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   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.
+    To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
+
+
+                     2
+  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 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.
+
+
+                     3
+  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 uneared 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 remembered not to be,
+    Die single and thine image dies with thee.
+
+
+                     4
+  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.
+
+
+                     5
+  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 distilled though they with winter meet,
+    Leese but their show, their substance still lives sweet.
+
+
+                     6
+  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.
+
+
+                     7
+  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, thy self out-going in thy noon:
+    Unlooked on diest unless thou get a son.
+
+
+                     8
+  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'.
+
+
+                     9
+  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.
+
+
+                     10
+  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 murd'rous 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 thy self at least kind-hearted prove,
+    Make thee another self for love of me,
+    That beauty still may live in thine or thee.
+
+
+                     11
+  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 endowed, she gave thee more;
+  Which bounteous gift thou shouldst in bounty cherish:
+    She carved thee for her seal, and meant thereby,
+    Thou shouldst print more, not let that copy die.
+
+
+                     12
+  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.
+
+
+                     13
+  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
+  Your self again after your self'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.
+
+
+                     14
+  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 thy self, to store thou wouldst convert:
+    Or else of thee this I prognosticate,
+    Thy end is truth's and beauty's doom and date.
+
+
+                     15
+  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.
+
+
+                     16
+  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 your self, keeps your self still,
+    And you must live drawn by your own sweet skill.
+
+
+                     17
+  Who will believe my verse in time to come
+  If it were filled 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 touched earthly faces.
+  So should my papers (yellowed with their age)
+  Be scorned, like old men of less truth than tongue,
+  And your true rights be termed 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.
+
+
+                     18
+  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 wand'rest 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.
+
+
+                     19
+  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 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.
+
+
+                     20
+  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 pricked thee out for women's pleasure,
+    Mine be thy love and thy love's use their treasure.
+
+
+                     21
+  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 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.
+
+
+                     22
+  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 my self, but for thee will,
+  Bearing thy heart which I will keep so chary
+  As tender nurse her babe from faring ill.
+    Presume not on thy heart when mine is slain,
+    Thou gav'st me thine not to give back again.
+
+
+                     23
+  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'ercharged 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 expressed.
+    O learn to read what silent love hath writ,
+    To hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit.
+
+
+                     24
+  Mine eye hath played the painter and hath stelled,
+  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 pictured lies,
+  Which in my bosom's shop is 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.
+
+
+                     25
+  Let those who are in favour with their stars,
+  Of 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 buried,
+  For at a frown they in their glory die.
+  The painful warrior famoused for fight,
+  After a thousand victories once foiled,
+  Is from the book of honour razed quite,
+  And all the rest forgot for which he toiled:
+    Then happy I that love and am beloved
+    Where I may not remove nor be removed.
+
+
+                     26
+  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 tattered 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.
+
+
+                     27
+  Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed,
+  The dear respose for limbs with travel tired,
+  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)
+  Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee,
+  And keep my drooping eyelids open wide,
+  Looking on darkness which the blind do see.
+  Save that my soul's imaginary sight
+  Presents thy shadow to my sightless view,
+  Which like a jewel (hung in ghastly night)
+  Makes black night beauteous, and her old face new.
+    Lo thus by day my limbs, by night my mind,
+    For thee, and for my self, no quiet find.
+
+
+                     28
+  How can I then return in happy plight
+  That am debarred the benefit of rest?
+  When day's oppression is not eased by night,
+  But day by night and night by day oppressed.
+  And each (though enemies to either's reign)
+  Do in consent shake hands to torture me,
+  The one by toil, the other to complain
+  How far I toil, still farther off from thee.
+  I tell the day to please him thou art bright,
+  And dost him grace when clouds do blot the heaven:
+  So flatter I the swart-complexioned night,
+  When sparkling stars twire not thou gild'st the even.
+    But day doth daily draw my sorrows longer,
+    And night doth nightly make grief's length seem stronger
+
+
+                     29
+  When in disgrace with Fortune and men's eyes,
+  I all alone beweep my outcast state,
+  And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,
+  And look upon my self and curse my fate,
+  Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
+  Featured like him, like him with friends possessed,
+  Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope,
+  With what I most enjoy contented least,
+  Yet in these thoughts my self almost despising,
+  Haply I think on thee, and then my state,
+  (Like to the lark at break of day arising
+  From sullen earth) sings hymns at heaven's gate,
+    For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings,
+    That then I scorn to change my state with kings.
+
+
+                     30
+  When to the sessions of sweet silent thought,
+  I summon up remembrance of things past,
+  I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,
+  And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste:
+  Then can I drown an eye (unused to flow)
+  For precious friends hid in death's dateless night,
+  And weep afresh love's long since cancelled woe,
+  And moan th' expense of many a vanished sight.
+  Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,
+  And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er
+  The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan,
+  Which I new pay as if not paid before.
+    But if the while I think on thee (dear friend)
+    All losses are restored, and sorrows end.
+
+
+                     31
+  Thy bosom is endeared with all hearts,
+  Which I by lacking have supposed dead,
+  And there reigns love and all love's loving parts,
+  And all those friends which I thought buried.
+  How many a holy and obsequious tear
+  Hath dear religious love stol'n from mine eye,
+  As interest of the dead, which now appear,
+  But things removed that hidden in thee lie.
+  Thou art the grave where buried love doth live,
+  Hung with the trophies of my lovers gone,
+  Who all their parts of me to thee did give,
+  That due of many, now is thine alone.
+    Their images I loved, I view in thee,
+    And thou (all they) hast all the all of me.
+
+
+                     32
+  If thou survive my well-contented day,
+  When that churl death my bones with dust shall cover
+  And shalt by fortune once more re-survey
+  These poor rude lines of thy deceased lover:
+  Compare them with the bett'ring of the time,
+  And though they be outstripped by every pen,
+  Reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme,
+  Exceeded by the height of happier men.
+  O then vouchsafe me but this loving thought,
+  'Had my friend's Muse grown with this growing age,
+  A dearer birth than this his love had brought
+  To march in ranks of better equipage:
+    But since he died and poets better prove,
+    Theirs for their style I'll read, his for his love'.
+
+
+                     33
+  Full many a glorious morning have I seen,
+  Flatter the mountain tops with sovereign eye,
+  Kissing with golden face the meadows green;
+  Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy:
+  Anon permit the basest clouds to ride,
+  With ugly rack on his celestial face,
+  And from the forlorn world his visage hide
+  Stealing unseen to west with this disgrace:
+  Even so my sun one early morn did shine,
+  With all triumphant splendour on my brow,
+  But out alack, he was but one hour mine,
+  The region cloud hath masked him from me now.
+    Yet him for this, my love no whit disdaineth,
+    Suns of the world may stain, when heaven's sun staineth.
+
+
+                     34
+  Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day,
+  And make me travel forth without my cloak,
+  To let base clouds o'ertake me in my way,
+  Hiding thy brav'ry in their rotten smoke?
+  'Tis not enough that through the cloud thou break,
+  To dry the rain on my storm-beaten face,
+  For no man well of such a salve can speak,
+  That heals the wound, and cures not the disgrace:
+  Nor can thy shame give physic to my grief,
+  Though thou repent, yet I have still the loss,
+  Th' offender's sorrow lends but weak relief
+  To him that bears the strong offence's cross.
+    Ah but those tears are pearl which thy love sheds,
+    And they are rich, and ransom all ill deeds.
+
+
+                     35
+  No more be grieved at that which thou hast done,
+  Roses have thorns, and silver fountains mud,
+  Clouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun,
+  And loathsome canker lives in sweetest bud.
+  All men make faults, and even I in this,
+  Authorizing thy trespass with compare,
+  My self corrupting salving thy amiss,
+  Excusing thy sins more than thy sins are:
+  For to thy sensual fault I bring in sense,
+  Thy adverse party is thy advocate,
+  And 'gainst my self a lawful plea commence:
+  Such civil war is in my love and hate,
+    That I an accessary needs must be,
+    To that sweet thief which sourly robs from me.
+
+
+                     36
+  Let me confess that we two must be twain,
+  Although our undivided loves are one:
+  So shall those blots that do with me remain,
+  Without thy help, by me be borne alone.
+  In our two loves there is but one respect,
+  Though in our lives a separable spite,
+  Which though it alter not love's sole effect,
+  Yet doth it steal sweet hours from love's delight.
+  I may not evermore acknowledge thee,
+  Lest my bewailed guilt should do thee shame,
+  Nor thou with public kindness honour me,
+  Unless thou take that honour from thy name:
+    But do not so, I love thee in such sort,
+    As thou being mine, mine is thy good report.
+
+
+                     37
+  As a decrepit father takes delight,
+  To see his active child do deeds of youth,
+  So I, made lame by Fortune's dearest spite
+  Take all my comfort of thy worth and truth.
+  For whether beauty, birth, or wealth, or wit,
+  Or any of these all, or all, or more
+  Entitled in thy parts, do crowned sit,
+  I make my love engrafted to this store:
+  So then I am not lame, poor, nor despised,
+  Whilst that this shadow doth such substance give,
+  That I in thy abundance am sufficed,
+  And by a part of all thy glory live:
+    Look what is best, that best I wish in thee,
+    This wish I have, then ten times happy me.
+
+
+                     38
+  How can my muse want subject to invent
+  While thou dost breathe that pour'st into my verse,
+  Thine own sweet argument, too excellent,
+  For every vulgar paper to rehearse?
+  O give thy self the thanks if aught in me,
+  Worthy perusal stand against thy sight,
+  For who's so dumb that cannot write to thee,
+  When thou thy self dost give invention light?
+  Be thou the tenth Muse, ten times more in worth
+  Than those old nine which rhymers invocate,
+  And he that calls on thee, let him bring forth
+  Eternal numbers to outlive long date.
+    If my slight muse do please these curious days,
+    The pain be mine, but thine shall be the praise.
+
+
+                     39
+  O how thy worth with manners may I sing,
+  When thou art all the better part of me?
+  What can mine own praise to mine own self bring:
+  And what is't but mine own when I praise thee?
+  Even for this, let us divided live,
+  And our dear love lose name of single one,
+  That by this separation I may give:
+  That due to thee which thou deserv'st alone:
+  O absence what a torment wouldst thou prove,
+  Were it not thy sour leisure gave sweet leave,
+  To entertain the time with thoughts of love,
+  Which time and thoughts so sweetly doth deceive.
+    And that thou teachest how to make one twain,
+    By praising him here who doth hence remain.
+
+
+                     40
+  Take all my loves, my love, yea take them all,
+  What hast thou then more than thou hadst before?
+  No love, my love, that thou mayst true love call,
+  All mine was thine, before thou hadst this more:
+  Then if for my love, thou my love receivest,
+  I cannot blame thee, for my love thou usest,
+  But yet be blamed, if thou thy self deceivest
+  By wilful taste of what thy self refusest.
+  I do forgive thy robbery gentle thief
+  Although thou steal thee all my poverty:
+  And yet love knows it is a greater grief
+  To bear greater wrong, than hate's known injury.
+    Lascivious grace, in whom all ill well shows,
+    Kill me with spites yet we must not be foes.
+
+
+                     41
+  Those pretty wrongs that liberty commits,
+  When I am sometime absent from thy heart,
+  Thy beauty, and thy years full well befits,
+  For still temptation follows where thou art.
+  Gentle thou art, and therefore to be won,
+  Beauteous thou art, therefore to be assailed.
+  And when a woman woos, what woman's son,
+  Will sourly leave her till he have prevailed?
+  Ay me, but yet thou mightst my seat forbear,
+  And chide thy beauty, and thy straying youth,
+  Who lead thee in their riot even there
+  Where thou art forced to break a twofold truth:
+    Hers by thy beauty tempting her to thee,
+    Thine by thy beauty being false to me.
+
+
+                     42
+  That thou hast her it is not all my grief,
+  And yet it may be said I loved her dearly,
+  That she hath thee is of my wailing chief,
+  A loss in love that touches me more nearly.
+  Loving offenders thus I will excuse ye,
+  Thou dost love her, because thou know'st I love her,
+  And for my sake even so doth she abuse me,
+  Suff'ring my friend for my sake to approve her.
+  If I lose thee, my loss is my love's gain,
+  And losing her, my friend hath found that loss,
+  Both find each other, and I lose both twain,
+  And both for my sake lay on me this cross,
+    But here's the joy, my friend and I are one,
+    Sweet flattery, then she loves but me alone.
+
+
+                     43
+  When most I wink then do mine eyes best see,
+  For all the day they view things unrespected,
+  But when I sleep, in dreams they look on thee,
+  And darkly bright, are bright in dark directed.
+  Then thou whose shadow shadows doth make bright
+  How would thy shadow's form, form happy show,
+  To the clear day with thy much clearer light,
+  When to unseeing eyes thy shade shines so!
+  How would (I say) mine eyes be blessed made,
+  By looking on thee in the living day,
+  When in dead night thy fair imperfect shade,
+  Through heavy sleep on sightless eyes doth stay!
+    All days are nights to see till I see thee,
+    And nights bright days when dreams do show thee me.
+
+
+                     44
+  If the dull substance of my flesh were thought,
+  Injurious distance should not stop my way,
+  For then despite of space I would be brought,
+  From limits far remote, where thou dost stay,
+  No matter then although my foot did stand
+  Upon the farthest earth removed from thee,
+  For nimble thought can jump both sea and land,
+  As soon as think the place where he would be.
+  But ah, thought kills me that I am not thought
+  To leap large lengths of miles when thou art gone,
+  But that so much of earth and water wrought,
+  I must attend, time's leisure with my moan.
+    Receiving nought by elements so slow,
+    But heavy tears, badges of either's woe.
+
+
+                     45
+  The other two, slight air, and purging fire,
+  Are both with thee, wherever I abide,
+  The first my thought, the other my desire,
+  These present-absent with swift motion slide.
+  For when these quicker elements are gone
+  In tender embassy of love to thee,
+  My life being made of four, with two alone,
+  Sinks down to death, oppressed with melancholy.
+  Until life's composition be recured,
+  By those swift messengers returned from thee,
+  Who even but now come back again assured,
+  Of thy fair health, recounting it to me.
+    This told, I joy, but then no longer glad,
+    I send them back again and straight grow sad.
+
+
+                     46
+  Mine eye and heart are at a mortal war,
+  How to divide the conquest of thy sight,
+  Mine eye, my heart thy picture's sight would bar,
+  My heart, mine eye the freedom of that right,
+  My heart doth plead that thou in him dost lie,
+  (A closet never pierced with crystal eyes)
+  But the defendant doth that plea deny,
+  And says in him thy fair appearance lies.
+  To side this title is impanelled
+  A quest of thoughts, all tenants to the heart,
+  And by their verdict is determined
+  The clear eye's moiety, and the dear heart's part.
+    As thus, mine eye's due is thy outward part,
+    And my heart's right, thy inward love of heart.
+
+
+                     47
+  Betwixt mine eye and heart a league is took,
+  And each doth good turns now unto the other,
+  When that mine eye is famished for a look,
+  Or heart in love with sighs himself doth smother;
+  With my love's picture then my eye doth feast,
+  And to the painted banquet bids my heart:
+  Another time mine eye is my heart's guest,
+  And in his thoughts of love doth share a part.
+  So either by thy picture or my love,
+  Thy self away, art present still with me,
+  For thou not farther than my thoughts canst move,
+  And I am still with them, and they with thee.
+    Or if they sleep, thy picture in my sight
+    Awakes my heart, to heart's and eye's delight.
+
+
+                     48
+  How careful was I when I took my way,
+  Each trifle under truest bars to thrust,
+  That to my use it might unused stay
+  From hands of falsehood, in sure wards of trust!
+  But thou, to whom my jewels trifles are,
+  Most worthy comfort, now my greatest grief,
+  Thou best of dearest, and mine only care,
+  Art left the prey of every vulgar thief.
+  Thee have I not locked up in any chest,
+  Save where thou art not, though I feel thou art,
+  Within the gentle closure of my breast,
+  From whence at pleasure thou mayst come and part,
+    And even thence thou wilt be stol'n I fear,
+    For truth proves thievish for a prize so dear.
+
+
+                     49
+  Against that time (if ever that time come)
+  When I shall see thee frown on my defects,
+  When as thy love hath cast his utmost sum,
+  Called to that audit by advised respects,
+  Against that time when thou shalt strangely pass,
+  And scarcely greet me with that sun thine eye,
+  When love converted from the thing it was
+  Shall reasons find of settled gravity;
+  Against that time do I ensconce me here
+  Within the knowledge of mine own desert,
+  And this my hand, against my self uprear,
+  To guard the lawful reasons on thy part,
+    To leave poor me, thou hast the strength of laws,
+    Since why to love, I can allege no cause.
+
+
+                     50
+  How heavy do I journey on the way,
+  When what I seek (my weary travel's end)
+  Doth teach that case and that repose to say
+  'Thus far the miles are measured from thy friend.'
+  The beast that bears me, tired with my woe,
+  Plods dully on, to bear that weight in me,
+  As if by some instinct the wretch did know
+  His rider loved not speed being made from thee:
+  The bloody spur cannot provoke him on,
+  That sometimes anger thrusts into his hide,
+  Which heavily he answers with a groan,
+  More sharp to me than spurring to his side,
+    For that same groan doth put this in my mind,
+    My grief lies onward and my joy behind.
+
+
+                     51
+  Thus can my love excuse the slow offence,
+  Of my dull bearer, when from thee I speed,
+  From where thou art, why should I haste me thence?
+  Till I return of posting is no need.
+  O what excuse will my poor beast then find,
+  When swift extremity can seem but slow?
+  Then should I spur though mounted on the wind,
+  In winged speed no motion shall I know,
+  Then can no horse with my desire keep pace,
+  Therefore desire (of perfect'st love being made)
+  Shall neigh (no dull flesh) in his fiery race,
+  But love, for love, thus shall excuse my jade,
+    Since from thee going, he went wilful-slow,
+    Towards thee I'll run, and give him leave to go.
+
+
+                     52
+  So am I as the rich whose blessed key,
+  Can bring him to his sweet up-locked treasure,
+  The which he will not every hour survey,
+  For blunting the fine point of seldom pleasure.
+  Therefore are feasts so solemn and so rare,
+  Since seldom coming in that long year set,
+  Like stones of worth they thinly placed are,
+  Or captain jewels in the carcanet.
+  So is the time that keeps you as my chest
+  Or as the wardrobe which the robe doth hide,
+  To make some special instant special-blest,
+  By new unfolding his imprisoned pride.
+    Blessed are you whose worthiness gives scope,
+    Being had to triumph, being lacked to hope.
+
+
+                     53
+  What is your substance, whereof are you made,
+  That millions of strange shadows on you tend?
+  Since every one, hath every one, one shade,
+  And you but one, can every shadow lend:
+  Describe Adonis and the counterfeit,
+  Is poorly imitated after you,
+  On Helen's cheek all art of beauty set,
+  And you in Grecian tires are painted new:
+  Speak of the spring, and foison of the year,
+  The one doth shadow of your beauty show,
+  The other as your bounty doth appear,
+  And you in every blessed shape we know.
+    In all external grace you have some part,
+    But you like none, none you for constant heart.
+
+
+                     54
+  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 unwooed, 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.
+
+
+                     55
+  Not marble, nor the gilded monuments
+  Of princes shall outlive this powerful rhyme,
+  But you shall shine more bright in these contents
+  Than unswept stone, besmeared with sluttish time.
+  When wasteful war shall statues overturn,
+  And broils root out the work of masonry,
+  Nor Mars his sword, nor war's quick fire shall burn:
+  The living record of your memory.
+  'Gainst death, and all-oblivious enmity
+  Shall you pace forth, your praise shall still find room,
+  Even in the eyes of all posterity
+  That wear this world out to the ending doom.
+    So till the judgment that your self arise,
+    You live in this, and dwell in lovers' eyes.
+
+
+                     56
+  Sweet love renew thy force, be it not said
+  Thy edge should blunter be than appetite,
+  Which but to-day by feeding is allayed,
+  To-morrow sharpened in his former might.
+  So love be thou, although to-day thou fill
+  Thy hungry eyes, even till they wink with fulness,
+  To-morrow see again, and do not kill
+  The spirit of love, with a perpetual dulness:
+  Let this sad interim like the ocean be
+  Which parts the shore, where two contracted new,
+  Come daily to the banks, that when they see:
+  Return of love, more blest may be the view.
+    Or call it winter, which being full of care,
+    Makes summer's welcome, thrice more wished, more rare.
+
+
+                     57
+  Being your slave what should I do but tend,
+  Upon the hours, and times of your desire?
+  I have no precious time at all to spend;
+  Nor services to do till you require.
+  Nor dare I chide the world-without-end hour,
+  Whilst I (my sovereign) watch the clock for you,
+  Nor think the bitterness of absence sour,
+  When you have bid your servant once adieu.
+  Nor dare I question with my jealous thought,
+  Where you may be, or your affairs suppose,
+  But like a sad slave stay and think of nought
+  Save where you are, how happy you make those.
+    So true a fool is love, that in your will,
+    (Though you do any thing) he thinks no ill.
+
+
+                     58
+  That god forbid, that made me first your slave,
+  I should in thought control your times of pleasure,
+  Or at your hand th' account of hours to crave,
+  Being your vassal bound to stay your leisure.
+  O let me suffer (being at your beck)
+  Th' imprisoned absence of your liberty,
+  And patience tame to sufferance bide each check,
+  Without accusing you of injury.
+  Be where you list, your charter is so strong,
+  That you your self may privilage your time
+  To what you will, to you it doth belong,
+  Your self to pardon of self-doing crime.
+    I am to wait, though waiting so be hell,
+    Not blame your pleasure be it ill or well.
+
+
+                     59
+  If there be nothing new, but that which is,
+  Hath been before, how are our brains beguiled,
+  Which labouring for invention bear amis
+  The second burthen of a former child!
+  O that record could with a backward look,
+  Even of five hundred courses of the sun,
+  Show me your image in some antique book,
+  Since mind at first in character was done.
+  That I might see what the old world could say,
+  To this composed wonder of your frame,
+  Whether we are mended, or whether better they,
+  Or whether revolution be the same.
+    O sure I am the wits of former days,
+    To subjects worse have given admiring praise.
+
+
+                     60
+  Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore,
+  So do our minutes hasten to their end,
+  Each changing place with that which goes before,
+  In sequent toil all forwards do contend.
+  Nativity once in the main of light,
+  Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crowned,
+  Crooked eclipses 'gainst his glory fight,
+  And Time that gave, doth now his gift confound.
+  Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth,
+  And delves the parallels in beauty's brow,
+  Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth,
+  And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow.
+    And yet to times in hope, my verse shall stand
+    Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand.
+
+
+                     61
+  Is it thy will, thy image should keep open
+  My heavy eyelids to the weary night?
+  Dost thou desire my slumbers should be broken,
+  While shadows like to thee do mock my sight?
+  Is it thy spirit that thou send'st from thee
+  So far from home into my deeds to pry,
+  To find out shames and idle hours in me,
+  The scope and tenure of thy jealousy?
+  O no, thy love though much, is not so great,
+  It is my love that keeps mine eye awake,
+  Mine own true love that doth my rest defeat,
+  To play the watchman ever for thy sake.
+    For thee watch I, whilst thou dost wake elsewhere,
+    From me far off, with others all too near.
+
+
+                     62
+  Sin of self-love possesseth all mine eye,
+  And all my soul, and all my every part;
+  And for this sin there is no remedy,
+  It is so grounded inward in my heart.
+  Methinks no face so gracious is as mine,
+  No shape so true, no truth of such account,
+  And for my self mine own worth do define,
+  As I all other in all worths surmount.
+  But when my glass shows me my self indeed
+  beated and chopt with tanned antiquity,
+  Mine own self-love quite contrary I read:
+  Self, so self-loving were iniquity.
+    'Tis thee (my self) that for my self I praise,
+    Painting my age with beauty of thy days.
+
+
+                     63
+  Against my love shall be as I am now
+  With Time's injurious hand crushed and o'erworn,
+  When hours have drained his blood and filled his brow
+  With lines and wrinkles, when his youthful morn
+  Hath travelled 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.
+
+
+                     64
+  When I have seen by Time's fell hand defaced
+  The rich-proud cost of outworn buried age,
+  When sometime lofty towers I see down-rased,
+  And brass eternal slave to mortal rage.
+  When I have seen the hungry ocean gain
+  Advantage on the kingdom of the shore,
+  And the firm soil win of the watery main,
+  Increasing store with loss, and loss with store.
+  When I have seen such interchange of State,
+  Or state it self confounded, to decay,
+  Ruin hath taught me thus to ruminate
+  That Time will come and take my love away.
+    This thought is as a death which cannot choose
+    But weep to have, that which it fears to lose.
+
+
+                     65
+  Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea,
+  But sad mortality o'ersways their power,
+  How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea,
+  Whose action is no stronger than a flower?
+  O how shall summer's honey breath hold out,
+  Against the wrackful siege of batt'ring days,
+  When rocks impregnable are not so stout,
+  Nor gates of steel so strong but time decays?
+  O fearful meditation, where alack,
+  Shall Time's best jewel from Time's chest lie hid?
+  Or what strong hand can hold his swift foot back,
+  Or who his spoil of beauty can forbid?
+    O none, unless this miracle have might,
+    That in black ink my love may still shine bright.
+
+
+                     66
+  Tired with all these for restful death I cry,
+  As to behold desert a beggar born,
+  And needy nothing trimmed in jollity,
+  And purest faith unhappily forsworn,
+  And gilded honour shamefully misplaced,
+  And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted,
+  And right perfection wrongfully disgraced,
+  And strength by limping sway disabled
+  And art made tongue-tied by authority,
+  And folly (doctor-like) controlling skill,
+  And simple truth miscalled simplicity,
+  And captive good attending captain ill.
+    Tired with all these, from these would I be gone,
+    Save that to die, I leave my love alone.
+
+
+                     67
+  Ah wherefore with infection should he live,
+  And with his presence grace impiety,
+  That sin by him advantage should achieve,
+  And lace it self with his society?
+  Why should false painting imitate his cheek,
+  And steal dead seeming of his living hue?
+  Why should poor beauty indirectly seek,
+  Roses of shadow, since his rose is true?
+  Why should he live, now nature bankrupt is,
+  Beggared of blood to blush through lively veins,
+  For she hath no exchequer now but his,
+  And proud of many, lives upon his gains?
+    O him she stores, to show what wealth she had,
+    In days long since, before these last so bad.
+
+
+                     68
+  Thus is his cheek the map of days outworn,
+  When beauty lived and died as flowers do now,
+  Before these bastard signs of fair were born,
+  Or durst inhabit on a living brow:
+  Before the golden tresses of the dead,
+  The right of sepulchres, were shorn away,
+  To live a second life on second head,
+  Ere beauty's dead fleece made another gay:
+  In him those holy antique hours are seen,
+  Without all ornament, it self and true,
+  Making no summer of another's green,
+  Robbing no old to dress his beauty new,
+    And him as for a map doth Nature store,
+    To show false Art what beauty was of yore.
+
+
+                     69
+  Those parts of thee that the world's eye doth view,
+  Want nothing that the thought of hearts can mend:
+  All tongues (the voice of souls) give thee that due,
+  Uttering bare truth, even so as foes commend.
+  Thy outward thus with outward praise is crowned,
+  But those same tongues that give thee so thine own,
+  In other accents do this praise confound
+  By seeing farther than the eye hath shown.
+  They look into the beauty of thy mind,
+  And that in guess they measure by thy deeds,
+  Then churls their thoughts (although their eyes were kind)
+  To thy fair flower add the rank smell of weeds:
+    But why thy odour matcheth not thy show,
+    The soil is this, that thou dost common grow.
+
+
+                     70
+  That thou art blamed shall not be thy defect,
+  For slander's mark was ever yet the fair,
+  The ornament of beauty is suspect,
+  A crow that flies in heaven's sweetest air.
+  So thou be good, slander doth but approve,
+  Thy worth the greater being wooed of time,
+  For canker vice the sweetest buds doth love,
+  And thou present'st a pure unstained prime.
+  Thou hast passed by the ambush of young days,
+  Either not assailed, or victor being charged,
+  Yet this thy praise cannot be so thy praise,
+  To tie up envy, evermore enlarged,
+    If some suspect of ill masked not thy show,
+    Then thou alone kingdoms of hearts shouldst owe.
+
+
+                     71
+  No longer mourn for me when I am dead,
+  Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell
+  Give warning to the world that I am fled
+  From this vile world with vilest worms to dwell:
+  Nay if you read this line, remember not,
+  The hand that writ it, for I love you so,
+  That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot,
+  If thinking on me then should make you woe.
+  O if (I say) you look upon this verse,
+  When I (perhaps) compounded am with clay,
+  Do not so much as my poor name rehearse;
+  But let your love even with my life decay.
+    Lest the wise world should look into your moan,
+    And mock you with me after I am gone.
+
+
+                     72
+  O lest the world should task you to recite,
+  What merit lived in me that you should love
+  After my death (dear love) forget me quite,
+  For you in me can nothing worthy prove.
+  Unless you would devise some virtuous lie,
+  To do more for me than mine own desert,
+  And hang more praise upon deceased I,
+  Than niggard truth would willingly impart:
+  O lest your true love may seem false in this,
+  That you for love speak well of me untrue,
+  My name be buried where my body is,
+  And live no more to shame nor me, nor you.
+    For I am shamed by that which I bring forth,
+    And so should you, to love things nothing worth.
+
+
+                     73
+  That time of year thou mayst in me behold,
+  When yellow leaves, or none, or few do hang
+  Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
+  Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
+  In me thou seest the twilight of such day,
+  As after sunset fadeth in the west,
+  Which by and by black night doth take away,
+  Death's second self that seals up all in rest.
+  In me thou seest the glowing of such fire,
+  That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,
+  As the death-bed, whereon it must expire,
+  Consumed with that which it was nourished by.
+    This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong,
+    To love that well, which thou must leave ere long.
+
+
+                     74
+  But be contented when that fell arrest,
+  Without all bail shall carry me away,
+  My life hath in this line some interest,
+  Which for memorial still with thee shall stay.
+  When thou reviewest this, thou dost review,
+  The very part was consecrate to thee,
+  The earth can have but earth, which is his due,
+  My spirit is thine the better part of me,
+  So then thou hast but lost the dregs of life,
+  The prey of worms, my body being dead,
+  The coward conquest of a wretch's knife,
+  Too base of thee to be remembered,
+    The worth of that, is that which it contains,
+    And that is this, and this with thee remains.
+
+
+                     75
+  So are you to my thoughts as food to life,
+  Or as sweet-seasoned showers are to the ground;
+  And for the peace of you I hold such strife
+  As 'twixt a miser and his wealth is found.
+  Now proud as an enjoyer, and anon
+  Doubting the filching age will steal his treasure,
+  Now counting best to be with you alone,
+  Then bettered that the world may see my pleasure,
+  Sometime all full with feasting on your sight,
+  And by and by clean starved for a look,
+  Possessing or pursuing no delight
+  Save what is had, or must from you be took.
+    Thus do I pine and surfeit day by day,
+    Or gluttoning on all, or all away.
+
+
+                     76
+  Why is my verse so barren of new pride?
+  So far from variation or quick change?
+  Why with the time do I not glance aside
+  To new-found methods, and to compounds strange?
+  Why write I still all one, ever the same,
+  And keep invention in a noted weed,
+  That every word doth almost tell my name,
+  Showing their birth, and where they did proceed?
+  O know sweet love I always write of you,
+  And you and love are still my argument:
+  So all my best is dressing old words new,
+  Spending again what is already spent:
+    For as the sun is daily new and old,
+    So is my love still telling what is told.
+
+
+                     77
+  Thy glass will show thee how thy beauties wear,
+  Thy dial how thy precious minutes waste,
+  These vacant leaves thy mind's imprint will bear,
+  And of this book, this learning mayst thou taste.
+  The wrinkles which thy glass will truly show,
+  Of mouthed graves will give thee memory,
+  Thou by thy dial's shady stealth mayst know,
+  Time's thievish progress to eternity.
+  Look what thy memory cannot contain,
+  Commit to these waste blanks, and thou shalt find
+  Those children nursed, delivered from thy brain,
+  To take a new acquaintance of thy mind.
+    These offices, so oft as thou wilt look,
+    Shall profit thee, and much enrich thy book.
+
+
+                     78
+  So oft have I invoked thee for my muse,
+  And found such fair assistance in my verse,
+  As every alien pen hath got my use,
+  And under thee their poesy disperse.
+  Thine eyes, that taught the dumb on high to sing,
+  And heavy ignorance aloft to fly,
+  Have added feathers to the learned's wing,
+  And given grace a double majesty.
+  Yet be most proud of that which I compile,
+  Whose influence is thine, and born of thee,
+  In others' works thou dost but mend the style,
+  And arts with thy sweet graces graced be.
+    But thou art all my art, and dost advance
+    As high as learning, my rude ignorance.
+
+
+                     79
+  Whilst I alone did call upon thy aid,
+  My verse alone had all thy gentle grace,
+  But now my gracious numbers are decayed,
+  And my sick muse doth give an other place.
+  I grant (sweet love) thy lovely argument
+  Deserves the travail of a worthier pen,
+  Yet what of thee thy poet doth invent,
+  He robs thee of, and pays it thee again,
+  He lends thee virtue, and he stole that word,
+  From thy behaviour, beauty doth he give
+  And found it in thy cheek: he can afford
+  No praise to thee, but what in thee doth live.
+    Then thank him not for that which he doth say,
+    Since what he owes thee, thou thy self dost pay.
+
+
+                     80
+  O how I faint when I of you do write,
+  Knowing a better spirit doth use your name,
+  And in the praise thereof spends all his might,
+  To make me tongue-tied speaking of your fame.
+  But since your worth (wide as the ocean is)
+  The humble as the proudest sail doth bear,
+  My saucy bark (inferior far to his)
+  On your broad main doth wilfully appear.
+  Your shallowest help will hold me up afloat,
+  Whilst he upon your soundless deep doth ride,
+  Or (being wrecked) I am a worthless boat,
+  He of tall building, and of goodly pride.
+    Then if he thrive and I be cast away,
+    The worst was this, my love was my decay.
+
+
+                     81
+  Or I shall live your epitaph to make,
+  Or you survive when I in earth am rotten,
+  From hence your memory death cannot take,
+  Although in me each part will be forgotten.
+  Your name from hence immortal life shall have,
+  Though I (once gone) to all the world must die,
+  The earth can yield me but a common grave,
+  When you entombed in men's eyes shall lie,
+  Your monument shall be my gentle verse,
+  Which eyes not yet created shall o'er-read,
+  And tongues to be, your being shall rehearse,
+  When all the breathers of this world are dead,
+    You still shall live (such virtue hath my pen)
+    Where breath most breathes, even in the mouths of men.
+
+
+                     82
+  I grant thou wert not married to my muse,
+  And therefore mayst without attaint o'erlook
+  The dedicated words which writers use
+  Of their fair subject, blessing every book.
+  Thou art as fair in knowledge as in hue,
+  Finding thy worth a limit past my praise,
+  And therefore art enforced to seek anew,
+  Some fresher stamp of the time-bettering days.
+  And do so love, yet when they have devised,
+  What strained touches rhetoric can lend,
+  Thou truly fair, wert truly sympathized,
+  In true plain words, by thy true-telling friend.
+    And their gross painting might be better used,
+    Where cheeks need blood, in thee it is abused.
+
+
+                     83
+  I never saw that you did painting need,
+  And therefore to your fair no painting set,
+  I found (or thought I found) you did exceed,
+  That barren tender of a poet's debt:
+  And therefore have I slept in your report,
+  That you your self being extant well might show,
+  How far a modern quill doth come too short,
+  Speaking of worth, what worth in you doth grow.
+  This silence for my sin you did impute,
+  Which shall be most my glory being dumb,
+  For I impair not beauty being mute,
+  When others would give life, and bring a tomb.
+    There lives more life in one of your fair eyes,
+    Than both your poets can in praise devise.
+
+
+                     84
+  Who is it that says most, which can say more,
+  Than this rich praise, that you alone, are you?
+  In whose confine immured is the store,
+  Which should example where your equal grew.
+  Lean penury within that pen doth dwell,
+  That to his subject lends not some small glory,
+  But he that writes of you, if he can tell,
+  That you are you, so dignifies his story.
+  Let him but copy what in you is writ,
+  Not making worse what nature made so clear,
+  And such a counterpart shall fame his wit,
+  Making his style admired every where.
+    You to your beauteous blessings add a curse,
+    Being fond on praise, which makes your praises worse.
+
+
+                     85
+  My tongue-tied muse in manners holds her still,
+  While comments of your praise richly compiled,
+  Reserve their character with golden quill,
+  And precious phrase by all the Muses filed.
+  I think good thoughts, whilst other write good words,
+  And like unlettered clerk still cry Amen,
+  To every hymn that able spirit affords,
+  In polished form of well refined pen.
+  Hearing you praised, I say 'tis so, 'tis true,
+  And to the most of praise add something more,
+  But that is in my thought, whose love to you
+  (Though words come hindmost) holds his rank before,
+    Then others, for the breath of words respect,
+    Me for my dumb thoughts, speaking in effect.
+
+
+                     86
+  Was it the proud full sail of his great verse,
+  Bound for the prize of (all too precious) you,
+  That did my ripe thoughts in my brain inhearse,
+  Making their tomb the womb wherein they grew?
+  Was it his spirit, by spirits taught to write,
+  Above a mortal pitch, that struck me dead?
+  No, neither he, nor his compeers by night
+  Giving him aid, my verse astonished.
+  He nor that affable familiar ghost
+  Which nightly gulls him with intelligence,
+  As victors of my silence cannot boast,
+  I was not sick of any fear from thence.
+    But when your countenance filled up his line,
+    Then lacked I matter, that enfeebled mine.
+
+
+                     87
+  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.
+  Thy self thou gav'st, thy own worth then not knowing,
+  Or me to whom thou gav'st it, else mistaking,
+  So thy great gift upon misprision growing,
+  Comes home again, on better judgement making.
+    Thus have I had thee as a dream doth flatter,
+    In sleep a king, but waking no such matter.
+
+
+                     88
+  When thou shalt be disposed to set me light,
+  And place my merit in the eye of scorn,
+  Upon thy side, against my self I'll fight,
+  And prove thee virtuous, though thou art forsworn:
+  With mine own weakness being best acquainted,
+  Upon thy part I can set down a story
+  Of faults concealed, wherein I am attainted:
+  That thou in losing me, shalt win much glory:
+  And I by this will be a gainer too,
+  For bending all my loving thoughts on thee,
+  The injuries that to my self I do,
+  Doing thee vantage, double-vantage me.
+    Such is my love, to thee I so belong,
+    That for thy right, my self will bear all wrong.
+
+
+                     89
+  Say that thou didst forsake me for some fault,
+  And I will comment upon that offence,
+  Speak of my lameness, and I straight will halt:
+  Against thy reasons making no defence.
+  Thou canst not (love) disgrace me half so ill,
+  To set a form upon desired change,
+  As I'll my self disgrace, knowing thy will,
+  I will acquaintance strangle and look strange:
+  Be absent from thy walks and in my tongue,
+  Thy sweet beloved name no more shall dwell,
+  Lest I (too much profane) should do it wronk:
+  And haply of our old acquaintance tell.
+    For thee, against my self I'll vow debate,
+    For I must ne'er love him whom thou dost hate.
+
+
+                     90
+  Then hate me when thou wilt, if ever, now,
+  Now while the world is bent my deeds to cross,
+  join with the spite of fortune, make me bow,
+  And do not drop in for an after-loss:
+  Ah do not, when my heart hath 'scaped this sorrow,
+  Come in the rearward of a conquered woe,
+  Give not a windy night a rainy morrow,
+  To linger out a purposed overthrow.
+  If thou wilt leave me, do not leave me last,
+  When other petty griefs have done their spite,
+  But in the onset come, so shall I taste
+  At first the very worst of fortune's might.
+    And other strains of woe, which now seem woe,
+    Compared with loss of thee, will not seem so.
+
+
+                     91
+  Some glory in their birth, some in their skill,
+  Some in their wealth, some in their body's force,
+  Some in their garments though new-fangled ill:
+  Some in their hawks and hounds, some in their horse.
+  And every humour hath his adjunct pleasure,
+  Wherein it finds a joy above the rest,
+  But these particulars are not my measure,
+  All these I better in one general best.
+  Thy love is better than high birth to me,
+  Richer than wealth, prouder than garments' costs,
+  Of more delight than hawks and horses be:
+  And having thee, of all men's pride I boast.
+    Wretched in this alone, that thou mayst take,
+    All this away, and me most wretchcd make.
+
+
+                     92
+  But do thy worst to steal thy self away,
+  For term of life thou art assured mine,
+  And life no longer than thy love will stay,
+  For it depends upon that love of thine.
+  Then need I not to fear the worst of wrongs,
+  When in the least of them my life hath end,
+  I see, a better state to me belongs
+  Than that, which on thy humour doth depend.
+  Thou canst not vex me with inconstant mind,
+  Since that my life on thy revolt doth lie,
+  O what a happy title do I find,
+  Happy to have thy love, happy to die!
+    But what's so blessed-fair that fears no blot?
+    Thou mayst be false, and yet I know it not.
+
+
+                     93
+  So shall I live, supposing thou art true,
+  Like a deceived husband, so love's face,
+  May still seem love to me, though altered new:
+  Thy looks with me, thy heart in other place.
+  For there can live no hatred in thine eye,
+  Therefore in that I cannot know thy change,
+  In many's looks, the false heart's history
+  Is writ in moods and frowns and wrinkles strange.
+  But heaven in thy creation did decree,
+  That in thy face sweet love should ever dwell,
+  Whate'er thy thoughts, or thy heart's workings be,
+  Thy looks should nothing thence, but sweetness tell.
+    How like Eve's apple doth thy beauty grow,
+    If thy sweet virtue answer not thy show.
+
+
+                     94
+  They that have power to hurt, and will do none,
+  That do not do the thing, they most do show,
+  Who moving others, are themselves as stone,
+  Unmoved, cold, and to temptation slow:
+  They rightly do inherit heaven's graces,
+  And husband nature's riches from expense,
+  Tibey are the lords and owners of their faces,
+  Others, but stewards of their excellence:
+  The summer's flower is to the summer sweet,
+  Though to it self, it only live and die,
+  But if that flower with base infection meet,
+  The basest weed outbraves his dignity:
+    For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds,
+    Lilies that fester, smell far worse than weeds.
+
+
+                     95
+  How sweet and lovely dost thou make the shame,
+  Which like a canker in the fragrant rose,
+  Doth spot the beauty of thy budding name!
+  O in what sweets dost thou thy sins enclose!
+  That tongue that tells the story of thy days,
+  (Making lascivious comments on thy sport)
+  Cannot dispraise, but in a kind of praise,
+  Naming thy name, blesses an ill report.
+  O what a mansion have those vices got,
+  Which for their habitation chose out thee,
+  Where beauty's veil doth cover every blot,
+  And all things turns to fair, that eyes can see!
+    Take heed (dear heart) of this large privilege,
+    The hardest knife ill-used doth lose his edge.
+
+
+                     96
+  Some say thy fault is youth, some wantonness,
+  Some say thy grace is youth and gentle sport,
+  Both grace and faults are loved of more and less:
+  Thou mak'st faults graces, that to thee resort:
+  As on the finger of a throned queen,
+  The basest jewel will be well esteemed:
+  So are those errors that in thee are seen,
+  To truths translated, and for true things deemed.
+  How many lambs might the stern wolf betray,
+  If like a lamb he could his looks translate!
+  How many gazers mightst thou lead away,
+  if thou wouldst use the strength of all thy state!
+    But do not so, I love thee in such sort,
+    As thou being mine, mine is thy good report.
+
+
+                     97
+  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.
+
+
+                     98
+  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 odour 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 were 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.
+
+
+                     99
+  The forward violet thus did I chide,
+  Sweet thief, whence didst thou steal thy sweet that smells,
+  If not from my love's breath? The purple pride
+  Which on thy soft check for complexion dwells,
+  In my love's veins thou hast too grossly dyed.
+  The lily I condemned for thy hand,
+  And buds of marjoram had stol'n thy hair,
+  The roses fearfully on thorns did stand,
+  One blushing shame, another white despair:
+  A third nor red, nor white, had stol'n of both,
+  And to his robbery had annexed thy breath,
+  But for his theft in pride of all his growth
+  A vengeful canker eat him up to death.
+    More flowers I noted, yet I none could see,
+    But sweet, or colour it had stol'n from thee.
+
+
+                     100
+  Where art thou Muse that thou forget'st so long,
+  To speak of that which gives thee all thy might?
+  Spend'st thou thy fury on some worthless song,
+  Darkening thy power to lend base subjects light?
+  Return forgetful Muse, and straight redeem,
+  In gentle numbers time so idly spent,
+  Sing to the ear that doth thy lays esteem,
+  And gives thy pen both skill and argument.
+  Rise resty Muse, my love's sweet face survey,
+  If time have any wrinkle graven there,
+  If any, be a satire to decay,
+  And make time's spoils despised everywhere.
+    Give my love fame faster than Time wastes life,
+    So thou prevent'st his scythe, and crooked knife.

finetune.ipynb

@@ -68,6 +68,31 @@
     "#print(model)"
    ]
   },
+  {
+   "cell_type": "code",
+   "execution_count": null,
+   "id": "b43aec47-5fa4-48c9-8e57-9c6b233b9c7e",
+   "metadata": {},
+   "outputs": [],
+   "source": [
+    "def split_and_trim(text):\n",
+    "    paragraphs = text.strip().split('\\n\\n')\n",
+    "    trimmed_paragraphs = []\n",
+    "    for para in paragraphs:\n",
+    "        trimmed_lines = [line.lstrip() for line in para.split('\\n')]\n",
+    "        trimmed_paragraphs.append('\\n'.join(trimmed_lines))\n",
+    "\n",
+    "    return trimmed_paragraphs\n",
+    "\n",
+    "with open(\"data.txt\", \"r\") as f:\n",
+    "    content = f.read()\n",
+    "    dataset = split_and_trim(content)\n",
+    "    tokenized_train_dataset = [\n",
+    "        tokenizer(content)['input_ids'] for content in dataset\n",
+    "    ]\n",
+    "#tokenized_train_dataset"
+   ]
+  },
   {
    "cell_type": "code",
    "execution_count": null,
@@ -82,12 +107,7 @@
     "run_name = project\n",
     "output_dir = \"./\" + run_name\n",
     "\n",
-    "with open(\"data.txt\", \"r\") as f:\n",
-    "    content = f.read()\n",
-    "    tokenized_train_dataset = [\n",
-    "        tokenizer(content)['input_ids']\n",
-    "    ]\n",
-    "\n",
+    "checkpointing_args = {\"use_reentrant\": False}\n",
     "trainer = transformers.Trainer(\n",
     "    model=model,\n",
     "    train_dataset=tokenized_train_dataset,\n",
@@ -97,14 +117,16 @@
     "        per_device_train_batch_size=2,\n",
     "        gradient_accumulation_steps=1,\n",
     "        gradient_checkpointing=True,\n",
-    "        max_steps=300,\n",
+    "        max_steps=3000,\n",
     "        learning_rate=2.5e-5, # Want a small lr for finetuning\n",
     "        # fp16=True, \n",
-    "        optim=\"paged_adamw_8bit\",\n",
+    "        optim=\"adamw_torch\",\n",
     "        # logging_steps=25,              # When to start reporting loss\n",
     "        # logging_dir=\"./logs\",        # Directory for storing logs\n",
     "        save_strategy=\"steps\",       # Save the model checkpoint every logging step\n",
     "        save_steps=50,                # Save checkpoints every 50 steps\n",
+    "        logging_steps=100,\n",
+    "        save_total_limit=4,\n",
     "        # evaluation_strategy=\"steps\", # Evaluate the model every logging step\n",
     "        # eval_steps=25,               # Evaluate and save checkpoints every 50 steps\n",
     "        # do_eval=True,                # Perform evaluation at the end of training\n",