As if by some instinct the wretch did know
His rider lov'd 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.
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
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 the long year set,
Like stones of worth they thinly placed are,
Or captain jewels in the carcanet.25
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-bless'd,
By new unfolding his imprison'd pride.
Blessed are you, whose worthiness gives scope,
Being had, to triumph, being lack'd, to hope.
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.
O! how much more doth beauty beauteous seem, By that sweet ornament which truth doth give!
* In our arrangement, this Sonnet and the next are made con tinuate with the XL. in the series of twenty-three, wherein the Poe advises his friend to marry. See notes on page 131.
25 Captain is chief or principal. A carcanet is a necklace. See The Comedy of Errors, Act iii. sc. 1, note 1. 28 Foison is plenty, or abundance.
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 die,27
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 fade, my verse distils your truth.
Not marble, nor the gilded monuments
Of princes, shall outlive this powerful rhyme;
you shall shine more bright in these contents
Than unswept stone, besmear'd 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
Even in the eyes of all posterity,
That wear this world out to the ending doom.
So, till the judgment that yourself arise,
You live in this, and dwell in lovers' eyes.
In our arrangement, this Sonnet follows the XVIII., as part of the series wherein the Poet urges upon his friend divers reasons for marrying. See notes on page 131.
27 Canker-blooms are the blossoms of the canker-rose or dog See 1 Henry IV., Act i. sc. 3, note 17.
Sweet love, renew thy force; be it not said,
Thy edge should blunter be than appetite,
Which but to-day by feeding is allay'd,
To-morrow sharpen'd 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 bless'd may be the view:
Or call it winter, which, being full of care,
Makes summer's welcome thrice more wish'd, more
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;
* This Sonnet is regarded by Knight as standing alone, and having "Coldness" for its subject. In our figuring, it follows the
This Sonnet and the next are regarded by Knight as standing together alone, and having "Slavery" for their subject. In our Dumbering they follow the CXLIX.
28 That is, the tedious hour that seems as if it never would end
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.
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' imprison'd 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 yourself may privilege your time
To what you will; to you it doth belong
Yourself to pardon of self-doing crime.
I am to wait, though waiting so be hell,
Not blame your pleasure, be it ill or well.
If there be nothing new, but that which is
Hath been before, how are our brains beguil'd,
Which, labouring for invention, bear amiss
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!
* This Sonnet and the next are classed by Knight as the last in a series of eleven, beginning with the c., and probably addressed to the same person as the first nineteen. follow the CVIII. In our numbering. they
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