Sonnet 147: My love is as a fever, longing still

My love is as a fever, longing stillFor that which longer nurseth the disease,Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill,Th' uncertain sickly appetite to please.My reason, the physician to my love,Angry that his prescriptions are not kept,Hath left me, and I desperate now approveDesire is death, which physic did except.Past cure I am, now reason is past care,And frantic-mad with evermore unrest;

Sonnet 148: O me! what eyes hath love put in my head

O me! what eyes hath love put in my head,Which have no correspondence with true sight!Or, if they have, where is my judgment fled,That censures falsely what they see aright?If that be fair whereon my false eyes dote,What means the world to say it is not so?If it be not, then love doth well denoteLove's eye is not so true as all men's "no."How can it? O, how can love's eye be true,That is so vexed

Sonnet 149: Canst thou, O cruel, say I love thee not

Canst thou, O cruel, say I love thee not,When I against my self with thee partake?Do I not think on thee when I forgotAm of my self, all tyrant, for thy sake?Who hateth thee that I do call my friend?On whom frown'st thou that I do fawn upon?Nay, if thou lour'st on me, do I not spendRevenge upon my self with present moan?What merit do I in my self respect,That is so proud thy service to despise,

Sonnet 15: When I consider every thing that grows

When I consider every thing that growsHolds in perfection but a little moment.That this huge stage presenteth nought but showsWhereon the stars in secret influence comment.When I perceive that men as plants increase,Cheerèd 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

Sonnet 150: O from what power hast thou this powerful might

O, from what power hast thou this powerful mightWith insufficiency my heart to sway?To make me give the lie to my true sight,And swear that brightness doth not grace the day?Whence hast thou this becoming of things ill,That in the very refuse of thy deedsThere is such strength and warrantise of skillThat, in my mind, thy worst all best exceeds?Who taught thee how to make me love thee more,The

Sonnet 151: Love is too young to know what conscience is

Love is too young to know what conscience is;Yet who knows not conscience is born of love?Then, gentle cheater, urge not my amiss,Lest guilty of my faults thy sweet self prove.For thou betraying me, I do betrayMy nobler part to my gross body's treason;My soul doth tell my body that he mayTriumph in love; flesh stays no farther reason,But, rising at thy name, doth point out theeAs his triumphant

Sonnet 152: In loving thee thou know'st I am forsworn

In loving thee thou know'st I am forsworn,But thou art twice forsworn to me love swearing:In act thy bed-vow broke and new faith tornIn vowing new hate after new love bearing.But why of two oaths' breach do I accuse thee,When I break twenty? I am perjured most,For all my vows are oaths but to misuse thee,And all my honest faith in thee is lost.For I have sworn deep oaths of thy deep kindness,

Sonnet 153: Cupid laid by his brand and fell asleep

Cupid laid by his brand and fell asleep,A maid of Dian's this advantage found,And his love-kindling fire did quickly steepIn a cold valley-fountain of that ground;Which borrowed from this holy fire of LoveA dateless lively heat still to endure,And grew a seeting bath, which yet men proveAgainst strange maladies a sovereign cure.But at my mistress' eye Love's brand new-fired,The boy for trial

Sonnet 154: The little Love-god lying once asleep

The little love god lying once asleepLaid by his side his heart-inflaming brand,Whilst many nymphs that vowed chaste life to keepCame tripping by; but in her maiden hand,The fairest votary took up that fireWhich many legions of true hearts had warmed,And so the general of hot desireWas sleeping by a virgin hand disarmed.This brand she quenched in a cool well by,Which from Love's fire took heat

Sonnet 16: But wherefore do not you a mightier way

But wherefore do not you a mightier wayMake war upon this bloody tyrant, Time,And fortify your self in your decayWith means more blessèd 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 repairWhich this, Time's pencil, or my

Sonnet 17: Who will believe my verse in time to come

Who will believe my verse in time to comeIf it were filled with your most high deserts?Though yet heaven knows it is but as a tombWhich 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

Sonnet 18: Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?

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 fadeNor lose possession

Sonnet 19: Devouring Time blunt thou the lion's paws

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 TimeTo 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

Sonnet 2: When forty winters shall besiege thy brow

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

Sonnet 20: A woman's face with Nature's own hand painted

A woman's face with Nature's own hand paintedHast thou, the master-mistress of my passion;A woman's gentle heart, but not acquaintedWith 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

Sonnet 21: So is it not with me as with that muse

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 useAnd every fair with his fair doth rehearse,Making a couplement of proud compareWith sun and moon, with earth and sea's rich gems,With April's first-born flowers, and all things rareThat heaven's air in this huge rondure hems.O, let me, true in love, but truly write,And then,

Sonnet 23: As an unperfect actor on the stage

As an unperfect actor on the stageWho 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 sayThe perfect ceremony of love's rite,And in mine own love's strength seem to decay,O'ercharged with burden of mine own love's might.O, let my books be then the eloquenceAnd dumb presagers of

Sonnet 22: My glass shall not persuade me I am old

My glass shall not persuade me I am oldSo 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 theeIs 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 waryAs I not for myself, but for thee

Sonnet 24: Mine eye hath played the painter and hath stelled

Mine eye hath played the painter and hath stelledThy 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 skillTo find where your true image pictured lies,Which in my bosom's shop is hanging still,That hath his windows glazèd with thine eyes.Now see what good turns eyes for eyes have done:Mine

Sonnet 25: Let those who are in favour with their stars

Let those who are in favour with their starsOf 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 burièd,For at a frown they in their glory die.The painful warrior famousèd for fight,After a thousand