The Sonnets - Шекспир Уильям - Страница 15

That is so vexed with watching and with tears?

No marvel then though I mistake my view,

The sun it self sees not, till heaven clears.

O cunning love, with tears thou keep'st me blind,

Lest eyes well-seeing thy foul faults should find.

Canst thou O cruel, say I love thee not,

When I against my self with thee partake?

Do I not think on thee when I forgot

Am of my self, all-tyrant, for thy sake?

Who hateth thee that I do call my friend,

On whom frown'st thou that I do fawn upon,

Nay if thou lour'st on me do I not spend

Revenge upon my self with present moan?

What merit do I in my self respect,

That is so proud thy service to despise,

When all my best doth worship thy defect,

Commanded by the motion of thine eyes?

But love hate on for now I know thy mind, 

Those that can see thou lov'st, and I am blind.

O from what power hast thou this powerful might,

With insufficiency my heart to sway,

To make me give the lie to my true sight,

And swear that brightness doth not grace the day?

Whence hast thou this becoming of things ill,

That in the very refuse of thy deeds,

There is such strength and warrantise of skill,

That in my mind thy worst all best exceeds?

Who taught thee how to make me love thee more,

The more I hear and see just cause of hate?

O though I love what others do abhor,

With others thou shouldst not abhor my state.

If thy unworthiness raised love in me,

More worthy I to be beloved of thee.

Love is too young to know what conscience is, 

Yet who knows not conscience is born of love?

Then gentle cheater urge not my amiss,

Lest guilty of my faults thy sweet self prove.

For thou betraying me, I do betray

My nobler part to my gross body's treason,

My soul doth tell my body that he may,

Triumph in love, flesh stays no farther reason,

But rising at thy name doth point out thee,

As his triumphant prize, proud of this pride,

He is contented thy poor drudge to be,

To stand in thy affairs, fall by thy side.

No want of conscience hold it that I call,

Her love, for whose dear love I rise and fall.

In loving thee thou know'st I am forsworn,

But thou art twice forsworn to me love swearing,

In act thy bed-vow broke and new faith torn,

In vowing new hate after new love bearing:

But why of two oaths' breach do I accuse thee, 

When I break twenty? I am perjured most,

For all my vows are oaths but to misuse thee:

And all my honest faith in thee is lost.

For I have sworn deep oaths of thy deep kindness:

Oaths of thy love, thy truth, thy constancy,

And to enlighten thee gave eyes to blindness,

Or made them swear against the thing they see.

For I have sworn thee fair: more perjured I,

To swear against the truth so foul a be.

Cupid laid by his brand and fell asleep,

A maid of Dian's this advantage found,

And his love-kindling fire did quickly steep

In a cold valley-fountain of that ground:

Which borrowed from this holy fire of Love,

A dateless lively heat still to endure,

And grew a seeting bath which yet men prove,

Against strange maladies a sovereign cure:

But at my mistress' eye Love's brand new-fired, 

The boy for trial needs would touch my breast,

I sick withal the help of bath desired,

And thither hied a sad distempered guest.

But found no cure, the bath for my help lies,

Where Cupid got new fire; my mistress' eyes.

The little Love-god lying once asleep,

Laid by his side his heart-inflaming brand,

Whilst many nymphs that vowed chaste life to keep,

Came tripping by, but in her maiden hand,

The fairest votary took up that fire,

Which many legions of true hearts had warmed,

And so the general of hot desire,

Was sleeping by a virgin hand disarmed.

This brand she quenched in a cool well by,

Which from Love's fire took heat perpetual,

Growing a bath and healthful remedy,

For men discased, but I my mistress' thrall,

Came there for cure and this by that I prove, 

Love's fire heats water, water cools not love.