3 Look in thy glass and tell the face thou viewest, Now is the time

that face should form another, Whose fresh repair if now thou not

renewest, Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother. For where is

she so fair whose uneared womb Disdains the tillage of thy husbandry? Or

who is he so fond will be the tomb, Of his self-love to stop posterity?

Thou art thy mother's glass and she in thee Calls back the lovely April of

her prime, So thou through windows of thine age shalt see, Despite of

wrinkles this thy golden time. But if thou live remembered not to be, Die

single and thine image dies with thee.

4 Unthrifty loveliness why dost thou spend, Upon thy self thy

beauty's legacy? Nature's bequest gives nothing but doth lend, And being

frank she lends to those are free: Then beauteous niggard why dost thou

abuse, The bounteous largess given thee to give? Profitless usurer why

dost thou use So great a sum of sums yet canst not live? For having traffic

with thy self alone, Thou of thy self thy sweet self dost deceive, Then how

when nature calls thee to be gone, What acceptable audit canst thou leave?

THE SONNETS

Thy unused beauty must be tombed with thee, Which used lives th'

executor to be.

5 Those hours that with gentle work did frame The lovely gaze where

every eye doth dwell Will play the tyrants to the very same, And that

unfair which fairly doth excel: For never-resting time leads summer on To

hideous winter and confounds him there, Sap checked with frost and lusty

leaves quite gone, Beauty o'er-snowed and bareness every where: Then

were not summer's distillation left A liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass,

Beauty's effect with beauty were bereft, Nor it nor no remembrance what

it was. But flowers distilled though they with winter meet, Leese but their

show, their substance still lives sweet.

6 Then let not winter's ragged hand deface, In thee thy summer ere

thou be distilled: Make sweet some vial; treasure thou some place, With

beauty's treasure ere it be self-killed: That use is not forbidden usury,

Which happies those that pay the willing loan; That's for thy self to breed

another thee, Or ten times happier be it ten for one, Ten times thy self were

happier than thou art, If ten of thine ten times refigured thee: Then what

could death do if thou shouldst depart, Leaving thee living in posterity? Be

not self-willed for thou art much too fair, To be death's conquest and make

worms thine heir.

7 Lo in the orient when the gracious light Lifts up his burning head,

each under eye Doth homage to his new-appearing sight, Serving with

looks his sacred majesty, And having climbed the steep-up heavenly hill,

Resembling strong youth in his middle age, Yet mortal looks adore his

beauty still, Attending on his golden pilgrimage: But when from highmost

pitch with weary car, Like feeble age he reeleth from the day, The eyes

(fore duteous) now converted are From his low tract and look another way:

So thou, thy self out-going in thy noon: Unlooked on diest unless thou get

a son.

8 Music to hear, why hear'st thou music sadly? Sweets with sweets

war not, joy delights in joy: Why lov'st thou that which thou receiv'st not

gladly, Or else receiv'st 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

THE SONNETS

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 one, Sings this to thee, 'Thou single wilt prove none'.

9 Is it for fear to wet a widow's eye, That thou consum'st thy self in

single life? Ah, if thou issueless shalt hap to die, The world will wail thee

like a makeless wife, 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 murd'rous shame commits.

10 For shame deny that thou bear'st love to any Who for thy self art

so unprovident. Grant if thou wilt, thou art beloved of many, But that thou

none lov'st is most evident: For thou art so possessed with murd'rous hate,

That 'gainst thy self 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 mind, Shall hate be fairer lodged than

gentle love? Be as thy presence is gracious and kind, Or to thy self at least

kind-hearted prove, Make thee another self for love of me, That beauty

still may live in thine or thee.

11 As fast as thou shalt wane so fast thou grow'st, In one of thine,

from that which thou departest, And that fresh blood which youngly thou

bestow'st, Thou mayst call thine, when thou from youth convertest, Herein

lives wisdom, beauty, and increase, Without this folly, age, and cold decay,

If all were minded so, the times should cease, And threescore year would

make the world away: Let those whom nature hath not made for store,

Harsh, featureless, and rude, barrenly perish: Look whom she best

endowed, she gave thee more; Which bounteous gift thou shouldst in

bounty cherish: She carved thee for her seal, and meant thereby, Thou

shouldst print more, not let that copy die.

12 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

THE SONNETS

curls all silvered o'er with white: When lofty trees I see barren of leaves,

Which erst from heat did canopy the herd 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 hence.

13 O that you were your self, but love you are No longer yours, than

you your self 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 Your self again

after your self's decease, When your sweet issue your sweet form should

bear. Who lets so fair a house fall to decay, Which husbandry in honour

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.

14 Not from the stars do I my judgement pluck, And yet methinks I

have astronomy, But not to tell of good, or evil 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

knowledge I derive, And constant stars in them I read such art As truth and

beauty shall together thrive If from thy self, to store thou wouldst convert:

Or else of thee this I prognosticate, Thy end is truth's and beauty's doom

and date.

15 When I consider every thing that grows Holds in perfection but a

little moment. That this huge stage presenteth nought but shows Whereon

the stars in secret influence comment. When I perceive that men as plants

increase, Cheered and checked even by the self-same sky: Vaunt in their

youthful sap, at height decrease, And wear their brave state out of memory.

Then the conceit of this inconstant stay, Sets you most rich in youth before

my sight, Where wasteful time debateth with decay To change your day of

youth to sullied night, And all in war with Time for love of you, As he

takes from you, I engraft you new.

THE SONNETS

16 But wherefore do not you a mightier way Make war upon this

bloody tyrant Time? And fortify your self in your decay With means more

blessed than my barren rhyme? Now stand you on the top of happy hours,

And many maiden gardens yet unset, With virtuous wish would bear you

living flowers, Much liker than your painted counterfeit: So should the

lines of life that life repair Which this (Time's pencil) or my pupil pen

Neither in inward worth nor outward fair Can make you live your self in

eyes of men. To give away your self, keeps your self still, And you must

live drawn by your own sweet skill.

17 Who will believe my verse in time to come If it were filled with

your most high deserts? Though yet heaven knows it is but as a tomb

Which hides your life, and shows not half your parts: If I could write the

beauty of your eyes, And in fresh numbers number all your graces, The

age to come would say this poet lies, Such heavenly touches ne'er touched

earthly faces. So should my papers (yellowed with their age) Be scorned,

like old men of less truth than tongue, And your true rights be termed a

poet's rage, And stretched metre of an antique song. But were some child

of yours alive that time, You should live twice in it, and in my rhyme.

18 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: Sometime too hot the eye of

heaven shines, And often is his gold complexion dimmed, And every fair

from fair sometime declines, By chance, or nature's changing course

untrimmed: But thy eternal summer shall not fade, Nor lose possession of

that fair thou ow'st, Nor shall death brag thou wand'rest in his shade,

When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st, So long as men can breathe or

eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

19 Devouring Time blunt thou the lion's paws, And make the earth

devour her own sweet brood, Pluck the keen teeth from the fierce tiger's

jaws, And burn the long-lived phoenix, in her blood, Make glad and sorry

seasons as thou fleet'st, And do whate'er thou wilt swift-footed Time To

the wide world and all her fading sweets: But I forbid thee one most

heinous crime, O carve not with thy hours my love's fair brow, Nor draw

no lines there with thine antique pen, Him in thy course untainted do allow,

THE SONNETS

For beauty's pattern to succeeding men. Yet do thy worst old Time: despite

thy wrong, My love shall in my verse ever live young.

20 A woman's face with nature's own hand painted, Hast thou the

master mistress of my passion, A woman's gentle heart but not acquainted

With shifting change as is false women's fashion, An eye more bright than

theirs, less false in rolling: Gilding the object whereupon it gazeth, A man

in hue all hues in his controlling, Which steals men's eyes and women's

souls amazeth. And for a woman wert thou first created, Till nature as she

wrought thee fell a-doting, And by addition me of thee defeated, By

adding one thing to my purpose nothing. But since she pricked thee out for

women's pleasure, Mine be thy love and thy love's use their treasure.

21 So is it not with me as with that muse, Stirred by a painted beauty

to his verse, Who heaven it self for ornament doth use, And every fair with

his fair doth rehearse, Making a couplement of proud compare With sun

and moon, with earth and sea's rich gems: With April's first-born flowers

and all things rare, That heaven's air in this huge rondure hems. O let me

true in love but truly write, And then believe me, my love is as fair, As any

mother's child, though not so bright As those gold candles fixed in

heaven's air: Let them say more that like of hearsay well, I will not praise

that purpose not to sell.

22 My glass shall not persuade me I am old, So long as youth and

thou are of one date, But when in thee time's furrows I behold, Then look I

death my days should expiate. For all that beauty that doth cover thee, Is

but the seemly raiment of my heart, Which in thy breast doth live, as thine

in me, How can I then be elder than thou art? O therefore love be of

thyself so wary, As I not for my self, but for thee will, Bearing thy heart

which I will keep so chary As tender nurse her babe from faring ill.

Presume not on thy heart when mine is slain, Thou gav'st me thine not to

give back again.

23 As an unperfect actor on the stage, Who with his fear is put beside

his part, Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage, Whose strength's

abundance weakens his own heart; So I for fear of trust, forget to say, The

perfect ceremony of love's rite, And in mine own love's strength seem to

decay, O'ercharged with burthen of mine own love's might: O let my looks

THE SONNETS

be then the eloquence, And dumb presagers of my speaking breast, Who

plead for love, and look for recompense, More than that tongue that more

hath more expressed. O learn to read what silent love hath writ, To hear

with eyes belongs to love's fine wit.

24 Mine eye hath played the painter and hath stelled, Thy beauty's

form in table of my heart, My body is the frame wherein 'tis held, And

perspective it is best painter's art. For through the painter must you see his

skill, To find where your true image pictured lies, Which in my bosom's

shop is hanging still, That hath his windows glazed with thine eyes: Now

see what good turns eyes for eyes have done, Mine eyes have drawn thy

shape, and thine for me Are windows to my breast, where-through the sun

Delights to peep, to gaze therein on thee; Yet eyes this cunning want to

grace their art, They draw but what they see, know not the heart.

25 Let those who are in favour with their stars, Of public honour and

proud titles boast, Whilst I whom fortune of such triumph bars Unlooked

for joy in that I honour most; Great princes' favourites their fair leaves

spread, But as the marigold at the sun's eye, And in themselves their pride

lies buried, For at a frown they in their glory die. The painful warrior

famoused for fight, After a thousand victories once foiled, Is from the

book of honour razed quite, And all the rest forgot for which he toiled:

Then happy I that love and am beloved Where I may not remove nor be

removed.

26 Lord of my love, to whom in vassalage Thy merit hath my duty

strongly knit; To thee I send this written embassage To witness duty, not to

show my wit. Duty so great, which wit so poor as mine May make seem

bare, in wanting words to show it; But that I hope some good conceit of

thine In thy soul's thought (all naked) will bestow it: Till whatsoever star

that guides my moving, Points on me graciously with fair aspect, And puts

apparel on my tattered loving, To show me worthy of thy sweet respect,

Then may I dare to boast how I do love thee, Till then, not show my head

where thou mayst prove me.

27 Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed, The dear respose for limbs

with travel tired, But then begins a journey in my head To work my mind,

when body's work's expired. For then my thoughts (from far where I abide)

THE SONNETS

Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee, And keep my drooping eyelids open

wide, Looking on darkness which the blind do see. Save that my soul's

imaginary sight Presents thy shadow to my sightless view, Which like a

jewel (hung in ghastly night) Makes black night beauteous, and her old

face new. Lo thus by day my limbs, by night my mind, For thee, and for

my self, no quiet find.

28 How can I then return in happy plight That am debarred the

benefit of rest? When day's oppression is not eased by night, But day by

night and night by day oppressed. And each (though enemies to either's

reign) Do in consent shake hands to torture me, The one by toil, the other

to complain How far I toil, still farther off from thee. I tell the day to

please him thou art bright, And dost him grace when clouds do blot the

heaven: So flatter I the swart-complexioned night, When sparkling stars

twire not thou gild'st the even. But day doth daily draw my sorrows longer,

And night doth nightly make grief's length seem stronger

29 When in disgrace with Fortune and men's eyes, I all alone beweep

my outcast state, And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries, And

look upon my self and curse my fate, Wishing me like to one more rich in

hope, Featured like him, like him with friends possessed, Desiring this

man's art, and that man's scope, With what I most enjoy contented least,

Yet in these thoughts my self almost despising, Haply I think on thee, and

then my state, (Like to the lark at break of day arising From sullen earth)

sings hymns at heaven's gate, For thy sweet love remembered such wealth

brings, That then I scorn to change my state with kings.

30 When to the sessions of sweet silent thought, I summon up

remembrance of things past, I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought, And

with old woes new wail my dear time's waste: Then can I drown an eye

(unused to flow) For precious friends hid in death's dateless night, And

weep afresh love's long since cancelled woe, And moan th' expense of

many a vanished sight. Then can I grieve at grievances foregone, And

heavily from woe to woe tell o'er The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan,

Which I new pay as if not paid before. But if the while I think on thee

(dear friend) All losses are restored, and sorrows end.

31 Thy bosom is endeared with all hearts, Which I by lacking have

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THESONNETS1THESONNETSWilliamShakespeareTHESONNETS21Fromfairestcreatureswedesireincrease,Thattherebybeauty'srosemightneverdie,Butastheripershouldbytimedecease,Histenderheirmightbearhismemory:Butthoucontractedtothineownbrighteyes,Feed'stthylight'sflamewithself-substantialfuel,Makingafaminewhereabundan...

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The Shakespearian Sonnets(莎士比亚十四行诗)

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