Therefore my mistress’ eyes are raven-black,

Her brow so suited, and they mourners seem

At such who, not born fair, no beauty lack,

Sland’ring creation with a false esteem.

Yet so they mourn, becoming of their woe,

That every tongue says beauty should look so.

128

How oft, when thou, my music, music play‘st

Upon that blessèd wood whose motion sounds

With thy sweet fingers when thou gently sway’st

The wiry concord that mine ear confounds,

Do I envy those jacks that nimble leap

To kiss the tender inward of thy hand

Whilst my poor lips, which should that harvest reap,

At the wood’s boldness by thee blushing stand!

To be so tickled they would change their state

And situation with those dancing chips

O’er whom thy fingers walk with gentle gait,

Making dead wood more blessed than living lips.

Since saucy jacks so happy are in this,

Give them thy fingers, me thy lips to kiss.

129

Th‘expense of spirit in a waste of shame

Is lust in action; and till action, lust

Is perjured, murd’rous, bloody, full of blame,

Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust,

Enjoyed no sooner but despised straight,

Past reason hunted, and no sooner had

Past reason hated as a swallowed bait

On purpose laid to make the taker mad;

Mad in pursuit and in possession so,

Had, having, and in quest to have, extreme;

A bliss in proof and proved, a very woe;

Before, a joy proposed; behind, a dream.

All this the world well knows, yet none knows well

To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell.

130

My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun;

Coral is far more red than her lips’ red.

If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;

If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.

I have seen roses damasked, red and white,

But no such roses see I in her cheeks;

And in some perfumes is there more delight

Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.

I love to hear her speak, yet well I know

That music hath a far more pleasing sound.

I grant I never saw a goddess go:

My mistress when she walks treads on the ground.

And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare

As any she belied with false compare.

131

Thou art as tyrannous so as thou art

As those whose beauties proudly make them cruel,

For well thou know’st to my dear doting heart

Thou art the fairest and most precious jewel.

Yet, in good faith, some say that thee behold

Thy face hath not the power to make love groan.

To say they err I dare not be so bold,

Although I swear it to myself alone;

And, to be sure that is not false I swear,

A thousand groans but thinking on thy face

One on another’s neck do witness bear

Thy black is fairest in my judgement’s place.

In nothing art thou black save in thy deeds,

And thence this slander, as I think, proceeds.

132

Thine eyes I love, and they, as pitying me—

Knowing thy heart torment me with disdain—

Have put on black, and loving mourners be,

Looking with pretty ruth upon my pain;

And truly, not the morning sun of heaven

Better becomes the gray cheeks of the east,

Nor that full star that ushers in the even

Doth half that glory to the sober west,

As those two mourning eyes become thy face.

O, let it then as well beseem thy heart

To mourn for me, since mourning doth thee grace,

And suit thy pity like in every part.

Then will I swear beauty herself is black,

And all they foul that thy complexion lack.

133

Beshrew that heart that makes my heart to groan

For that deep wound it gives my friend and me!

Is’t not enough to torture me alone,

But slave to slavery my sweet‘st friend must be?

Me from myself thy cruel eye hath taken,

And my next self thou harder hast engrossed.

Of him, myself, and thee I am forsaken—

A torment thrice threefold thus to be crossed.

Prison my heart in thy steel bosom’s ward,

But then my friend’s heart let my poor heart bail;

Whoe’er keeps me, let my heart be his guard;

Thou canst not then use rigour in my jail.

And yet thou wilt; for I, being pent in thee,

Perforce am thine, and all that is in me.

134

So, now I have confessed that he is thine,

And I myself am mortgaged to thy will,

Myself I’ll forfeit, so that other mine

Thou wilt restore to be my comfort still.

But thou wilt not, nor he will not be free,

For thou art covetous, and he is kind.