FAREWELL! thou art too dear for my possessing,

And like enough thou know'st thy estimate;
The charter of thy worth gives thee releasing ;

My bonds in thee are all determinate.
For how do I hold thee but by thy granting?

And for that riches where is my deserving?
The cause of this fair gift in me is wanting,

And so my patent back again is swerving.
Thyself thou gav'st, thy own worth then not know-

ing,
Or me, to whom thou gav'st it, else mistaking;
So thy great gift, upon misprision growing,
Comes home again, on better judgment mak-

ing.
Thus have I had thee, as a dream doth flatter:
In sleep a king; but waking no such matter.

From you have I been absent in the spring,

When proud-pied April, dressed in all his trim, Hath put a spirit of youth in every thing,

That heavy Saturn laughed and leaped with him.
Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell

Of different flowers in odor and in hue,
Could make me any summer's story tell,
Or from their proud lap pluck them where they

grew;
Nor did I wonder at the lily's white,

Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose;
They are but sweet, but figures of delight,

Drawn after you — you pattern of all those.
Yet seemed it winter still, and, you away,
As with your shadow I with these did play.

The forward violet thus did I chide : Some say thy fault is youth, some wantonness; Sweet thief, whence didst thou steal thy sweet

Some say thy grace is youth and gentle sport: that smells, Both grace and faults are loved of more and If not from my love's breath? the purple pride less;

Which on thy soft cheek for complexion dwells, Thou mak'st faults graces that to thee resort. In my love's veins thou hast too grossly dyed. As on the finger of a throned queen

The lily I condemned for thy hand, The basest jewel will be well esteemed,

And buds of marjoram had stolen thy hair; So are those errors that in thee are seen,

The roses fearfully on thorns did stand, To truths translated, and for true things deemed. One blushing shame, another white despair; How many lambs might the stern wolf betray, A third, nor red nor white, had stolen of both,

If like a lamb he could his looks translate ! And to this robbery had annexed thy breath; How many gazers might'st thou lead away,

But for his theft, in pride of all his growth If thou wouldst use the strength of all thy state! A vengeful canker eat him up to death. But do not so; I love thee in such sort

More flowers I noted, yet I none could see, As thou being mine, mine is thy good report. But sweet in color it had stolen from thee.

How like a winter hath my absence been

From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year! What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen,

What old December's bareness everywhere! And yet this time removed was summer's time;

The teeming autumn, big with rich increase, Bearing the wanton burden of the prime,

Like widowed wombs after their lords' decease; Yet this abundant issue seemed to me

But hope of orphans, and unfathered fruit;
For summer and his pleasures wait on thee,

And, thou away, the very birds are mute;
Or, if they sing, 'tis with so dull a cheer,
That leaves look pale, dreading the winter's near.

When in the chronicle of wasted time

I see descriptions of the fairest wights,
And beauty making beautiful old rhyme,

In praise of ladies dead, and lovely knights;
Then in the blazon of sweet beauty's best,

Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow,
I see their antique pen would have expressed

Even such a beauty as you master now.
So all their praises are but prophecies

Of this our time, all you prefiguring :
And for they looked but with divining eyes,

They had not skill enough your worth to sing;
For we, which now behold these present days,
Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise.

Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul
Of the wide world, dreaming on things to come,

Sonnets.
Can yet the lease of my true love control,

Come sleep, 0 sleep! the certain knot of peace, Supposed as forfeit to a confined doom. The mortal moon hath her eclipse endured,

The baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe; And the sad augurs mock their own presage :

The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release, Incertainties now crown themselves assured,

The indifferent judge between the high and low!

With shield of proof, shield me from out the prease And peace proclaims olives of endless age. Now, with the drops of this most balmy time

Of those fierce darts despair doth at me throw. My love looks fresh, and death to me sub-Oh make in me those civil wars to cease ; scribes,

I will good tribute pay if thou do so. Since, spite of him, I'll live in this poor rhyme,

Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest bed, While he insults o'er dull and speechless tribes :

A chamber deaf to noise and blind to light, And thou in this shalt find thy monument,

A rosy garland and a weary head; When tyrants' crests and tombs of brass are spent.

And if these things, as being thine by right, Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me,

Livelier than elsewhere, Stella's image see. Let me not to the marriage of true minds

Admit impediments; love is not love, Which alters when it alteration finds,

In martial sports I had my cunning tried, Or bends with the remover to remove.

And yet to break more staves did me address; Oh no! it is an ever-fixed mark,

While with the people's shouts I must confess, That looks on tempests, and is never shaken;

Youth, luck, and praise e'en filled my veins with It is the star to every wandering bark,

pride; Whose worth's unknown, although his height be When Cupid having me, his slave, descried taken,

In Mars's livery, prancing in the press, Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and

“ What now, Sir Fool ?” said he, “ I would no less; cheeks

Look here, I say.”— I looked, and Stella spied, Within his bending sickle's compass come ;

Who, hard by, made a window send forth light; Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,

My heart then quaked; then dazzled were mine eyes; But bears it out, even to the edge of doom.

One hand forgot to rule, the other to fight; If this be error, and upon me proved,

Nor trumpet's sound I heard, nor friendly cries. I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

My foe came on and beat the air for me,
Till that her blush taught me my shame to see.

Oh! never say that I was false of heart,

Though absence seemed my flame to qualify; As easy might I from myself depart,

As from my soul, which in thy breast doth lie.
That is my home of love; if I have ranged,

Like him that travels, I return again —
Just to the time, not with the time exchanged ;

So that myself bring water for my stain.
Never believe, though in my nature reigned

All frailties that besiege all kinds of blood,
That it could so preposterously be stained,

To leave for nothing all thy sum of good;
For nothing this wide universe I call,
Save thou, my rose; in it thou art my all.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

O HAPPY Thames that didst my Stella bear ;

I saw myself with many a smiling line
Upon thy cheerful face, joy's livery wear,

While those fair planets on thy streams did shine;
The boat for joy could not to dance forbear;

While wanton winds, with beauties so divine Ravished, staid not till in her golden hair

They did themselves, oh sweetest prison! twine; And fain those Eol's youth there would their stay

Have made, but forced by nature still to fly, First did with puffing kiss those locks display.

She so dishevelled, blushed: from window I, With sight thereof, cried out, oh fair disgrace! Let honor's self to thee grant highest place.

Cry: "Speak once more- thou lovest!” Who can Sonnets from the Portuguese.

fear

Too many stars, though each in heaven shall If thou must love me, let it be for nought

roll Except for love's sake only. Do not say Too many flowers, though each shall crown the “I love her for her smile, her look, her way

year Of speaking gently,- for a trick of thought

Say thou dost love me, love me, love me –

ne-toll
That falls in well with mine, and certes brought The silver iterance !-only minding, dear,
A sense of pleasant ease on such a day.'

To love me also in silence, with thy soul.
For these things in themselves, beloved, may
Be changed, or change for thee, and love so
wrought,

IF I leave all for thee, wilt thou exchange
May be unwrought so. Neither love me for

And be all to me Shall I never miss Thine own dear pity's wiping my cheeks dry,

Home-talk and blessing, and the common kiss A eature might forget to weep, who bore

That comes to each in turn, nor count it strange, Thy comfort long, and lose thy love thereby,

When I look up, to drop on a new range But love me for love's sake, that evermore

Of walls and floors — another home than this ?
Thou mayst love on, through love's eternity.

Nay, wilt thou fill that place by me which is
Filled by dead eyes too tender to know change?

That's hardest. If to conquer Love has tried,
I NEVER gave a lock of hair away

To conquer Grief tries more, as all things prove; To a man, dearest, except this to thee,

For grief indeed is love and grief beside.
Which now upon my fingers thoughtfully

Alas, I have grieved so, I am hard to love.
I ring out to the full brown length, and say, Yet love me — wilt thou | Open thine heart wide
Take it !” My day of youth went yesterday ; And fold within the wet wings of thy dove.
My hair no longer bounds to my foot's glee,

Nor plant I it from rose or myrtle-tree,
As girls do, any more.
It only may

First time he kissed me, he but only kissed
Now shade on two pale cheeks the mark of tears, The fingers of this hand wherewith I write;
Taught drooping from the head that hangs And, ever since, it grew more clean and white,
aside

Slow to world-greetings, quick with its “O list !” Through sorrow's trick. I thought the funeral When the angels speak. A ring of amethyst shears

I could not wear here, plainer to my sight,
Would take this first, but love is justified, - Than that first kiss, The second passed in
Take it thou,- finding pure, from all those years, height
The kiss my mother left there when she died.

The first, and sought the forehead, and half missed,
Half falling on the hair. Oh, beyond meed!

That was the chrism of love, which love's own
Say over again, and yet once over again,

crown, That thou dost love me. Though the word re- With sanctifying sweetness, did precede. peated

The third upon my lips was folded down Should seem “a cuckoo-song," as thou dost | In perfect, purple state; since when, indeed, treat it,

I have been proud, and said, “My love, my Remember, never to the hill or plain,

own !” Valley and wood, without her cuckoo-strain, C'omes the fresh Spring in all her green com

How do I love thee Let me count the ways: pleted.

I love thee to the depth, and breadth, and height Beloved, I, amid the darkness greeted

My soul can reach, when feeling, out of sight, By a doubtful spirit-voice, in that doubt's pain

For the ends of being and ideal grace.