[If the world and all its books was destroyed and I was one of a small group of survivors on a desert island and we had to rebuild civilization out of our memories...]
From fairest creatures wee desire Increase,
That thereby beauty’s rose might never die;
But, as the elder should by time decease,
His tender heire might bear his memorie.
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes
Feedst thy light’s flame with self-substantiall fuell:
Making a famine, where abundance lyes;
Thyself thy fooe, to thy sweet selfe too cruell.
………… the world’s fresh ornament,
And oonly heraude to the gaudie spring
And beautious Niggard, makst Waste in niggarding
When fourtie winteres shall besiege thie browe
And digge deep trenches in thie Beauties field
Thy youth’s fair livery, so gazed on now
Will be a tatterd Weed of small worthe heelde.
Then being asked where all thie Beautie lyes
Where all the treasure of thie lustie dayes
To say within thine own deepe sunken eyes
Were an all-eating shame and thriftless prayse.
How much more prayse deserved thie Beauties use
If couldst answer This fair sonne of mine
Shall summe my count and make mine old excuse
Proving his beautie, by succession, thine.
This were to be new made, when thou art old;
And see thy bloode warme, when thou feelst it cold.
Look in thy glass, and tell the face thou vewest,
Now is the time that face should form another.
Whose sweet - - if now thou not renewest,
Thou dooest ---- beguile some mother.
For where is shee so faire whose uneared wombe
Disdains the tillage of thie husbandrie?
Or who is shee [so proude?] …
Now stand you on the top of happy hours,
And many maiden gardens, yet unset,
With virtuous wish, would bear thy living flowres
Vnthriftie louelines, why dost thou spend
Vpon thyself thy Beauties treasurie?
Then were not summer’s distillation left
A liquid prisoner pent in walles of glass
Summer’s effect, with summer, were bereft,
Nor it, nor no remembraunce what it was.
And yet, methinks, I know Astronomie
Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thou art moore louelie, and moore temperate.
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer’s lease hath all too short a date;
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimmed;
And every fair, from fair, sometime declines;
By Chance, or Nature’s changing course, untrimmed.
But thy Eternal Summer shall not fade;
Nor lose possession of that Fair thou owest;
Nor shall Death brag, thou wandrest in his shade,
When in Eternal Lines to Time thou growest!
So long as men can read and eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
Devouring Time, blunt thou the Lyones Paw
But I forbidde thee one moost heinous crime.
Oh carve not with thy hours my love’s fair brow,
Nor write no lines there with thy antique Pen…
When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
I summon up remembrance of things past
Not marble, nor the gilded monuments
Of Princes, shall outlive this powerful rhyme
…… War’s … broils… masonry
Besmear’d with sluttish time
That time of year thou mayst in me beholde
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
- - boughs - shake against the cold
Bare, ruin’d choirs where late the sweet birdes sang.
In mee thou seest
--- which makes thy love more strong,
To love that well, which thou must leave ere long.
Was it the proud full sail of his rich verse
Bound for the port of oh so precious you?
They that haue powre to hurte, and will do none,
They do not doe the thing they most doe show.
Lillies that fester smell far worse than weedes
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
That alters when it alteration finds
Or --- with the remover to remove.
Oh no it is an ever-fixèd mark, ….
….. Flow’rs with Flow’rs
------ the fooles of time
Who die for --- who have lived for crime.
Was it for this I bore the canopye
And his quietus is to render thee.
My Mistris eyes are nothing like the sun
Corall is much more red than her lips red.
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun!
If haire be Wyre, BLACK Wyres grow on her head!!
And yet by Heaven I think my Love as rare
As any shee belied by false compare.
(Idea from Emma Kay’s Worldview, 1999
Labels: Emma Kay