Poetry: William Shakespeare Sonnets - 4 - O that you were your self... - Not from the stars do I my judgement pluck - When I consider every thing that grows - But wherefore do not you a mightier way - Links

Posted by ricardo marcenaro | Posted in | Posted on 9:34

  XIII

  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
  Yourself again, after yourself'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.


XIV

  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 thyself, to store thou wouldst convert';
  Or else of thee this I prognosticate:
  'Thy end is truth's and beauty's doom and date.'


 XV

  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.


XVI

  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 yourself, keeps yourself still,
  And you must live, drawn by your own sweet skill.



Poetry: William Shakespeare Sonnets - 4 - O that you were your self... - Not from the stars do I my judgement pluck - When I consider every thing that grows -  But wherefore do not you a mightier way - Links




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