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LXVI



Tired with all these, for restful death I cry,

As to behold desert a beggar born,

And needy nothing trimm\'d in jollity,

And purest faith unhappily forsworn,

And gilded honour shamefully misplac\'d,

And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted,

And right perfection wrongfully disgrac\'d,

And strength by limping sway disabled

And art made tongue-tied by authority,

And folly--doctor-like--controlling skill,

And simple truth miscall\'d simplicity,

And captive good attending captain ill:

  Tir\'d with all these, from these would I be gone,

  Save that, to die, I leave my love alone.

 	--William Shakespeare

LIV



O! how much more doth beauty beauteous seem

By that sweet ornament which truth doth give.

The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem

For that sweet odour, which doth in it live.

The canker blooms have full as deep a dye

As the perfumed tincture of the roses.

Hang on such thorns, and play as wantonly

When summer\'s breath their masked buds discloses:

But, for their virtue only is their show,

They live unwoo\'d, and unrespected fade;

Die to themselves. Sweet roses do not so;

Of their sweet deaths, are sweetest odours made: 

  And so of you, beauteous and lovely youth,

  When that shall vade, by verse distills your truth.

 	--William Shakespeare

LXIII



Against my love shall be as I am now,

With Time\'s injurious hand crush\'d and o\'erworn;

When hours have drain\'d his blood and fill\'d his brow

With lines and wrinkles; when his youthful morn

Hath travell\'d on to age\'s steepy night;

And all those beauties whereof now he\'s king

Are vanishing, or vanished out of sight,

Stealing away the treasure of his spring; 

For such a time do I now fortify

Against confounding age\'s cruel knife,

That he shall never cut from memory

My sweet love\'s beauty, though my lover\'s life:

  His beauty shall in these black lines be seen,

  And they shall live, and he in them still green.

 	--William Shakespeare