Shakespeare's Works

William Shakespeare

noreply@blogger.com (Jeff Ketzle) — Sat, 28 Nov 2009 04:02:00 +0000

Shakespeare's sonnets, or simply The Sonnets, is a collection of poems in sonnet form written by William Shakespeare that deal with such themes as time, love, beauty and mutability. They were probably written over a period of several years. All 154 poems appeared in a 1609 collection, entitled SHAKE-SPEARES SONNETS, comprising 152 previously unpublished sonnets and two (numbers 138 and 144) that had previously been published in a 1599 miscellany entitled The Passionate Pilgrim.

From Wikipedia:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shakespeare%27s_Sonnets

First Lines of Sonnets I to L

noreply@blogger.com (Jeff Ketzle) — Sat, 28 Nov 2009 03:57:00 +0000

Sonnet I - From fairest creatures we desire increase,

Sonnet II - When forty winters shall besiege thy brow,

Sonnet III - Look in thy glass and tell the face thou viewest

Sonnet IV - Unthrifty loveliness, why dost thou spend

Sonnet V - Those hours, that with gentle work did frame

Sonnet VI - Then let not winter's ragged hand deface,

Sonnet VII - Lo! in the orient when the gracious light

Sonnet VIII - Music to hear, why hear'st thou music sadly?

Sonnet IX - Is it for fear to wet a widow's eye,

Sonnet X - For shame deny that thou bear'st love to any,

Sonnet XI - As fast as thou shalt wane, so fast thou grow'st

Sonnet XII - When I do count the clock that tells the time,

Sonnet XIII - O! that you were your self; but, love, you are

Sonnet XIV - Not from the stars do I my judgement pluck;

Sonnet XV - When I consider every thing that grows

Sonnet XVI - But wherefore do not you a mightier way

Sonnet XVII - Who will believe my verse in time to come,

Sonnet XVIII - Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?

Sonnet XIX - Devouring Time, blunt thou the lion's paws,

Sonnet XX - A woman's face with nature's own hand painted,

Sonnet XXI - So is it not with me as with that Muse,

Sonnet XXII - My glass shall not persuade me I am old,

Sonnet XXIII - As an unperfect actor on the stage,

Sonnet XXIV - Mine eye hath play'd the painter and hath steel'd,

Sonnet XXV - Let those who are in favour with their stars

Sonnet XXVI - Lord of my love, to whom in vassalage

Sonnet XXVII - Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed,

Sonnet XXVIII - How can I then return in happy plight,

Sonnet XXIX - When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes

Sonnet XXX - When to the sessions of sweet silent thought

Sonnet XXXI - Thy bosom is endeared with all hearts,

Sonnet XXXII - If thou survive my well-contented day,

Sonnet XXXIII - Full many a glorious morning have I seen

Sonnet XXXIV - Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day,

Sonnet XXXV - No more be grieved at that which thou hast done:

Sonnet XXXVI - Let me confess that we two must be twain,

Sonnet XXXVII - As a decrepit father takes delight

Sonnet XXXVIII - How can my muse want subject to invent,

Sonnet XXXIX - O! how thy worth with manners may I sing,

Sonnet XL - Take all my loves, my love, yea take them all;

Sonnet XLI - Those pretty wrongs that liberty commits,

Sonnet XLII - That thou hast her it is not all my grief,

Sonnet XLIII - When most I wink, then do mine eyes best see,

Sonnet XLIV - If the dull substance of my flesh were thought,

Sonnet XLV - The other two, slight air, and purging fire

Sonnet XLVI - Mine eye and heart are at a mortal war,

Sonnet XLVII - Betwixt mine eye and heart a league is took,

Sonnet XLVIII - How careful was I when I took my way,

Sonnet XLIX - Against that time, if ever that time come,

Sonnet L - How heavy do I journey on the way,

Sonnets XLI - L

noreply@blogger.com (Jeff Ketzle) — Fri, 13 Nov 2009 01:49:00 +0000

Sonnets XXXI - XL

noreply@blogger.com (Jeff Ketzle) — Fri, 13 Nov 2009 01:48:00 +0000

Sonnets XXI - XXX

noreply@blogger.com (Jeff Ketzle) — Fri, 13 Nov 2009 00:31:00 +0000

Sonnets I - X

noreply@blogger.com (Jeff Ketzle) — Fri, 13 Nov 2009 00:29:00 +0000

Sonnets XI - XX

noreply@blogger.com (Jeff Ketzle) — Fri, 13 Nov 2009 00:23:00 +0000

Sonnet IV

noreply@blogger.com (Jeff Ketzle) — Thu, 12 Nov 2009 05:39:00 +0000

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.

Sonnet V

noreply@blogger.com (Jeff Ketzle) — Thu, 12 Nov 2009 05:39:00 +0000

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.

Sonnet VI

noreply@blogger.com (Jeff Ketzle) — Thu, 12 Nov 2009 05:38:00 +0000

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.

Sonnet VII

noreply@blogger.com (Jeff Ketzle) — Thu, 12 Nov 2009 05:38:00 +0000

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, thyself outgoing in thy noon
Unlooked on diest unless thou get a son.

Sonnet VIII

noreply@blogger.com (Jeff Ketzle) — Thu, 12 Nov 2009 05:37:00 +0000

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.'

Sonnet IX

noreply@blogger.com (Jeff Ketzle) — Thu, 12 Nov 2009 05:37:00 +0000

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.

Sonnet X

noreply@blogger.com (Jeff Ketzle) — Thu, 12 Nov 2009 05:33:00 +0000

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 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 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.

Sonnet XI

noreply@blogger.com (Jeff Ketzle) — Thu, 12 Nov 2009 05:32:00 +0000

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 the 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.

Sonnet XII

noreply@blogger.com (Jeff Ketzle) — Thu, 12 Nov 2009 05:31:00 +0000

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 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.

Sonnet XIII

noreply@blogger.com (Jeff Ketzle) — Thu, 12 Nov 2009 05:31:00 +0000

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.

Sonnet XIV

noreply@blogger.com (Jeff Ketzle) — Thu, 12 Nov 2009 05:26:00 +0000

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.

Sonnet XV

noreply@blogger.com (Jeff Ketzle) — Thu, 12 Nov 2009 05:26:00 +0000

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.

Sonnet XVI

noreply@blogger.com (Jeff Ketzle) — Thu, 12 Nov 2009 05:25:00 +0000

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.

Sonnet XVII

noreply@blogger.com (Jeff Ketzle) — Thu, 12 Nov 2009 05:25:00 +0000

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.

Sonnet XVIII

noreply@blogger.com (Jeff Ketzle) — Thu, 12 Nov 2009 05:25:00 +0000

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 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.

Sonnet XIX

noreply@blogger.com (Jeff Ketzle) — Thu, 12 Nov 2009 05:24:00 +0000

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 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
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.

Sonnet XX

noreply@blogger.com (Jeff Ketzle) — Thu, 12 Nov 2009 01:47:00 +0000

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.

Sonnet XXI

noreply@blogger.com (Jeff Ketzle) — Thu, 12 Nov 2009 01:40:00 +0000

So is it not with me as with that Muse,
Stirred 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 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.