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 grey cheeks of th' 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.

Shakespeare Sundays with Chop Bard

Sonnet 132

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 judgment's place.     In nothing art thou black save in thy deeds,     And thence this slander as I think proceeds.

Sonnet 131

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 damask'd, 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.

Sonnet 130

Th' expense of spirit in a waste of shame Is lust in action, and till action, lust Is perjur'd, murd'rous, bloody, full of blame, Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust, Enjoy'd 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 prov'd, a very woe, Before, a joy propos'd, behind, a dream.     All this the world well knows, yet none knows well     To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell.

Sonnet 129

How oft when thou, my music, music play'st Upon that blessed 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 blest than living lips:     Since saucy jacks so happy are in this,     Give them thy fingers, me thy lips to kiss.

Sonnet 128

In the old age black was not counted fair, Or if it were it bore not beauty's name; But now is black beauty's successive heir, And beauty slander'd with a bastard shame, For since each hand hath put on nature's power, Fairing the foul with art's false borrow'd face, Sweet beauty hath no name, no holy bow'r, But is profan'd, if not lives in disgrace. Therefore my mistress' eyes are raven black, Her eyes 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.

Sonnet 127

O thou, my lovely boy, who in thy power Dost hold Time's fickle glass, his sickle, hour; Who hast by waning grown, and therein show'st Thy lovers withering as thy sweet self grow'st; If Nature (sovereign mistress over wrack) As thou goest onwards still will pluck thee back, She keeps thee to this purpose, that her skill May Time disgrace and wretched minutes kill. Yet fear her, O thou minion of her pleasure, She may detain, but not still keep, her treasure! Her audit (though delay'd) answer'd must be, And her quietus is to render thee.     (. . . . . . . . . .)     (. . . . . . . . . .)  

Sonnet 126

Were't aught to me I bore the canopy, With my extern the outward honoring, Or laid great bases for eternity, Which proves more short than waste or ruining? Have I not seen dwellers on form and favor Lose all, and more, by paying too much rent, For compound sweet forgoing simple savor, Pitiful thrivers, in their gazing spent? No, let me be obsequious in thy heart, And take thou my oblation, poor but free, Which is not mix'd with seconds, knows no art, But mutual render, only me for thee.     Hence, thou suborn'd informer, a true soul     When most impeach'd stands least in thy control.

Sonnet 125

If my dear love were but the child of state, It might for Fortune's bastard be unfather'd, As subject to Time's love, or to Time's hate, Weeds among weeds, or flowers with flowers gather'd. No, it was builded far from accident; It suffers not in smiling pomp, nor falls Under the blow of thralled discontent, Whereto th' inviting time our fashion calls; It fears not policy, that heretic, Which works on leases of short-numb'red hours, But all alone stands hugely politic, That it nor grows with heat, nor drowns with show'rs.     To this I witness call the fools of Time,     Which die for goodness, who have liv'd for crime.

Sonnet 124

No! Time, thou shalt not boast that I do change: Thy pyramids built up with newer might To me are nothing novel, nothing strange; They are but dressings of a former sight. Our dates are brief, and therefore we admire What thou dost foist upon us that is old, And rather make them born to our desire Than think that we before have heard them told. Thy registers and thee I both defy, Not wond'ring at the present, nor the past, For thy records and what we see doth lie, Made more or less by thy continual haste.     This I do vow and this shall ever be,     I will be true despite thy scythe and thee.

Sonnet 123

Thy gift, thy tables, are within my brain Full character'd with lasting memory, Which shall above that idle rank remain Beyond all date, even to eternity; Or at the least, so long as brain and heart Have faculty by nature to subsist, Till each to raz'd oblivion yield his part Of thee, thy record never can be miss'd. That poor retention could not so much hold, Nor need I tallies thy dear love to score; Therefore to give them from me was I bold, To trust those tables that receive thee more:     To keep an adjunct to remember thee     Were to import forgetfulness in me.

Sonnet 122

'Tis better to be vile than vile esteemed, When not to be receives reproach of being, And the just pleasure lost, which is so deemed Not by our feeling, but by others' seeing. For why should others' false adulterate eyes Give salutation to my sportive blood? Or on my frailties why are frailer spies, Which in their wills count bad what I think good? No, I am that I am, and they that level At my abuses reckon up their own; I may be straight though they themselves be bevel; By their rank thoughts my deeds must not be shown,     Unless this general evil they maintain:     All men are bad and in their badness reign.

Sonnet 121

That you were once unkind befriends me now, And for that sorrow which I then did feel Needs must I under my transgression bow, Unless my nerves were brass or hammered steel. For if you were by my unkindness shaken As I by yours, y' have pass'd a hell of time, And I, a tyrant, have no leisure taken To weigh how once I suffered in your crime. O that our night of woe might have rememb'red My deepest sense, how hard true sorrow hits, And soon to you, as you to me then, tend'red The humble salve which wounded bosoms fits!     But that your trespass now becomes a fee,     Mine ransoms yours, and yours must ransom me.

Sonnet 120

What potions have I drunk of Siren tears Distill'd from limbecks foul as hell within, Applying fears to hopes, and hopes to fears, Still losing when I saw myself to win! What wretched errors hath my heart committed, Whilst it hath thought itself so blessed never! How have mine eyes out of their spheres been fitted In the distraction of this madding fever! O benefit of ill, now I find true That better is by evil still made better, And ruin'd love when it is built anew Grows fairer than at first, more strong, far greater.     So I return rebuk'd to my content,     And gain by ills thrice more than I have spent.

Sonnet 119

Like as to make our appetites more keen, With eager compounds we our palate urge, As to prevent our maladies unseen, We sicken to shun sickness when we purge; Even so being full of your ne'er-cloying sweetness, To bitter sauces did I frame my feeding, And sick of welfare, found a kind of meetness To be diseas'd ere that there was true needing. Thus policy in love, t' anticipate The ills that were not, grew to faults assured, And brought to medicine a healthful state Which, rank of goodness, would by ill be cured.     But thence I learn, and find the lesson true,     Drugs poison him that so fell sick of you.

Sonnet 118

Shakespeare Sundays with Chop Bard, is a practical, and enthusiastic exploration of William Shakespeare’s work. Each episode will take on a single subject taken from his words, lines, poetry, themes, or resources, in order to better understand them, and find out what use can be made of them.

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Shakespeare Sundays with Chop Bard

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