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Sonnet 32

|XXXII. |
|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 bettering of the time, |
|And though they be outstripp'd 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.' |

Sonnets of William Shakespeare

Sonnet 33

|XXXIII. |
|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 splendor on my brow; |
|But out, alack! he was but one hour mine; |
|The region cloud hath mask'd him from me now. |
| Yet him for this my love no whit disdaineth; |
| Suns of the world may stain when heaven's sun |
|staineth. |

Sonnets of William Shakespeare

Sonnet 34

|XXXIV. |
|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 bravery 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: |
|The 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. |

Sonnets of William Shakespeare

Sonnet 35

|XXXV. |
|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, |
|Myself 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 myself 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. |

Sonnets of William Shakespeare

Sonnet 36

|XXXVI. |
|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. |

Sonnets of William Shakespeare

Sonnet 37

|XXXVII. |
|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! |

Sonnets of William Shakespeare

Sonnet 38

|XXXVIII. |
|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 thyself the thanks, if aught in me |
|Worthy perusal stand against thy sight; |
|For who's so dumb that cannot write to thee, |
|When thou thyself 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. |

Sonnets of William Shakespeare

Sonnet 39

|XXXIX. |
|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 deservest 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! |

|Sonnets of William Shakespeare |
|Sonnet 40 |
|XL. |
|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 thyself deceivest |
|By wilful taste of what thyself 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 love's wrong than hate's known injury. |
| Lascivious grace, in whom all ill well shows, |
| Kill me with spites; yet we must not be foes. |
| |

Sonnets of William Shakespeare

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