Sin of self-love possesseth all mine eye

Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea

Since I left you mine eye is in my mind

So am I as the rich whose blessed key

So are you to my thoughts as food to life

So is it not with me as with that muse

So, now I have confessed that he is thine

So oft have I invoked thee for my muse

So shall I live supposing thou art true

Some glory in their birth, some in their skill

Some say thy fault is youth, some wantonness

Sweet love, renew thy force. Be it not said

Take all my loves, my love, yea, take them all

That god forbid, that made me first your slave

That thou are blamed shall not be thy defect

That thou hast her, it is not all my grief

That time of year thou mayst in me behold

That you were once unkind befriends me now

The forward violet thus did I chide

The little love-god lying once asleep

The other two, slight air and purging fire

Then hate me when thou wilt, if ever, now

Then let not winter’s ragged hand deface

Th’expense of spirit in a waste of shame

They that have power to hurt and will do none

Thine eyes I love, and they, as pitying me

Those hours that with gentle work did frame

Those lines that I before have writ do lie

Those lips that love’s own hand did make

Those parts of thee that the world’s eye doth view

Those pretty wrongs that liberty commits

Thou art as tyrannous so as thou art

Thou blind fool love, what dost thou to mine eyes

Thus can my love excuse the slow offence

Thus is his cheek the map of days outworn

Thy bosom is endeared with all hearts

Thy gift, thy tables, are within my brain

Thy glass will show thee how thy beauties wear

Tired with all these, for restful death I cry

’Tis better to be vile than vile esteemed

To me, fair friend, you never can be old

Two loves I have, of comfort and despair

Unthrifty loveliness, why dost thou spend

Was it the proud full sail of his great verse

Weary with toil I haste me to my bed

Were’t aught to me I bore the canopy

What is your substance, whereof are you made

What potions have I drunk of siren tears

What’s in the brain that ink may character

When forty winters shall besiege thy brow

When I consider every thing that grows

When I do count the clock that tells the time

When I have seen by time’s fell hand defaced

When, in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes

When in the chronicle of wasted time

When most I wink, then do mine eyes best see

When my love swears that she is made of truth

When thou shalt be disposed to set me light

When to the sessions of sweet silent thought

Where art thou, muse, that thou forget’st so long

Whilst I alonecall upon thy aid

Who is it that says most which can say more

Who will believe my verse in time to come

Whoever hath her wish, thou hast thy Will

Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day

Why is my verse so barren of new pride

Your love and pity doth th‘impression fill