Shakespeare’s Sonnets(莎翁十四行诗集)

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THE SONNETS by William Shakespeare

THE SONNETS

William Shakespeare

THE SONNETS by William Shakespeare

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.

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

tatter'd 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 deserv'd 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.

III

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 unear'd 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, remember'd not to be, Die single and thine

THE SONNETS by William Shakespeare

image dies with thee.

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? Thy unused

beauty must be tombed with thee, Which, used, lives th' executor to be.

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 distill'd, though they with winter meet, Leese but

their show; their substance still lives sweet.

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

be distill'd: Make sweet some vial; treasure thou some place With beauty's

treasure ere it be self-kill'd. 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 refigur'd thee: Then what

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

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

THE SONNETS by William Shakespeare

worms thine heir.

VII

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 climb'd 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, thyself outgoing in thy noon: Unlook'd, on diest unless thou get a

son.

VIII

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

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.'

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

THE SONNETS by William Shakespeare

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.

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

unprovident. Grant, if thou wilt, thou art belov'd of many, But that thou

none lov'st is most evident: For thou art so possess'd with murderous 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 lodg'd 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 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

endow'd, she gave thee more; Which bounteous gift thou shouldst in

bounty cherish: She carv'd thee for her seal, and meant thereby, Thou

shouldst print more, not let that copy die.

XII

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 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

THE SONNETS by William Shakespeare

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.

XIII

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 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 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.

XIV

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 thyself, to store thou wouldst convert'; 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 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

THE SONNETS by William Shakespeare

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.

XVI

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 yourself, keeps yourself still, And you must

live, drawn by your own sweet skill.

XVII

Who will believe my verse in time to come, If it were fill'd 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 touch'd

earthly faces.' So should my papers, yellow'd with their age, Be scorn'd,

like old men of less truth than tongue, And your true rights be term'd 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.

XVIII 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 dimm'd, And every fair

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

untrimm'd: But thy eternal summer shall not fade, Nor lose possession of

THE SONNETS by William Shakespeare

that fair thou ow'st, Nor shall death brag thou wander'st 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.

XIX

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-liv'd phoenix, in her blood; Make glad and sorry

seasons as thou fleets, 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

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.

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 prick'd thee out for

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

XXI

So is it not with me as with that Muse, Stirr'd by a painted beauty to

his verse, Who heaven itself 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

THE SONNETS by William Shakespeare

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 fix'd in heaven's

air: Let them say more that like of hearsay well; I will not praise that

purpose not to sell.

XXII

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 myself, but for thee will; Bearing thy heart,

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

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

give back again.

XXIII

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'ercharg'd with burthen of mine own love's might. O! let my looks

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 express'd. O! learn to read what silent love hath writ: To hear

with eyes belongs to love's fine wit.

XXIV

Mine eye hath play'd the painter and hath stell'd, 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 pictur'd lies, Which in my bosom's shop is

THE SONNETS by William Shakespeare

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.

XXV

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

proud titles boast, Whilst I, whom fortune of such triumph bars Unlook'd

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 foil'd, Is from the book

of honour razed quite, And all the rest forgot for which he toil'd: Then

happy I, that love and am belov'd, Where I may not remove nor be

remov'd.

XXVI

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 tatter'd 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.

XXVII

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

travel tir'd; 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--

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