There were no beautiful women hanging by their hair on the walls. It seemed a very harmless apartment, with a commonplace little sheet-iron stove in the middle of it, its pipe sticking out through the roof. At one end was a table or counter crowded with odd-looking utensils. Used no doubt by Barney in his smelly operations. Chemical experiments, probably, she reflected dully. At the other end was a big writing desk and swivel-chair. The side walls were lined with books.


Valancy went blindly to the desk. There she stood motionless for a few minutes, looking down at something that lay on it. A bundle of galley-proofs. The page on top bore the title Wild Honey, and under the title were the words "by John Foster."


The opening sentence—"Pines are the trees of myth and legend. They strike their roots deep into the traditions of an older world, but wind and star love their lofty tops. What music when old Æolus draws his bow across the branches of the pines—" She had heard Barney say that one day when they walked under them.


So Barney was John Foster!


Valancy was not excited. She had absorbed all the shocks and sensations that she could compass for one day. This affected her neither one way nor the other. She only thought:


"So this explains it."


"It" was a small matter that had, somehow, stuck in her mind more persistently than its importance seemed to justify. Soon after Barney had brought her John Foster's latest book she had been in a Port Lawrence bookshop and heard a customer ask the proprietor for John Foster's new book. The proprietor had said curtly, "Not out yet. Won't be out till next week."


Valancy had opened her lips to say, "Oh, yes, it is out," but closed them again. After all, it was none of her business. She supposed the proprietor wanted to cover up his negligence in not getting the book in promptly. Now she knew. The book Barney had given her had been one of the author's complimentary copies, sent in advance.


Well! Valancy pushed the proofs indifferently aside and sat down in the swivel-chair. She took up Barney's pen—and a vile one it was—pulled a sheet of paper to her and began to write. She could not think of anything to say except bald facts.


"Dear Barney:—


I went to Dr. Trent this morning and found out he had sent me the wrong letter by mistake. There never was anything serious the matter with my heart and I am quite well now.


I did not mean to trick you. Please believe that. I could not bear it if you did not believe that. I am very sorry for the mistake. But surely you can get a divorce if I leave you. Is desertion a ground for divorce in Canada? Of course if there is anything I can do to help or hasten it I will do it gladly, if your lawyer will let me know.


I thank you for all your kindness to me. I shall never forget it. Think as kindly of me as you can, because I did not mean to trap you. Good-bye.


Yours gratefully,


It was very cold and stiff, she knew. But to try to say anything else would be dangerous—like tearing away a dam. She didn't know what torrent of wild incoherences and passionate anguish might pour out. In a postscript she added:


"Your father was here today. He is coming back tomorrow. He told me everything. I think you should go back to him. He is very lonely for you."


She put the letter in an envelope, wrote "Barney" across it, and left it on the desk. On it she laid the string of pearls. If they had been the beads she believed them she would have kept them in memory of that wonderful year. But she could not keep the fifteen thousand dollar gift of a man who had married her out of pity and whom she was now leaving. It hurt her to give up her pretty bauble. That was an odd thing, she reflected. The fact that she was leaving Barney did not hurt her—yet. It lay at her heart like a cold, insensible thing. If it came to life—Valancy shuddered and went out——


She put on her hat and mechanically fed Good Luck and Banjo. She locked the door and carefully hid the key in the old pine. Then she crossed to the mainland in the disappearing propeller. She stood for a moment on the bank, looking at her Blue Castle. The rain had not yet come, but the sky was dark, and Mistawis grey and sullen. The little house under the pines looked very pathetic—a casket rifled of its jewels—a lamp with its flame blown out.


"I shall never again hear the wind crying over Mistawis at night," thought Valancy. This hurt her, too. She could have laughed to think that such a trifle could hurt her at such a time.


Valancy paused a moment on the porch of the brick house in Elm Street. She felt that she ought to knock like a stranger. Her rosebush, she idly noticed, was loaded with buds. The rubber-plant stood beside the prim door. A momentary horror overcame her—a horror of the existence to which she was returning. Then she opened the door and walked in.


"I wonder if the Prodigal Son ever felt really at home again," she thought.


Mrs. Frederick and Cousin Stickles were in the sitting-room. Uncle Benjamin was there, too. They looked blankly at Valancy, realising at once that something was wrong. This was not the saucy, impudent thing who had laughed at them in this very room last summer. This was a grey-faced woman with the eyes of a creature who had been stricken by a mortal blow.


Valancy looked indifferently around the room. She had changed so much—and it had changed so little. The same pictures hung on the walls. The little orphan who knelt at her never-finished prayer by the bed whereon reposed the black kitten that never grew up into a cat. The grey "steel engraving" of Quatre Bras, where the British regiment forever stood at bay. The crayon enlargement of the boyish father she had never known. There they all hung in the same places. The green cascade of "Wandering Jew" still tumbled out of the old granite saucepan on the window-stand. The same elaborate, never-used pitcher stood at the same angle on the sideboard shelf. The blue and gilt vases that had been among her mother's wedding-presents still primly adorned the mantelpiece, flanking the china clock of berosed and besprayed ware that never went. The chairs in exactly the same places. Her mother and Cousin Stickles, likewise unchanged, regarding her with stony unwelcome.


Valancy had to speak first.


"I've come home, Mother," she said tiredly.


"So I see." Mrs. Frederick's voice was very icy. She had resigned herself to Valancy's desertion. She had almost succeeded in forgetting there was a Valancy. She had rearranged and organised her systematic life without any reference to an ungrateful, rebellious child. She had taken her place again in a society which ignored the fact that she had ever had a daughter and pitied her, if it pitied her at all, only in discreet whispers and asides. The plain truth was that, by this time, Mrs. Frederick did not want Valancy to come back—did not want ever to see or hear of her again.


And now, of course, Valancy was here. With tragedy and disgrace and scandal trailing after her visibly. "So I see," said Mrs. Frederick. "May I ask why?"


"Because—I'm—not—going to die," said Valancy huskily.


"God bless my soul!" said Uncle Benjamin. "Who said you were going to die?"


"I suppose," said Cousin Stickles shrewishly—Cousin Stickles did not want Valancy back either—"I suppose you've found out he has another wife—as we've been sure all along."


"No. I only wish he had," said Valancy. She was not suffering particularly, but she was very tired. If only the explanations were all over and she were upstairs in her old, ugly room—alone. Just alone! The rattle of the beads on her mother's sleeves, as they swung on the arms of the reed chair, almost drove her crazy. Nothing else was worrying her; but all at once it seemed that she simply could not endure that thin, insistent rattle.


"My home, as I told you, is always open to you," said Mrs. Frederick stonily, "but I can never forgive you."


Valancy gave a mirthless laugh.


"I'd care very little for that if I could only forgive myself," she said.


"Come, come," said Uncle Benjamin testily. But rather enjoying himself. He felt he had Valancy under his thumb again. "We've had enough of mystery. What has happened? Why have you left that fellow? No doubt there's reason enough—but what particular reason is it?"


Valancy began to speak mechanically. She told her tale bluntly and barely.


"A year ago Dr. Trent told me I had angina pectoris and could not live long. I wanted to have some—life—before I died. That's why I went away. Why I married Barney. And now I've found it is all a mistake. There is nothing wrong with my heart. I've got to live—and Barney only married me out of pity. So I have to leave him—free."


"God bless me!" said Uncle Benjamin. Cousin Stickles began to cry.


"Valancy, if you'd only had confidence in your own mother——"


"Yes, yes, I know," said Valancy impatiently. "What's the use of going into that now? I can't undo this year. God knows I wish I could. I've tricked Barney into marrying me—and he's really Bernard Redfern. Dr. Redfern's son, of Montreal. And his father wants him to go back to him."


Uncle Benjamin made a queer sound. Cousin Stickles took her black-bordered handkerchief away from her eyes and stared at Valancy. A queer gleam suddenly shot into Mrs. Frederick's stone-grey orbs.


"Dr. Redfern—not the Purple Pill man?" she said.


Valancy nodded. "He's John Foster, too—the writer of those nature books."


"But—but—" Mrs. Frederick was visibly agitated, though not over the thought that she was the mother-in-law of John Foster—"Dr. Redfern is a millionaire!"


Uncle Benjamin shut his mouth with a snap.


"Ten times over," he said.


"Yes. Barney left home years ago—because of—of some trouble—some—disappointment. Now he will likely go back. So you see—I had to come home. He doesn't love me. I can't hold him to a bond he was tricked into."


Uncle Benjamin looked incredibly sly.


"Did he say so? Does he want to get rid of you?"


"No. I haven't seen him since I found out. But I tell you—he only married me out of pity—because I asked him to—because he thought it would only be for a little while."


Mrs. Frederick and Cousin Stickles both tried to speak, but Uncle Benjamin waved a hand at them and frowned portentously.


"Let me handle this," wave and frown seemed to say. To Valancy:


"Well, well, dear, we'll talk it all over later. You see, we don't quite understand everything yet. As Cousin Stickles says, you should have confided in us before. Later on—I dare say we can find a way out of this."


"You think Barney can easily get a divorce, don't you?" said Valancy eagerly.


Uncle Benjamin silenced with another wave the exclamation of horror he knew was trembling on Mrs. Frederick's lips.


"Trust to me, Valancy. Everything will arrange itself. Tell me this, Dossie. Have you been happy up back? Was Sr.—Mr. Redfern good to you?"


"I have been very happy and Barney was very good to me," said Valancy, as if reciting a lesson. She remembered when she studied grammar at school she had disliked the past and perfect tenses. They had always seemed so pathetic. "I have been"—it was all over and done with.


"Then don't worry, little girl." How amazingly paternal Uncle Benjamin was! "Your family will stand behind you. We'll see what can be done."


"Thank you," said Valancy dully. Really, it was quite decent of Uncle Benjamin. "Can I go and lie down a little while? I'm—I'm—tired."


"Of course you're tired." Uncle Benjamin patted her hand gently—very gently. "All worn out and nervous. Go and lie down, by all means. You'll see things in quite a different light after you've had a good sleep."


He held the door open. As she went through he whispered, "What is the best way to keep a man's love?"


Valancy smiled wanly. But she had come back to the old life—the old shackles. "What?" she asked as meekly as of yore.


"Not to return it," said Uncle Benjamin with a chuckle. He shut the door and rubbed his hands. Nodded and smiled mysteriously round the room.


"Poor little Doss!" he said pathetically.


"Do you really suppose that—Snaith—can actually be Dr. Redfern's son?" gasped Mrs. Frederick.


"I see no reason for doubting it. She says Dr. Redfern has been there. Why, the man is rich as wedding-cake. Amelia, I've always believed there was more in Doss than most people thought. You kept her down too much—repressed her. She never had a chance to show what was in her. And now she's landed a millionaire for a husband."


"But—" hesitated Mrs. Frederick, "he—he—they told terrible tales about him."


"All gossip and invention—all gossip and invention. It's always been a mystery to me why people should be so ready to invent and circulate slanders about other people they know absolutely nothing about. I can't understand why you paid so much attention to gossip and surmise. Just because he didn't choose to mix up with everybody, people resented it. I was surprised to find what a decent fellow he seemed to be that time he came into my store with Valancy. I discounted all the yarns then and there."


"But he was seen dead drunk in Port Lawrence once," said Cousin Stickles. Doubtfully, yet as one very willing to be convinced to the contrary.


"Who saw him?" demanded Uncle Benjamin truculently. "Who saw him? Old Jemmy Strang said he saw him. I wouldn't take old Jemmy Strang's word on oath. He's too drunk himself half the time to see straight. He said he saw him lying drunk on a bench in the Park. Pshaw! Redfern's been asleep there. Don't worry over that."


"But his clothes—and that awful old car—" said Mrs. Frederick uncertainly.


"Eccentricities of genius," declared Uncle Benjamin. "You heard Doss say he was John Foster. I'm not up in literature myself, but I heard a lecturer from Toronto say that John Foster's books had put Canada on the literary map of the world."


"I—suppose—we must forgive her," yielded Mrs. Frederick.


"Forgive her!" Uncle Benjamin snorted. Really, Amelia was an incredibly stupid woman. No wonder poor Doss had gone sick and tired of living with her. "Well, yes, I think you'd better forgive her! The question is—will Snaith forgive us!"


"What if she persists in leaving him? You've no idea how stubborn she can be," said Mrs. Frederick.


"Leave it all to me, Amelia. Leave it all to me. You women have muddled it enough. This whole affair has been bungled from start to finish. If you had put yourself to a little trouble years ago, Amelia, she would not have bolted over the traces as she did. Just let her alone—don't worry her with advice or questions till she's ready to talk. She's evidently run away in a panic because she's afraid he'd be angry with her for fooling him. Most extraordinary thing of Trent to tell her such a yarn! That's what comes of going to strange doctors. Well, well, we mustn't blame her too harshly, poor child. Redfern will come after her. If he doesn't, I'll hunt him up and talk to him as man to man. He may be a millionaire, but Valancy is a Stirling. He can't repudiate her just because she was mistaken about her heart disease. Not likely he'll want to. Doss is a little overstrung. Bless me, I must get in the habit of calling her Valancy. She isn't a baby any longer. Now, remember, Amelia. Be very kind and sympathetic."


It was something of a large order to expect Mrs. Frederick to be kind and sympathetic. But she did her best. When supper was ready she went up and asked Valancy if she wouldn't like a cup of tea. Valancy, lying on her bed, declined. She just wanted to be left alone for a while. Mrs. Frederick left her alone. She did not even remind Valancy that her plight was the outcome of her own lack of daughterly respect and obedience. One could not—exactly—say things like that to the daughter-in-law of a millionaire.


Valancy looked dully about her old room. It, too, was so exactly the same that it seemed almost impossible to believe in the changes that had come to her since she had last slept in it. It seemed—somehow—indecent that it should be so much the same. There was Queen Louise everlastingly coming down the stairway, and nobody had let the forlorn puppy in out of the rain. Here was the purple paper blind and the greenish mirror. Outside, the old carriage-shop with its blatant advertisements. Beyond it, the station with the same derelicts and flirtatious flappers.


Here the old life waited for her, like some grim ogre that bided his time and licked his chops. A monstrous horror of it suddenly possessed her. When night fell and she had undressed and got into bed, the merciful numbness passed away and she lay in anguish and thought of her island under the stars. The camp-fires—all their little household jokes and phrases and catch words—their furry beautiful cats—the lights agleam on the fairy islands—canoes skimming over Mistawis in the magic of morning—white birches shining among the dark spruces like beautiful women's bodies—winter snows and rose-red sunset fires—lakes drunken with moonshine—all the delights of her lost paradise. She would not let herself think of Barney. Only of these lesser things. She could not endure to think of Barney.


Then she thought of him inescapably. She ached for him. She wanted his arms around her—his face against hers—his whispers in her ear. She recalled all his friendly looks and quips and jests—his little compliments—his caresses. She counted them all over as a woman might count her jewels—not one did she miss from the first day they had met. These memories were all she could have now. She shut her eyes and prayed.


Yet it would be better to forget. This agony of longing and loneliness would not be so terrible if one could forget. And Ethel Traverse. That shimmering witch woman with her white skin and black eyes and shining hair. The woman Barney had loved. The woman whom he still loved. Hadn't he told her he never changed his mind? Who was waiting for him in Montreal. Who was the right wife for a rich and famous man. Barney would marry her, of course, when he got his divorce. How Valancy hated her! And envied her! Barney had said, "I love you," to her. Valancy had wondered what tone Barney would say "I love you" in—how his dark-blue eyes would look when he said it. Ethel Traverse knew. Valancy hated her for the knowledge—hated and envied her.


"She can never have those hours in the Blue Castle. They are mine," thought Valancy savagely. Ethel would never make strawberry jam or dance to old Abel's fiddle or fry bacon for Barney over a camp-fire. She would never come to the little Mistawis shack at all.


What was Barney doing—thinking—feeling now? Had he come home and found her letter? Was he still angry with her? Or a little pitiful. Was he lying on their bed looking out on stormy Mistawis and listening to the rain streaming down on the roof? Or was he still wandering in the wilderness, raging at the predicament in which he found himself? Hating her? Pain took her and wrung her like some great pitiless giant. She got up and walked the floor. Would morning never come to end this hideous night? And yet what could morning bring her? The old life without the old stagnation that was at least bearable. The old life with the new memories, the new longings, the new anguish.


"Oh, why can't I die?" moaned Valancy.


It was not until early afternoon the next day that a dreadful old car clanked up Elm Street and stopped in front of the brick house. A hatless man sprang from it and rushed up the steps. The bell was rung as it had never been rung before—vehemently, intensely. The ringer was demanding entrance, not asking it. Uncle Benjamin chuckled as he hurried to the door. Uncle Benjamin had "just dropped in" to enquire how dear Doss—Valancy was. Dear Doss—Valancy, he had been informed, was just the same. She had come down for breakfast—which she didn't eat—gone back to her room, come down for dinner—which she didn't eat—gone back to her room. That was all. She had not talked. And she had been let, kindly, considerately, alone.


"Very good. Redfern will be here today," said Uncle Benjamin. And now Uncle Benjamin's reputation as a prophet was made. Redfern was here—unmistakably so.


"Is my wife here?" he demanded of Uncle Benjamin without preface.


Uncle Benjamin smiled expressively.


"Mr. Redfern, I believe? Very glad to meet you, sir. Yes, that naughty little girl of yours is here. We have been——"


"I must see her," Barney cut Uncle Benjamin ruthlessly short.


"Certainly, Mr. Redfern. Just step in here. Valancy will be down in a minute."


He ushered Barney into the parlour and betook himself to the sitting-room and Mrs. Frederick.


"Go up and tell Valancy to come down. Her husband is here."


But so dubious was Uncle Benjamin as to whether Valancy could really come down in a minute—or at all—that he followed Mrs. Frederick on tiptoe up the stairs and listened in the hall.


"Valancy dear," said Mrs. Frederick tenderly, "your husband is in the parlour, asking for you."


"Oh, Mother." Valancy got up from the window and wrung her hands. "I cannot see him—I cannot! Tell him to go away—ask him to go away. I can't see him!"


"Tell her," hissed Uncle Benjamin through the keyhole, "that Redfern says he won't go away until he has seen her."


Redfern had not said anything of the kind, but Uncle Benjamin thought he was that sort of a fellow. Valancy knew he was. She understood that she might as well go down first as last.


She did not even look at Uncle Benjamin as she passed him on the landing. Uncle Benjamin did not mind. Rubbing his hands and chuckling, he retreated to the kitchen, where he genially demanded of Cousin Stickles:


"Why are good husbands like bread?"


Cousin Stickles asked why.


"Because women need them," beamed Uncle Benjamin.


Valancy was looking anything but beautiful when she entered the parlour. Her white night had played fearful havoc with her face. She wore an ugly old brown-and-blue gingham, having left all her pretty dresses in the Blue Castle. But Barney dashed across the room and caught her in his arms.


"Valancy, darling—oh, you darling little idiot! Whatever possessed you to run away like that? When I came home last night and found your letter I went quite mad. It was twelve o'clock—I knew it was too late to come here then. I walked the floor all night. Then this morning Dad came—I couldn't get away till now. Valancy, whatever got into you? Divorce, forsooth! Don't you know——"


"I know you only married me out of pity," said Valancy, brushing him away feebly. "I know you don't love me—I know——"


"You've been lying awake at three o'clock too long," said Barney, shaking her. "That's all that's the matter with you. Love you! Oh, don't I love you! My girl, when I saw that train coming down on you I knew whether I loved you or not!"


"Oh, I was afraid you would try to make me think you cared," cried Valancy passionately. "Don't—don't! I know. I know all about Ethel Traverse—your father told me everything. Oh, Barney, don't torture me! I can never go back to you!"


Barney released her and looked at her for a moment. Something in her pallid, resolute face spoke more convincingly than words of her determination.


"Valancy," he said quietly, "Father couldn't have told you everything because he didn't know it. Will you let me tell you—everything?"


"Yes," said Valancy wearily. Oh, how dear he was! How she longed to throw herself into his arms! As he put her gently down in a chair, she could have kissed the slender, brown hands that touched her arms. She could not look up as he stood before her. She dared not meet his eyes. For his sake, she must be brave. She knew him—kind, unselfish. Of course he would pretend he did not want his freedom—she might have known he would pretend that, once the first shock of realisation was over. He was so sorry for her—he understood her terrible position. When had he ever failed to understand? But she would never accept his sacrifice. Never!


"You've seen Dad and you know I'm Bernard Redfern. And I suppose you've guessed that I'm John Foster—since you went into Bluebeard's Chamber."


"Yes. But I didn't go in out of curiosity. I forgot you had told me not to go in—I forgot——"


"Never mind. I'm not going to kill you and hang you up on the wall, so there's no need to call for Sister Anne. I'm only going to tell you my story from the beginning. I came back last night intending to do it. Yes, I'm 'old Doc. Redfern's son'—of Purple Pills and Bitters fame. Oh, don't I know it? Wasn't it rubbed into me for years?"


Barney laughed bitterly and strode up and down the room a few times. Uncle Benjamin, tiptoeing through the hall, heard the laugh and frowned. Surely Doss wasn't going to be a stubborn little fool. Barney threw himself into a chair before Valancy.


"Yes. As long as I can remember I've been a millionaire's son. But when I was born Dad wasn't a millionaire. He wasn't even a doctor—isn't yet. He was a veterinary and a failure at it. He and Mother lived in a little village up in Quebec and were abominably poor. I don't remember Mother. Haven't even a picture of her. She died when I was two years old. She was fifteen years younger than Father—a little school teacher. When she died Dad moved into Montreal and formed a company to sell his hair tonic. He'd dreamed the prescription one night, it seems. Well, it caught on. Money began to flow in. Dad invented—or dreamed—the other things, too—Pills, Bitters, Liniment and so on. He was a millionaire by the time I was ten, with a house so big a small chap like myself always felt lost in it. I had every toy a boy could wish for—and I was the loneliest little devil in the world. I remember only one happy day in my childhood, Valancy. Only one. Even you were better off than that. Dad had gone out to see an old friend in the country and took me along. I was turned loose in the barnyard and I spent the whole day hammering nails in a block of wood. I had a glorious day. When I had to go back to my roomful of playthings in the big house in Montreal I cried. But I didn't tell Dad why. I never told him anything. It's always been a hard thing for me to tell things, Valancy—anything that went deep. And most things went deep with me. I was a sensitive child and I was even more sensitive as a boy. No one ever knew what I suffered. Dad never dreamed of it.


"When he sent me to a private school—I was only eleven—the boys ducked me in the swimming-tank until I stood on a table and read aloud all the advertisements of Father's patent abominations. I did it—then"—Barney clinched his fists—"I was frightened and half drowned and all my world was against me. But when I went to college and the sophs tried the same stunt I didn't do it." Barney smiled grimly. "They couldn't make me do it. But they could—and did—make my life miserable. I never heard the last of the Pills and the Bitters and the Hair Tonic. 'After using' was my nickname—you see I'd always such a thick thatch. My four college years were a nightmare. You know—or you don't know—what merciless beasts boys can be when they get a victim like me. I had few friends—there was always some barrier between me and the kind of people I cared for. And the other kind—who would have been very willing to be intimate with rich old Doc. Redfern's son—I didn't care for. But I had one friend—or thought I had. A clever, bookish chap—a bit of a writer. That was a bond between us—I had some secret aspirations along that line. He was older than I was—I looked up to him and worshipped him. For a year I was happier than I'd ever been. Then—a burlesque sketch came out in the college magazine—a mordant thing, ridiculing Dad's remedies. The names were changed, of course, but everybody knew what and who was meant. Oh, it was clever—damnably so—and witty. McGill rocked with laughter over it. I found out he had written it."


"Oh, were you sure?" Valancy's dull eyes flamed with indignation.


"Yes. He admitted it when I asked him. Said a good idea was worth more to him than a friend, any time. And he added a gratuitous thrust. 'You know, Redfern, there are some things money won't buy. For instance—it won't buy you a grandfather.' Well, it was a nasty slam. I was young enough to feel cut up. And it destroyed a lot of my ideals and illusions, which was the worst thing about it. I was a young misanthrope after that. Didn't want to be friends with any one. And then—the year after I left college—I met Ethel Traverse."


Valancy shivered. Barney, his hands stuck in his pockets, was regarding the floor moodily and didn't notice it.


"Dad told you about her, I suppose. She was very beautiful. And I loved her. Oh, yes, I loved her. I won't deny it or belittle it now. It was a lonely, romantic boy's first passionate love, and it was very real. And I thought she loved me. I was fool enough to think that. I was wildly happy when she promised to marry me. For a few months. Then—I found out she didn't. I was an involuntary eavesdropper on a certain occasion for a moment. That moment was enough. The proverbial fate of the eavesdropper overtook me. A girl friend of hers was asking her how she could stomach Doc. Redfern's son and the patent-medicine background.


"'His money will gild the Pills and sweeten the Bitters,' said Ethel, with a laugh. 'Mother told me to catch him if I could. We're on the rocks. But pah! I smell turpentine whenever he comes near me.'"


"Oh, Barney!" cried Valancy, wrung with pity for him. She had forgotten all about herself and was filled with compassion for Barney and rage against Ethel Traverse. How dared she?


"Well,"—Barney got up and began pacing round the room—"that finished me. Completely. I left civilisation and those accursed dopes behind me and went to the Yukon. For five years I knocked about the world—in all sorts of outlandish places. I earned enough to live on—I wouldn't touch a cent of Dad's money. Then one day I woke up to the fact that I no longer cared a hang about Ethel, one way or another. She was somebody I'd known in another world—that was all. But I had no hankering to go back to the old life. None of that for me. I was free and I meant to keep so. I came to Mistawis—saw Tom MacMurray's island. My first book had been published the year before, and made a hit—I had a bit of money from my royalties. I bought my island. But I kept away from people. I had no faith in anybody. I didn't believe there was such a thing as real friendship or true love in the world—not for me, anyhow—the son of Purple Pills. I used to revel in all the wild yarns they told of me. In fact, I'm afraid I suggested a few of them myself. By mysterious remarks which people interpreted in the light of their own prepossessions.


"Then—you came. I had to believe you loved me—really loved me—not my father's millions. There was no other reason why you should want to marry a penniless devil with my supposed record. And I was sorry for you. Oh, yes, I don't deny I married you because I was sorry for you. And then—I found you the best and jolliest and dearest little pal and chum a fellow ever had. Witty—loyal—sweet. You made me believe again in the reality of friendship and love. The world seemed good again just because you were in it, honey. I'd have been willing to go on forever just as we were. I knew that, the night I came home and saw my homelight shining out from the island for the first time. And knew you were there waiting for me. After being homeless all my life it was beautiful to have a home. To come home hungry at night and know there was a good supper and a cheery fire—and you.


"But I didn't realise what you actually meant to me till that moment at the switch. Then it came like a lightning flash. I knew I couldn't live without you—that if I couldn't pull you loose in time I'd have to die with you. I admit it bowled me over—knocked me silly. I couldn't get my bearings for a while. That's why I acted like a mule. But the thought that drove me to the tall timber was the awful one that you were going to die. I'd always hated the thought of it—but I supposed there wasn't any chance for you, so I put it out of my mind. Now I had to face it—you were under sentence of death and I couldn't live without you. When I came home last night I had made up my mind that I'd take you to all the specialists in the world—that something surely could be done for you. I felt sure you couldn't be as bad as Dr. Trent thought, when those moments on the track hadn't even hurt you. And I found your note—and went mad with happiness—and a little terror for fear you didn't care much for me, after all, and had gone away to get rid of me. But now, it's all right, isn't it, darling?"


Was she, Valancy being called "darling"?


"I can't believe you care for me," she said helplessly. "I know you can't. What's the use, Barney? Of course, you're sorry for me—of course you want to do the best you can to straighten out the mess. But it can't be straightened out that way. You couldn't love me—me." She stood up and pointed tragically to the mirror over the mantel. Certainly, not even Allan Tierney could have seen beauty in the woeful, haggard little face reflected there.


Barney didn't look at the mirror. He looked at Valancy as if he would like to snatch her—or beat her.


"Love you! Girl, you're in the very core of my heart. I hold you there like a jewel. Didn't I promise you I'd never tell you a lie? Love you! I love you with all there is of me to love. Heart, soul, brain. Every fibre of body and spirit thrilling to the sweetness of you. There's nobody in the world for me but you, Valancy."


"You're—a good actor, Barney," said Valancy, with a wan little smile.


Barney looked at her.


"I—can t."


"Oh—damn!" said Barney violently.


Valancy looked up startled. She had never seen this Barney. Scowling! Eyes black with anger. Sneering lips. Dead-white face.


"You don't want to believe it," said Barney in the silk-smooth voice of ultimate rage. "You're tired of me. You want to get out of it—free from me. You're ashamed of the Pills and the Liniment, just as she was. Your Stirling pride can't stomach them. It was all right as long as you thought you hadn't long to live. A good lark—you could put up with me. But a lifetime with old Doc Redfern's son is a different thing. Oh, I understand—perfectly. I've been very dense—but I understand, at last."


Valancy stood up. She stared into his furious face. Then—she suddenly laughed.


"You darling!" she said. "You do mean it! You do really love me! You wouldn't be so enraged if you didn't."


Barney stared at her for a moment. Then he caught her in his arms with the little low laugh of the triumphant lover.


Uncle Benjamin, who had been frozen with horror at the keyhole, suddenly thawed out and tiptoed back to Mrs. Frederick and Cousin Stickles.


"Everything is all right," he announced jubilantly.


Dear little Doss! He would send for his lawyer right away and alter his will again. Doss should be his sole heiress. To her that had should certainly be given.


Mrs. Frederick, returning to her comfortable belief in an overruling Providence, got out the family Bible and made an entry under "Marriages."


"But, Barney," protested Valancy after a few minutes, "your father—somehow—gave me to understand that you still loved her."


"He would. Dad holds the championship for making blunders. If there's a thing that's better left unsaid you can trust him to say it. But he isn't a bad old soul, Valancy. You'll like him."


"And his money isn't tainted money. He made it honestly. His medicines are quite harmless. Even his Purple Pills do people whole heaps of good when they believe in them."


"But—I'm not fit for your life," sighed Valancy. "I'm not—clever—or well-educated—or——"


"My life is in Mistawis—and all the wild places of the world. I'm not going to ask you to live the life of a society woman. Of course, we must spend a bit of the time with Dad—he's lonely and old——"


"But not in that big house of his," pleaded Valancy. "I can't live in a palace."


"Can't come down to that after your Blue Castle," grinned Barney. "Don't worry, sweet. I couldn't live in that house myself. It has a white marble stairway with gilt bannisters and looks like a furniture shop with the labels off. Likewise it's the pride of Dad's heart. We'll get a little house somewhere outside of Montreal—in the real country—near enough to see Dad often. I think we'll build one for ourselves. A house you build for yourself is so much nicer than a hand-me-down. But we'll spend our summers in Mistawis. And our autumns travelling. I want you to see the Alhambra—it's the nearest thing to the Blue Castle of your dreams I can think of. And there's an old-world garden in Italy where I want to show you the moon rising over Rome through the dark cypress-trees."


"Will that be any lovelier than the moon rising over Mistawis?"


"Not lovelier. But a different kind of loveliness. There are so many kinds of loveliness. Valancy, before this year you've spent all your life in ugliness. You know nothing of the beauty of the world. We'll climb mountains—hunt for treasures in the bazaars of Samarcand—search out the magic of east and west—run hand in hand to the rim of the world. I want to show you it all—see it again through your eyes. Girl, there are a million things I want to show you—do with you—say to you. It will take a lifetime. And we must see about that picture by Tierney, after all."


"Will you promise me one thing?" asked Valancy solemnly.


"Anything," said Barney recklessly.


"Only one thing. You are never, under any circumstances or under any provocation, to cast it up to me that I asked you to marry me."


Extract from letter written by Miss Olive Stirling to Mr. Cecil Bruce:


"It's really disgusting that Doss' crazy adventures should have turned out like this. It makes one feel that there is no use in behaving properly.


"I'm sure her mind was unbalanced when she left home. What she said about a dust-pile showed that. Of course I don't think there was ever a thing the matter with her heart. Or perhaps Snaith or Redfern or whatever his name really is fed Purple Pills to her, back in that Mistawis hut and cured her. It would make quite a testimonial for the family ads, wouldn't it?


"He's such an insignificent-looking creature. I mentioned this to Doss but all she said was, 'I don't like collar ad men.'


"Well, he's certainly no collar ad man. Though I must say there is something rather distinguished about him, now that he has cut his hair and put on decent clothes. I really think, Cecil, you should exercise more. It doesn't do to get too fleshy.


"He also claims, I believe, to be John Foster. We can believe that or not, as we like, I suppose.


"Old Doc Redfern has given them two millions for a wedding-present. Evidently the Purple Pills bring in the bacon. They're going to spend the fall in Italy and the winter in Egypt and motor through Normandy in apple-blossom time. Not in that dreadful old Lizzie, though. Redfern has got a wonderful new car.


"Well, I think I'll run away, too, and disgrace myself. It seems to pay.


"Uncle Ben is a scream. Likewise Uncle James. The fuss they all make over Doss now is absolutely sickening. To hear Aunt Amelia talking of 'my son-in-law, Bernard Redfern' and 'my daughter, Mrs. Bernard Redfern.' Mother and Father are as bad as the rest. And they can't see that Valancy is just laughing at them all in her sleeve."


Valancy and Barney turned under the mainland pines in the cool dusk of the September night for a farewell look at the Blue Castle. Mistawis was drowned in sunset lilac light, incredibly delicate and elusive. Nip and Tuck were cawing lazily in the old pines. Good Luck and Banjo were mewed and mewing in separate baskets in Barney's new, dark-green car en route to Cousin Georgiana's. Cousin Georgiana was going to take care of them until Barney and Valancy came back. Aunt Wellington and Cousin Sarah and Aunt Alberta had also entreated the privilege of looking after them, but to Cousin Georgiana was it given. Valancy was in tears.


"Don't cry, Moonlight. We'll be back next summer. And now we're off for a real honeymoon."


Valancy smiled through her tears. She was so happy that her happiness terrified her. But, despite the delights before her—'the glory that was Greece and the grandeur that was Rome'—lure of the ageless Nile—glamour of the Riviera—mosque and palace and minaret—she knew perfectly well that no spot or place or home in the world could ever possess the sorcery of her Blue Castle.


Title: The Complete Works of William Shakespeare


Release date: January 1, 1994 [eBook #100] Most recently updated: October 29, 2024


From fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory: But thou contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light's flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel: Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament, And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content, And, tender churl, mak'st waste in niggarding: Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.


When forty winters shall besiege thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery so gazed on now, Will be a tattered weed of small worth held: Then being asked, where all thy beauty lies, Where all the treasure of thy lusty days; To say, within thine own deep sunken eyes, Were an all-eating shame, and thriftless praise. How much more praise deserv'd thy beauty's use, If thou couldst answer 'This fair child of mine Shall sum my count, and make my old excuse,' Proving his beauty by succession thine. This were to be new made when thou art old, And see thy blood warm when thou feel'st it cold.


Look in thy glass and tell the face thou viewest, Now is the time that face should form another, Whose fresh repair if now thou not renewest, Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother. For where is she so fair whose uneared womb Disdains the tillage of thy husbandry? Or who is he so fond will be the tomb Of his self-love to stop posterity? Thou art thy mother's glass and she in thee Calls back the lovely April of her prime, So thou through windows of thine age shalt see, Despite of wrinkles this thy golden time. But if thou live remembered not to be, Die single and thine image dies with thee.


Unthrifty loveliness why dost thou spend, Upon thyself thy beauty's legacy? Nature's bequest gives nothing but doth lend, And being frank she lends to those are free: Then beauteous niggard why dost thou abuse, The bounteous largess given thee to give? Profitless usurer why dost thou use So great a sum of sums yet canst not live? For having traffic with thyself alone, Thou of thyself thy sweet self dost deceive, Then how when nature calls thee to be gone, What acceptable audit canst thou leave? Thy unused beauty must be tombed with thee, Which used lives th' executor to be.


Those hours that with gentle work did frame The lovely gaze where every eye doth dwell Will play the tyrants to the very same, And that unfair which fairly doth excel: For never-resting time leads summer on To hideous winter and confounds him there, Sap checked with frost and lusty leaves quite gone, Beauty o'er-snowed and bareness every where: Then were not summer's distillation left A liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass, Beauty's effect with beauty were bereft, Nor it nor no remembrance what it was. But flowers distilled though they with winter meet, Leese but their show, their substance still lives sweet.


Then let not winter's ragged hand deface, In thee thy summer ere thou be distilled: Make sweet some vial; treasure thou some place, With beauty's treasure ere it be self-killed: That use is not forbidden usury, Which happies those that pay the willing loan; That's for thyself to breed another thee, Or ten times happier be it ten for one, Ten times thyself were happier than thou art, If ten of thine ten times refigured thee: Then what could death do if thou shouldst depart, Leaving thee living in posterity? Be not self-willed for thou art much too fair, To be death's conquest and make worms thine heir.


Lo in the orient when the gracious light Lifts up his burning head, each under eye Doth homage to his new-appearing sight, Serving with looks his sacred majesty, And having climbed the steep-up heavenly hill, Resembling strong youth in his middle age, Yet mortal looks adore his beauty still, Attending on his golden pilgrimage: But when from highmost pitch with weary car, Like feeble age he reeleth from the day, The eyes (fore duteous) now converted are From his low tract and look another way: So thou, thyself out-going in thy noon: Unlooked on diest unless thou get a son.


Music to hear, why hear'st thou music sadly? Sweets with sweets war not, joy delights in joy: Why lov'st thou that which thou receiv'st not gladly, Or else receiv'st with pleasure thine annoy? If the true concord of well-tuned sounds, By unions married do offend thine ear, They do but sweetly chide thee, who confounds In singleness the parts that thou shouldst bear: Mark how one string sweet husband to another, Strikes each in each by mutual ordering; Resembling sire, and child, and happy mother, Who all in one, one pleasing note do sing: Whose speechless song being many, seeming one, Sings this to thee, 'Thou single wilt prove none'.


Is it for fear to wet a widow's eye, That thou consum'st thyself in single life? Ah, if thou issueless shalt hap to die, The world will wail thee like a makeless wife, The world will be thy widow and still weep, That thou no form of thee hast left behind, When every private widow well may keep, By children's eyes, her husband's shape in mind: Look what an unthrift in the world doth spend Shifts but his place, for still the world enjoys it; But beauty's waste hath in the world an end, And kept unused the user so destroys it: No love toward others in that bosom sits That on himself such murd'rous shame commits.


For shame deny that thou bear'st love to any Who for thyself art so unprovident. Grant if thou wilt, thou art beloved of many, But that thou none lov'st is most evident: For thou art so possessed with murd'rous hate, That 'gainst thyself thou stick'st not to conspire, Seeking that beauteous roof to ruinate Which to repair should be thy chief desire: O change thy thought, that I may change my mind, Shall hate be fairer lodged than gentle love? Be as thy presence is gracious and kind, Or to thyself at least kind-hearted prove, Make thee another self for love of me, That beauty still may live in thine or thee.


As fast as thou shalt wane so fast thou grow'st, In one of thine, from that which thou departest, And that fresh blood which youngly thou bestow'st, Thou mayst call thine, when thou from youth convertest, Herein lives wisdom, beauty, and increase, Without this folly, age, and cold decay, If all were minded so, the times should cease, And threescore year would make the world away: Let those whom nature hath not made for store, Harsh, featureless, and rude, barrenly perish: Look whom she best endowed, she gave thee more; Which bounteous gift thou shouldst in bounty cherish: She carved thee for her seal, and meant thereby, Thou shouldst print more, not let that copy die.


When I do count the clock that tells the time, And see the brave day sunk in hideous night, When I behold the violet past prime, And sable curls all silvered o'er with white: When lofty trees I see barren of leaves, Which erst from heat did canopy the herd And summer's green all girded up in sheaves Borne on the bier with white and bristly beard: Then of thy beauty do I question make That thou among the wastes of time must go, Since sweets and beauties do themselves forsake, And die as fast as they see others grow, And nothing 'gainst Time's scythe can make defence Save breed to brave him, when he takes thee hence.


O that you were your self, but love you are No longer yours, than you yourself here live, Against this coming end you should prepare, And your sweet semblance to some other give. So should that beauty which you hold in lease Find no determination, then you were Yourself again after yourself's decease, When your sweet issue your sweet form should bear. Who lets so fair a house fall to decay, Which husbandry in honour might uphold, Against the stormy gusts of winter's day And barren rage of death's eternal cold? O none but unthrifts, dear my love you know, You had a father, let your son say so.


Not from the stars do I my judgement pluck, And yet methinks I have astronomy, But not to tell of good, or evil luck, Of plagues, of dearths, or seasons' quality, Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell; Pointing to each his thunder, rain and wind, Or say with princes if it shall go well By oft predict that I in heaven find. But from thine eyes my knowledge I derive, And constant stars in them I read such art As truth and beauty shall together thrive If from thyself, to store thou wouldst convert: Or else of thee this I prognosticate, Thy end is truth's and beauty's doom and date.


When I consider everything that grows Holds in perfection but a little moment. That this huge stage presenteth nought but shows Whereon the stars in secret influence comment. When I perceive that men as plants increase, Cheered and checked even by the self-same sky: Vaunt in their youthful sap, at height decrease, And wear their brave state out of memory. Then the conceit of this inconstant stay, Sets you most rich in youth before my sight, Where wasteful Time debateth with Decay To change your day of youth to sullied night, And all in war with Time for love of you, As he takes from you, I engraft you new.


But wherefore do not you a mightier way Make war upon this bloody tyrant Time? And fortify yourself in your decay With means more blessed than my barren rhyme? Now stand you on the top of happy hours, And many maiden gardens yet unset, With virtuous wish would bear you living flowers, Much liker than your painted counterfeit: So should the lines of life that life repair Which this (Time's pencil) or my pupil pen Neither in inward worth nor outward fair Can make you live yourself in eyes of men. To give away yourself, keeps yourself still, And you must live drawn by your own sweet skill.


Who will believe my verse in time to come If it were filled with your most high deserts? Though yet heaven knows it is but as a tomb Which hides your life, and shows not half your parts: If I could write the beauty of your eyes, And in fresh numbers number all your graces, The age to come would say this poet lies, Such heavenly touches ne'er touched earthly faces. So should my papers (yellowed with their age) Be scorned, like old men of less truth than tongue, And your true rights be termed a poet's rage, And stretched metre of an antique song. But were some child of yours alive that time, You should live twice,—in it, and in my rhyme.


Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? Thou art more lovely and more 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 ow'st, Nor shall death brag thou wand'rest in his shade, When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st, So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.


Devouring Time blunt thou the lion's paws, And make the earth devour her own sweet brood, Pluck the keen teeth from the fierce tiger's jaws, And burn the long-lived phoenix, in her blood, Make glad and sorry seasons as thou fleet'st, And do whate'er thou wilt swift-footed Time To the wide world and all her fading sweets: But I forbid thee one most heinous crime, O carve not with thy hours my love's fair brow, Nor draw no lines there with thine antique pen, Him in thy course untainted do allow, For beauty's pattern to succeeding men. Yet do thy worst, old Time; despite thy wrong, My love shall in my verse ever live young.


A woman's face with nature's own hand painted, Hast thou the master mistress of my passion, A woman's gentle heart but not acquainted With shifting change as is false women's fashion, An eye more bright than theirs, less false in rolling: Gilding the object whereupon it gazeth, A man in hue all hues in his controlling, Which steals men's eyes and women's souls amazeth. And for a woman wert thou first created, Till nature as she wrought thee fell a-doting, And by addition me of thee defeated, By adding one thing to my purpose nothing. But since she pricked thee out for women's pleasure, Mine be thy love and thy love's use their treasure.


So is it not with me as with that muse, Stirred by a painted beauty to his verse, Who heaven it self for ornament doth use, And every fair with his fair doth rehearse, Making a couplement of proud compare With sun and moon, with earth and sea's rich gems: With April's first-born flowers and all things rare, That heaven's air in this huge rondure hems. O let me true in love but truly write, And then believe me, my love is as fair, As any mother's child, though not so bright As those gold candles fixed in heaven's air: Let them say more that like of hearsay well, I will not praise that purpose not to sell.


My glass shall not persuade me I am old, So long as youth and thou are of one date, But when in thee time's furrows I behold, Then look I death my days should expiate. For all that beauty that doth cover thee, Is but the seemly raiment of my heart, Which in thy breast doth live, as thine in me, How can I then be elder than thou art? O therefore love be of thyself so wary, As I not for my self, but for thee will, Bearing thy heart which I will keep so chary As tender nurse her babe from faring ill. Presume not on thy heart when mine is slain, Thou gav'st me thine not to give back again.


As an unperfect actor on the stage, Who with his fear is put beside his part, Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage, Whose strength's abundance weakens his own heart; So I for fear of trust, forget to say, The perfect ceremony of love's rite, And in mine own love's strength seem to decay, O'ercharged with burthen of mine own love's might: O let my looks be then the eloquence, And dumb presagers of my speaking breast, Who plead for love, and look for recompense, More than that tongue that more hath more expressed. O learn to read what silent love hath writ, To hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit.


Mine eye hath played the painter and hath stelled, Thy beauty's form in table of my heart, My body is the frame wherein 'tis held, And perspective it is best painter's art. For through the painter must you see his skill, To find where your true image pictured lies, Which in my bosom's shop is hanging still, That hath his windows glazed with thine eyes: Now see what good turns eyes for eyes have done, Mine eyes have drawn thy shape, and thine for me Are windows to my breast, where-through the sun Delights to peep, to gaze therein on thee; Yet eyes this cunning want to grace their art, They draw but what they see, know not the heart.


Let those who are in favour with their stars, Of public honour and proud titles boast, Whilst I whom fortune of such triumph bars Unlooked for joy in that I honour most; Great princes' favourites their fair leaves spread, But as the marigold at the sun's eye, And in themselves their pride lies buried, For at a frown they in their glory die. The painful warrior famoused for fight, After a thousand victories once foiled, Is from the book of honour razed quite, And all the rest forgot for which he toiled: Then happy I that love and am beloved Where I may not remove nor be removed.


Lord of my love, to whom in vassalage Thy merit hath my duty strongly knit; To thee I send this written embassage To witness duty, not to show my wit. Duty so great, which wit so poor as mine May make seem bare, in wanting words to show it; But that I hope some good conceit of thine In thy soul's thought (all naked) will bestow it: Till whatsoever star that guides my moving, Points on me graciously with fair aspect, And puts apparel on my tattered loving, To show me worthy of thy sweet respect, Then may I dare to boast how I do love thee, Till then, not show my head where thou mayst prove me.


Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed, The dear respose for limbs with travel tired, But then begins a journey in my head To work my mind, when body's work's expired. For then my thoughts, from far where I abide, Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee, And keep my drooping eyelids open wide, Looking on darkness which the blind do see. Save that my soul's imaginary sight Presents thy shadow to my sightless view, Which like a jewel (hung in ghastly night) Makes black night beauteous, and her old face new. Lo thus by day my limbs, by night my mind, For thee, and for my self, no quiet find.


How can I then return in happy plight That am debarred the benefit of rest? When day's oppression is not eased by night, But day by night and night by day oppressed. And each (though enemies to either's reign) Do in consent shake hands to torture me, The one by toil, the other to complain How far I toil, still farther off from thee. I tell the day to please him thou art bright, And dost him grace when clouds do blot the heaven: So flatter I the swart-complexioned night, When sparkling stars twire not thou gild'st the even. But day doth daily draw my sorrows longer, And night doth nightly make grief's length seem stronger


When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes, I all alone beweep my outcast state, And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries, And look upon my self and curse my fate, Wishing me like to one more rich in hope, Featured like him, like him with friends possessed, Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope, With what I most enjoy contented least, Yet in these thoughts my self almost despising, Haply I think on thee, and then my state, (Like to the lark at break of day arising From sullen earth) sings hymns at heaven's gate, For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings, That then I scorn to change my state with kings.


When to the sessions of sweet silent thought, I summon up remembrance of things past, I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought, And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste: Then can I drown an eye (unused to flow) For precious friends hid in death's dateless night, And weep afresh love's long since cancelled woe, And moan th' expense of many a vanished sight. Then can I grieve at grievances foregone, And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan, Which I new pay as if not paid before. But if the while I think on thee (dear friend) All losses are restored, and sorrows end.


Thy bosom is endeared with all hearts, Which I by lacking have supposed dead, And there reigns love and all love's loving parts, And all those friends which I thought buried. How many a holy and obsequious tear Hath dear religious love stol'n from mine eye, As interest of the dead, which now appear, But things removed that hidden in thee lie. Thou art the grave where buried love doth live, Hung with the trophies of my lovers gone, Who all their parts of me to thee did give, That due of many, now is thine alone. Their images I loved, I view in thee, And thou, all they, hast all the all of me.


If thou survive my well-contented day, When that churl death my bones with dust shall cover And shalt by fortune once more re-survey These poor rude lines of thy deceased lover: Compare them with the bett'ring of the time, And though they be outstripped by every pen, Reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme, Exceeded by the height of happier men. O then vouchsafe me but this loving thought, 'Had my friend's Muse grown with this growing age, A dearer birth than this his love had brought To march in ranks of better equipage: But since he died and poets better prove, Theirs for their style I'll read, his for his love'.


Full many a glorious morning have I seen, Flatter the mountain tops with sovereign eye, Kissing with golden face the meadows green; Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy: Anon permit the basest clouds to ride, With ugly rack on his celestial face, And from the forlorn world his visage hide Stealing unseen to west with this disgrace: Even so my sun one early morn did shine, With all triumphant splendour on my brow, But out alack, he was but one hour mine, The region cloud hath masked him from me now. Yet him for this, my love no whit disdaineth, Suns of the world may stain, when heaven's sun staineth.


Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day, And make me travel forth without my cloak, To let base clouds o'ertake me in my way, Hiding thy brav'ry in their rotten smoke? 'Tis not enough that through the cloud thou break, To dry the rain on my storm-beaten face, For no man well of such a salve can speak, That heals the wound, and cures not the disgrace: Nor can thy shame give physic to my grief, Though thou repent, yet I have still the loss, Th' offender's sorrow lends but weak relief To him that bears the strong offence's cross. Ah but those tears are pearl which thy love sheds, And they are rich, and ransom all ill deeds.


No more be grieved at that which thou hast done, Roses have thorns, and silver fountains mud, Clouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun, And loathsome canker lives in sweetest bud. All men make faults, and even I in this, Authorizing thy trespass with compare, My self corrupting salving thy amiss, Excusing thy sins more than thy sins are: For to thy sensual fault I bring in sense; Thy adverse party is thy advocate, And 'gainst my self a lawful plea commence: Such civil war is in my love and hate, That I an accessary needs must be, To that sweet thief which sourly robs from me.


Let me confess that we two must be twain, Although our undivided loves are one: So shall those blots that do with me remain, Without thy help, by me be borne alone. In our two loves there is but one respect, Though in our lives a separable spite, Which though it alter not love's sole effect, Yet doth it steal sweet hours from love's delight. I may not evermore acknowledge thee, Lest my bewailed guilt should do thee shame, Nor thou with public kindness honour me, Unless thou take that honour from thy name: But do not so, I love thee in such sort, As thou being mine, mine is thy good report.


As a decrepit father takes delight, To see his active child do deeds of youth, So I, made lame by Fortune's dearest spite Take all my comfort of thy worth and truth. For whether beauty, birth, or wealth, or wit, Or any of these all, or all, or more Entitled in thy parts, do crowned sit, I make my love engrafted to this store: So then I am not lame, poor, nor despised, Whilst that this shadow doth such substance give, That I in thy abundance am sufficed, And by a part of all thy glory live: Look what is best, that best I wish in thee, This wish I have, then ten times happy me.


How can my Muse want subject to invent While thou dost breathe that pour'st into my verse, Thine own sweet argument, too excellent, For every vulgar paper to rehearse? O give thyself the thanks if aught in me, Worthy perusal stand against thy sight, For who's so dumb that cannot write to thee, When thou thyself dost give invention light? Be thou the tenth Muse, ten times more in worth Than those old nine which rhymers invocate, And he that calls on thee, let him bring forth Eternal numbers to outlive long date. If my slight Muse do please these curious days, The pain be mine, but thine shall be the praise.


O how thy worth with manners may I sing, When thou art all the better part of me? What can mine own praise to mine own self bring: And what is't but mine own when I praise thee? Even for this, let us divided live, And our dear love lose name of single one, That by this separation I may give: That due to thee which thou deserv'st alone: O absence what a torment wouldst thou prove, Were it not thy sour leisure gave sweet leave, To entertain the time with thoughts of love, Which time and thoughts so sweetly doth deceive. And that thou teachest how to make one twain, By praising him here who doth hence remain.


Take all my loves, my love, yea take them all, What hast thou then more than thou hadst before? No love, my love, that thou mayst true love call, All mine was thine, before thou hadst this more: Then if for my love, thou my love receivest, I cannot blame thee, for my love thou usest, But yet be blamed, if thou thyself deceivest By wilful taste of what thyself refusest. I do forgive thy robbery gentle thief Although thou steal thee all my poverty: And yet love knows it is a greater grief To bear greater wrong, than hate's known injury. Lascivious grace, in whom all ill well shows, Kill me with spites yet we must not be foes.


Those pretty wrongs that liberty commits, When I am sometime absent from thy heart, Thy beauty, and thy years full well befits, For still temptation follows where thou art. Gentle thou art, and therefore to be won, Beauteous thou art, therefore to be assailed. And when a woman woos, what woman's son, Will sourly leave her till he have prevailed? Ay me, but yet thou mightst my seat forbear, And chide thy beauty, and thy straying youth, Who lead thee in their riot even there Where thou art forced to break a twofold truth: Hers by thy beauty tempting her to thee, Thine by thy beauty being false to me.


That thou hast her it is not all my grief, And yet it may be said I loved her dearly, That she hath thee is of my wailing chief, A loss in love that touches me more nearly. Loving offenders thus I will excuse ye, Thou dost love her, because thou know'st I love her, And for my sake even so doth she abuse me, Suff'ring my friend for my sake to approve her. If I lose thee, my loss is my love's gain, And losing her, my friend hath found that loss, Both find each other, and I lose both twain, And both for my sake lay on me this cross, But here's the joy, my friend and I are one, Sweet flattery, then she loves but me alone.


When most I wink then do mine eyes best see, For all the day they view things unrespected, But when I sleep, in dreams they look on thee, And darkly bright, are bright in dark directed. Then thou whose shadow shadows doth make bright How would thy shadow's form, form happy show, To the clear day with thy much clearer light, When to unseeing eyes thy shade shines so! How would (I say) mine eyes be blessed made, By looking on thee in the living day, When in dead night thy fair imperfect shade, Through heavy sleep on sightless eyes doth stay! All days are nights to see till I see thee, And nights bright days when dreams do show thee me.


If the dull substance of my flesh were thought, Injurious distance should not stop my way, For then despite of space I would be brought, From limits far remote, where thou dost stay, No matter then although my foot did stand Upon the farthest earth removed from thee, For nimble thought can jump both sea and land, As soon as think the place where he would be. But ah, thought kills me that I am not thought To leap large lengths of miles when thou art gone, But that so much of earth and water wrought, I must attend, time's leisure with my moan. Receiving nought by elements so slow, But heavy tears, badges of either's woe.


The other two, slight air, and purging fire, Are both with thee, wherever I abide, The first my thought, the other my desire, These present-absent with swift motion slide. For when these quicker elements are gone In tender embassy of love to thee, My life being made of four, with two alone, Sinks down to death, oppressed with melancholy. Until life's composition be recured, By those swift messengers returned from thee, Who even but now come back again assured, Of thy fair health, recounting it to me. This told, I joy, but then no longer glad, I send them back again and straight grow sad.


Mine eye and heart are at a mortal war, How to divide the conquest of thy sight, Mine eye, my heart thy picture's sight would bar, My heart, mine eye the freedom of that right, My heart doth plead that thou in him dost lie, A closet never pierced with crystal eyes; But the defendant doth that plea deny, And says in him thy fair appearance lies. To side this title is impanelled A quest of thoughts, all tenants to the heart, And by their verdict is determined The clear eye's moiety, and the dear heart's part. As thus, mine eye's due is thy outward part, And my heart's right, thy inward love of heart.


Betwixt mine eye and heart a league is took, And each doth good turns now unto the other, When that mine eye is famished for a look, Or heart in love with sighs himself doth smother; With my love's picture then my eye doth feast, And to the painted banquet bids my heart: Another time mine eye is my heart's guest, And in his thoughts of love doth share a part. So either by thy picture or my love, Thyself away, art present still with me, For thou not farther than my thoughts canst move, And I am still with them, and they with thee. Or if they sleep, thy picture in my sight Awakes my heart, to heart's and eye's delight.


How careful was I when I took my way, Each trifle under truest bars to thrust, That to my use it might unused stay From hands of falsehood, in sure wards of trust! But thou, to whom my jewels trifles are, Most worthy comfort, now my greatest grief, Thou best of dearest, and mine only care, Art left the prey of every vulgar thief. Thee have I not locked up in any chest, Save where thou art not, though I feel thou art, Within the gentle closure of my breast, From whence at pleasure thou mayst come and part, And even thence thou wilt be stol'n I fear, For truth proves thievish for a prize so dear.


Against that time (if ever that time come) When I shall see thee frown on my defects, When as thy love hath cast his utmost sum, Called to that audit by advised respects, Against that time when thou shalt strangely pass, And scarcely greet me with that sun thine eye, When love converted from the thing it was Shall reasons find of settled gravity; Against that time do I ensconce me here Within the knowledge of mine own desert, And this my hand, against my self uprear, To guard the lawful reasons on thy part, To leave poor me, thou hast the strength of laws, Since why to love, I can allege no cause.


How heavy do I journey on the way, When what I seek (my weary travel's end) Doth teach that case and that repose to say 'Thus far the miles are measured from thy friend.' The beast that bears me, tired with my woe, Plods dully on, to bear that weight in me, As if by some instinct the wretch did know His rider loved not speed being made from thee: The bloody spur cannot provoke him on, That sometimes anger thrusts into his hide, Which heavily he answers with a groan, More sharp to me than spurring to his side, For that same groan doth put this in my mind, My grief lies onward and my joy behind.


Thus can my love excuse the slow offence, Of my dull bearer, when from thee I speed, From where thou art, why should I haste me thence? Till I return of posting is no need. O what excuse will my poor beast then find, When swift extremity can seem but slow? Then should I spur though mounted on the wind, In winged speed no motion shall I know, Then can no horse with my desire keep pace, Therefore desire (of perfect'st love being made) Shall neigh no dull flesh in his fiery race, But love, for love, thus shall excuse my jade: Since from thee going, he went wilful-slow, Towards thee I'll run, and give him leave to go.


So am I as the rich whose blessed key, Can bring him to his sweet up-locked treasure, The which he will not every hour survey, For blunting the fine point of seldom pleasure. Therefore are feasts so solemn and so rare, Since seldom coming in that long year set, Like stones of worth they thinly placed are, Or captain jewels in the carcanet. So is the time that keeps you as my chest Or as the wardrobe which the robe doth hide, To make some special instant special-blest, By new unfolding his imprisoned pride. Blessed are you whose worthiness gives scope, Being had to triumph, being lacked to hope.


What is your substance, whereof are you made, That millions of strange shadows on you tend? Since every one, hath every one, one shade, And you but one, can every shadow lend: Describe Adonis and the counterfeit, Is poorly imitated after you, On Helen's cheek all art of beauty set, And you in Grecian tires are painted new: Speak of the spring, and foison of the year, The one doth shadow of your beauty show, The other as your bounty doth appear, And you in every blessed shape we know. In all external grace you have some part, But you like none, none you for constant heart.


O how much more doth beauty beauteous seem, By that sweet ornament which truth doth give! The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem For that sweet odour, which doth in it live: The canker blooms have full as deep a dye, As the perfumed tincture of the roses, Hang on such thorns, and play as wantonly, When summer's breath their masked buds discloses: But for their virtue only is their show, They live unwooed, and unrespected fade, Die to themselves. Sweet roses do not so, Of their sweet deaths, are sweetest odours made: And so of you, beauteous and lovely youth, When that shall fade, my verse distills your truth.


Not marble, nor the gilded monuments Of princes shall outlive this powerful rhyme, But you shall shine more bright in these contents Than unswept stone, besmeared with sluttish time. When wasteful war shall statues overturn, And broils root out the work of masonry, Nor Mars his sword, nor war's quick fire shall burn: The living record of your memory. 'Gainst death, and all-oblivious enmity Shall you pace forth, your praise shall still find room, Even in the eyes of all posterity That wear this world out to the ending doom. So till the judgement that yourself arise, You live in this, and dwell in lovers' eyes.


Sweet love renew thy force, be it not said Thy edge should blunter be than appetite, Which but to-day by feeding is allayed, To-morrow sharpened in his former might. So love be thou, although to-day thou fill Thy hungry eyes, even till they wink with fulness, To-morrow see again, and do not kill The spirit of love, with a perpetual dulness: Let this sad interim like the ocean be Which parts the shore, where two contracted new, Come daily to the banks, that when they see: Return of love, more blest may be the view. Or call it winter, which being full of care, Makes summer's welcome, thrice more wished, more rare.


Being your slave what should I do but tend, Upon the hours, and times of your desire? I have no precious time at all to spend; Nor services to do till you require. Nor dare I chide the world-without-end hour, Whilst I (my sovereign) watch the clock for you, Nor think the bitterness of absence sour, When you have bid your servant once adieu. Nor dare I question with my jealous thought, Where you may be, or your affairs suppose, But like a sad slave stay and think of nought Save where you are, how happy you make those. So true a fool is love, that in your will, (Though you do any thing) he thinks no ill.


That god forbid, that made me first your slave, I should in thought control your times of pleasure, Or at your hand th' account of hours to crave, Being your vassal bound to stay your leisure. O let me suffer (being at your beck) Th' imprisoned absence of your liberty, And patience tame to sufferance bide each check, Without accusing you of injury. Be where you list, your charter is so strong, That you yourself may privilage your time To what you will, to you it doth belong, Yourself to pardon of self-doing crime. I am to wait, though waiting so be hell, Not blame your pleasure be it ill or well.


If there be nothing new, but that which is, Hath been before, how are our brains beguiled, Which labouring for invention bear amiss The second burthen of a former child! O that record could with a backward look, Even of five hundred courses of the sun, Show me your image in some antique book, Since mind at first in character was done. That I might see what the old world could say, To this composed wonder of your frame, Whether we are mended, or whether better they, Or whether revolution be the same. O sure I am the wits of former days, To subjects worse have given admiring praise.


Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore, So do our minutes hasten to their end, Each changing place with that which goes before, In sequent toil all forwards do contend. Nativity once in the main of light, Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crowned, Crooked eclipses 'gainst his glory fight, And Time that gave, doth now his gift confound. Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth, And delves the parallels in beauty's brow, Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth, And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow. And yet to times in hope, my verse shall stand Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand.


Is it thy will, thy image should keep open My heavy eyelids to the weary night? Dost thou desire my slumbers should be broken, While shadows like to thee do mock my sight? Is it thy spirit that thou send'st from thee So far from home into my deeds to pry, To find out shames and idle hours in me, The scope and tenure of thy jealousy? O no, thy love though much, is not so great, It is my love that keeps mine eye awake, Mine own true love that doth my rest defeat, To play the watchman ever for thy sake. For thee watch I, whilst thou dost wake elsewhere, From me far off, with others all too near.


Sin of self-love possesseth all mine eye, And all my soul, and all my every part; And for this sin there is no remedy, It is so grounded inward in my heart. Methinks no face so gracious is as mine, No shape so true, no truth of such account, And for my self mine own worth do define, As I all other in all worths surmount. But when my glass shows me my self indeed beated and chopt with tanned antiquity, Mine own self-love quite contrary I read: Self, so self-loving were iniquity. 'Tis thee, myself, that for myself I praise, Painting my age with beauty of thy days.


Against my love shall be as I am now With Time's injurious hand crushed and o'erworn, When hours have drained his blood and filled his brow With lines and wrinkles, when his youthful morn Hath travelled on to age's steepy night, And all those beauties whereof now he's king Are vanishing, or vanished out of sight, Stealing away the treasure of his spring: For such a time do I now fortify Against confounding age's cruel knife, That he shall never cut from memory My sweet love's beauty, though my lover's life. His beauty shall in these black lines be seen, And they shall live, and he in them still green.


When I have seen by Time's fell hand defaced The rich-proud cost of outworn buried age, When sometime lofty towers I see down-rased, And brass eternal slave to mortal rage. When I have seen the hungry ocean gain Advantage on the kingdom of the shore, And the firm soil win of the watery main, Increasing store with loss, and loss with store. When I have seen such interchange of State, Or state it self confounded, to decay, Ruin hath taught me thus to ruminate: That Time will come and take my love away. This thought is as a death which cannot choose But weep to have, that which it fears to lose.


Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea, But sad mortality o'ersways their power, How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea, Whose action is no stronger than a flower? O how shall summer's honey breath hold out, Against the wrackful siege of batt'ring days, When rocks impregnable are not so stout, Nor gates of steel so strong but time decays? O fearful meditation, where alack, Shall Time's best jewel from Time's chest lie hid? Or what strong hand can hold his swift foot back, Or who his spoil of beauty can forbid? O none, unless this miracle have might, That in black ink my love may still shine bright.


Tired with all these, for restful death I cry: As to behold desert a beggar born, And needy nothing trimmed in jollity, And purest faith unhappily forsworn, And gilded honour shamefully misplaced, And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted, And right perfection wrongfully disgraced, And strength by limping sway disabled And art made tongue-tied by authority, And folly, doctor-like, controlling skill, And simple truth miscalled simplicity, And captive good attending captain ill. Tired with all these, from these would I be gone, Save that to die, I leave my love alone.


Ah wherefore with infection should he live, And with his presence grace impiety, That sin by him advantage should achieve, And lace it self with his society? Why should false painting imitate his cheek, And steal dead seeming of his living hue? Why should poor beauty indirectly seek, Roses of shadow, since his rose is true? Why should he live, now nature bankrupt is, Beggared of blood to blush through lively veins, For she hath no exchequer now but his, And proud of many, lives upon his gains? O him she stores, to show what wealth she had, In days long since, before these last so bad.


Thus is his cheek the map of days outworn, When beauty lived and died as flowers do now, Before these bastard signs of fair were born, Or durst inhabit on a living brow: Before the golden tresses of the dead, The right of sepulchres, were shorn away, To live a second life on second head, Ere beauty's dead fleece made another gay: In him those holy antique hours are seen, Without all ornament, it self and true, Making no summer of another's green, Robbing no old to dress his beauty new, And him as for a map doth Nature store, To show false Art what beauty was of yore.


Those parts of thee that the world's eye doth view, Want nothing that the thought of hearts can mend: All tongues, the voice of souls, give thee that due, Uttering bare truth, even so as foes commend. Thy outward thus with outward praise is crowned, But those same tongues that give thee so thine own, In other accents do this praise confound By seeing farther than the eye hath shown. They look into the beauty of thy mind, And that in guess they measure by thy deeds, Then churls their thoughts (although their eyes were kind) To thy fair flower add the rank smell of weeds: But why thy odour matcheth not thy show, The soil is this, that thou dost common grow.


That thou art blamed shall not be thy defect, For slander's mark was ever yet the fair, The ornament of beauty is suspect, A crow that flies in heaven's sweetest air. So thou be good, slander doth but approve, Thy worth the greater being wooed of time, For canker vice the sweetest buds doth love, And thou present'st a pure unstained prime. Thou hast passed by the ambush of young days, Either not assailed, or victor being charged, Yet this thy praise cannot be so thy praise, To tie up envy, evermore enlarged, If some suspect of ill masked not thy show, Then thou alone kingdoms of hearts shouldst owe.


No longer mourn for me when I am dead, Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell Give warning to the world that I am fled From this vile world with vilest worms to dwell: Nay if you read this line, remember not, The hand that writ it, for I love you so, That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot, If thinking on me then should make you woe. O if, I say, you look upon this verse, When I (perhaps) compounded am with clay, Do not so much as my poor name rehearse; But let your love even with my life decay. Lest the wise world should look into your moan, And mock you with me after I am gone.


O lest the world should task you to recite, What merit lived in me that you should love After my death, dear love, forget me quite, For you in me can nothing worthy prove. Unless you would devise some virtuous lie, To do more for me than mine own desert, And hang more praise upon deceased I, Than niggard truth would willingly impart: O lest your true love may seem false in this, That you for love speak well of me untrue, My name be buried where my body is, And live no more to shame nor me, nor you. For I am shamed by that which I bring forth, And so should you, to love things nothing worth.


That time of year thou mayst in me behold, When yellow leaves, or none, or few do hang Upon those boughs which shake against the cold, Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang. In me thou seest the twilight of such day, As after sunset fadeth in the west, Which by and by black night doth take away, Death's second self that seals up all in rest. In me thou seest the glowing of such fire, That on the ashes of his youth doth lie, As the death-bed, whereon it must expire, Consumed with that which it was nourished by. This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong, To love that well, which thou must leave ere long.


But be contented when that fell arrest, Without all bail shall carry me away, My life hath in this line some interest, Which for memorial still with thee shall stay. When thou reviewest this, thou dost review, The very part was consecrate to thee, The earth can have but earth, which is his due, My spirit is thine the better part of me, So then thou hast but lost the dregs of life, The prey of worms, my body being dead, The coward conquest of a wretch's knife, Too base of thee to be remembered, The worth of that, is that which it contains, And that is this, and this with thee remains.


So are you to my thoughts as food to life, Or as sweet-seasoned showers are to the ground; And for the peace of you I hold such strife As 'twixt a miser and his wealth is found. Now proud as an enjoyer, and anon Doubting the filching age will steal his treasure, Now counting best to be with you alone, Then bettered that the world may see my pleasure, Sometime all full with feasting on your sight, And by and by clean starved for a look, Possessing or pursuing no delight Save what is had, or must from you be took. Thus do I pine and surfeit day by day, Or gluttoning on all, or all away.


Why is my verse so barren of new pride? So far from variation or quick change? Why with the time do I not glance aside To new-found methods, and to compounds strange? Why write I still all one, ever the same, And keep invention in a noted weed, That every word doth almost tell my name, Showing their birth, and where they did proceed? O know sweet love I always write of you, And you and love are still my argument: So all my best is dressing old words new, Spending again what is already spent: For as the sun is daily new and old, So is my love still telling what is told.


Thy glass will show thee how thy beauties wear, Thy dial how thy precious minutes waste, These vacant leaves thy mind's imprint will bear, And of this book, this learning mayst thou taste. The wrinkles which thy glass will truly show, Of mouthed graves will give thee memory, Thou by thy dial's shady stealth mayst know, Time's thievish progress to eternity. Look what thy memory cannot contain, Commit to these waste blanks, and thou shalt find Those children nursed, delivered from thy brain, To take a new acquaintance of thy mind. These offices, so oft as thou wilt look, Shall profit thee, and much enrich thy book.


So oft have I invoked thee for my muse, And found such fair assistance in my verse, As every alien pen hath got my use, And under thee their poesy disperse. Thine eyes, that taught the dumb on high to sing, And heavy ignorance aloft to fly, Have added feathers to the learned's wing, And given grace a double majesty. Yet be most proud of that which I compile, Whose influence is thine, and born of thee, In others' works thou dost but mend the style, And arts with thy sweet graces graced be. But thou art all my art, and dost advance As high as learning, my rude ignorance.


Whilst I alone did call upon thy aid, My verse alone had all thy gentle grace, But now my gracious numbers are decayed, And my sick muse doth give an other place. I grant (sweet love) thy lovely argument Deserves the travail of a worthier pen, Yet what of thee thy poet doth invent, He robs thee of, and pays it thee again, He lends thee virtue, and he stole that word, From thy behaviour, beauty doth he give And found it in thy cheek: he can afford No praise to thee, but what in thee doth live. Then thank him not for that which he doth say, Since what he owes thee, thou thyself dost pay.


O how I faint when I of you do write, Knowing a better spirit doth use your name, And in the praise thereof spends all his might, To make me tongue-tied speaking of your fame. But since your worth, wide as the ocean is, The humble as the proudest sail doth bear, My saucy bark (inferior far to his) On your broad main doth wilfully appear. Your shallowest help will hold me up afloat, Whilst he upon your soundless deep doth ride, Or (being wrecked) I am a worthless boat, He of tall building, and of goodly pride. Then if he thrive and I be cast away, The worst was this: my love was my decay.


Or I shall live your epitaph to make, Or you survive when I in earth am rotten, From hence your memory death cannot take, Although in me each part will be forgotten. Your name from hence immortal life shall have, Though I (once gone) to all the world must die, The earth can yield me but a common grave, When you entombed in men's eyes shall lie, Your monument shall be my gentle verse, Which eyes not yet created shall o'er-read, And tongues to be, your being shall rehearse, When all the breathers of this world are dead, You still shall live, such virtue hath my pen, Where breath most breathes, even in the mouths of men.


I grant thou wert not married to my muse, And therefore mayst without attaint o'erlook The dedicated words which writers use Of their fair subject, blessing every book. Thou art as fair in knowledge as in hue, Finding thy worth a limit past my praise, And therefore art enforced to seek anew, Some fresher stamp of the time-bettering days. And do so love, yet when they have devised, What strained touches rhetoric can lend, Thou truly fair, wert truly sympathized, In true plain words, by thy true-telling friend. And their gross painting might be better used, Where cheeks need blood, in thee it is abused.


I never saw that you did painting need, And therefore to your fair no painting set, I found (or thought I found) you did exceed, That barren tender of a poet's debt: And therefore have I slept in your report, That you yourself being extant well might show, How far a modern quill doth come too short, Speaking of worth, what worth in you doth grow. This silence for my sin you did impute, Which shall be most my glory being dumb, For I impair not beauty being mute, When others would give life, and bring a tomb. There lives more life in one of your fair eyes, Than both your poets can in praise devise.


Who is it that says most, which can say more, Than this rich praise: that you alone are you, In whose confine immured is the store, Which should example where your equal grew. Lean penury within that pen doth dwell, That to his subject lends not some small glory, But he that writes of you, if he can tell, That you are you, so dignifies his story. Let him but copy what in you is writ, Not making worse what nature made so clear, And such a counterpart shall fame his wit, Making his style admired every where. You to your beauteous blessings add a curse, Being fond on praise, which makes your praises worse.


My tongue-tied muse in manners holds her still, While comments of your praise richly compiled, Reserve their character with golden quill, And precious phrase by all the Muses filed. I think good thoughts, whilst other write good words, And like unlettered clerk still cry Amen, To every hymn that able spirit affords, In polished form of well refined pen. Hearing you praised, I say 'tis so, 'tis true, And to the most of praise add something more, But that is in my thought, whose love to you (Though words come hindmost) holds his rank before, Then others, for the breath of words respect, Me for my dumb thoughts, speaking in effect.


Was it the proud full sail of his great verse, Bound for the prize of (all too precious) you, That did my ripe thoughts in my brain inhearse, Making their tomb the womb wherein they grew? Was it his spirit, by spirits taught to write, Above a mortal pitch, that struck me dead? No, neither he, nor his compeers by night Giving him aid, my verse astonished. He nor that affable familiar ghost Which nightly gulls him with intelligence, As victors of my silence cannot boast, I was not sick of any fear from thence. But when your countenance filled up his line, Then lacked I matter, that enfeebled mine.


Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing, And like enough thou know'st thy estimate, The charter of thy worth gives thee releasing: My bonds in thee are all determinate. For how do I hold thee but by thy granting, And for that riches where is my deserving? The cause of this fair gift in me is wanting, And so my patent back again is swerving. Thyself thou gav'st, thy own worth then not knowing, Or me to whom thou gav'st it, else mistaking, So thy great gift upon misprision growing, Comes home again, on better judgement making. Thus have I had thee as a dream doth flatter, In sleep a king, but waking no such matter.


When thou shalt be disposed to set me light, And place my merit in the eye of scorn, Upon thy side, against my self I'll fight, And prove thee virtuous, though thou art forsworn: With mine own weakness being best acquainted, Upon thy part I can set down a story Of faults concealed, wherein I am attainted: That thou in losing me, shalt win much glory: And I by this will be a gainer too, For bending all my loving thoughts on thee, The injuries that to my self I do, Doing thee vantage, double-vantage me. Such is my love, to thee I so belong, That for thy right, my self will bear all wrong.


Say that thou didst forsake me for some fault, And I will comment upon that offence, Speak of my lameness, and I straight will halt: Against thy reasons making no defence. Thou canst not (love) disgrace me half so ill, To set a form upon desired change, As I'll my self disgrace, knowing thy will, I will acquaintance strangle and look strange: Be absent from thy walks and in my tongue, Thy sweet beloved name no more shall dwell, Lest I, too much profane, should do it wrong, And haply of our old acquaintance tell. For thee, against my self I'll vow debate, For I must ne'er love him whom thou dost hate.


Then hate me when thou wilt, if ever, now, Now while the world is bent my deeds to cross, join with the spite of fortune, make me bow, And do not drop in for an after-loss: Ah do not, when my heart hath 'scaped this sorrow, Come in the rearward of a conquered woe, Give not a windy night a rainy morrow, To linger out a purposed overthrow. If thou wilt leave me, do not leave me last, When other petty griefs have done their spite, But in the onset come, so shall I taste At first the very worst of fortune's might. And other strains of woe, which now seem woe, Compared with loss of thee, will not seem so.


Some glory in their birth, some in their skill, Some in their wealth, some in their body's force, Some in their garments though new-fangled ill: Some in their hawks and hounds, some in their horse. And every humour hath his adjunct pleasure, Wherein it finds a joy above the rest, But these particulars are not my measure, All these I better in one general best. Thy love is better than high birth to me, Richer than wealth, prouder than garments' costs, Of more delight than hawks and horses be: And having thee, of all men's pride I boast. Wretched in this alone, that thou mayst take, All this away, and me most wretched make.


But do thy worst to steal thyself away, For term of life thou art assured mine, And life no longer than thy love will stay, For it depends upon that love of thine. Then need I not to fear the worst of wrongs, When in the least of them my life hath end, I see, a better state to me belongs Than that, which on thy humour doth depend. Thou canst not vex me with inconstant mind, Since that my life on thy revolt doth lie, O what a happy title do I find, Happy to have thy love, happy to die! But what's so blessed-fair that fears no blot? Thou mayst be false, and yet I know it not.


So shall I live, supposing thou art true, Like a deceived husband, so love's face, May still seem love to me, though altered new: Thy looks with me, thy heart in other place. For there can live no hatred in thine eye, Therefore in that I cannot know thy change, In many's looks, the false heart's history Is writ in moods and frowns and wrinkles strange. But heaven in thy creation did decree, That in thy face sweet love should ever dwell, Whate'er thy thoughts, or thy heart's workings be, Thy looks should nothing thence, but sweetness tell. How like Eve's apple doth thy beauty grow, If thy sweet virtue answer not thy show.


They that have power to hurt, and will do none, That do not do the thing, they most do show, Who moving others, are themselves as stone, Unmoved, cold, and to temptation slow: They rightly do inherit heaven's graces, And husband nature's riches from expense, They are the lords and owners of their faces, Others, but stewards of their excellence: The summer's flower is to the summer sweet, Though to it self, it only live and die, But if that flower with base infection meet, The basest weed outbraves his dignity: For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds, Lilies that fester, smell far worse than weeds.


How sweet and lovely dost thou make the shame, Which like a canker in the fragrant rose, Doth spot the beauty of thy budding name! O in what sweets dost thou thy sins enclose! That tongue that tells the story of thy days, (Making lascivious comments on thy sport) Cannot dispraise, but in a kind of praise, Naming thy name, blesses an ill report. O what a mansion have those vices got, Which for their habitation chose out thee, Where beauty's veil doth cover every blot, And all things turns to fair, that eyes can see! Take heed (dear heart) of this large privilege, The hardest knife ill-used doth lose his edge.


Some say thy fault is youth, some wantonness, Some say thy grace is youth and gentle sport, Both grace and faults are loved of more and less: Thou mak'st faults graces, that to thee resort: As on the finger of a throned queen, The basest jewel will be well esteemed: So are those errors that in thee are seen, To truths translated, and for true things deemed. How many lambs might the stern wolf betray, If like a lamb he could his looks translate! How many gazers mightst thou lead away, If thou wouldst use the strength of all thy state! But do not so, I love thee in such sort, As thou being mine, mine is thy good report.