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 unear'd 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 remember'd not to be,
Die single, and thine image dies with thee.
-3.

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 unus'd beauty must be tomb'd with
thee,

Which, used, lives thy executor to be.-4.

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;

Then let not winter's ragged hand deface
In thee thy summer, ere thou be distill'd:
Make sweet some phial; treasure thou some
place

With beauty's treasure, ere it be self-kill'd.
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 refigur'd thee:
Then, what could Death do if thou shouldst
depart,

Leaving the living in posterity?

Be not self-will'd for thou art much too fair To be Death's conquest, and make worms thine heir.-6.

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 climb'd 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 high-most 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 outgoing in thy noon,
Unlook'd on diest, unless thou get a son.-7.

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 net 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, seem-
ing one,

Sings this to thee, "Thou single wilt prove none."-8.

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 unus'd, the user so destroys it.

No love toward others in that bosom sits, That on himself such murderous shame commits.-9.

For shame! deny that thou bear'st love to any
Who for thyself art so unprovident.
Grant, if thou wilt, thou art belov'd of many,
But that thou none lov'st is most evident;
For thou art so possess'd with murderous hate,
That 'gainst thyself thou stick'st not to con-
spire ;

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 lodg'd 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.-10.

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 years would make the world

away.

Let those whom Nature hath not made for store,

Harsh, featureless, and rude, barrenly perish : Look, whom she best endow'd, she gave thee

more;

Which bounteous gift thou shouldst in bounty cherish:

She carv'd thee for her seal, and meant thereby

Thou shouldst print more, nor let that copy
die.-11.

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 silver'd 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.-12.

O that you were yourself! 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.-13.

Not from the stars do I my judgment pluck;
And yet methinks I have astronomy,
But not to tell of good or evil luck,

Of plagues, of dearths, or season's 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.-14.

When I consider everything that grows
Holds in perfection but a little moment,
That this huge state presenteth nought but
shows

Whereon the stars in secret influence comment;

When I perceive that men as plants increase,
Cheer'd and check'd ever by the selfsame 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.

-15.

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.-16.

Who will believe my verse in time to come, If it were fill'd 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 touch'd earthy faces.

So should my papers, yellow'd with their age, Be scorn'd, like old men of less truth than, tongue;

And your true rights be term'd 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.-17.

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 dimm'd; And every fair from fair sometime declines, By chance, or nature's changing course, uatrimm'd;

But thy eternal summer shall not fade, Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest: Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his

That this series of Sonnets, powerful as they are, displaying not only the most abundant variety of imagery, but the greatest felicity in making the whole harmonious, constitutes a poem ambitious only of the honours of a work of Art, is, we think, manifest. If it had been addressed to a real person, no other object could have been proposed than a display of the most brilliant ingenuity. In the next age it would have been called an exquisite "copy of verses." But in the next age, probably-certainly in our own the author would have been pronounced arrogant beyond measure in the anticipation of the immortality of his rhymes. There is a show of modesty, indeed, in the expressions "barren rhyme" and "pupil pen;" but that is speedily cast off, and "eternal summer" is promised through "eternal lines ;" and

"So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee."

Regarding these nineteen Sonnets as a continuous poem, wound up to the climax of a hyperbolical promise of immortality to the object whom it addresses, we receive the 20th Sonnet as the commencement of another poem in which the same idea is retained. The poet is bound to the youth by ties of strong affection; but nature has called upon the possessor of that beauty

"Which steals men's eyes,.and women's souls amazeth,"

to cultivate closer ties. This Sonnet, through an utter misconception of the language of Shakspere's time, has produced a comment sufficiently odious to throw an unpleasant shade over much which follows. The idea which it contains is continued in the 53rd Sonnet; and we give the two in connexion:

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 prick'd thee out for women's pleasure,

Mine be thy love, and thy love's use their treasure.-20.

What is our substance, whereof are you made,

That millions of strange shadows on you tend?

Since every one hath, every one, one's 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 foizon 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.-53.

Between the 20th Sonnet and the 53rd occur, as it appears to us, a number of fragments which we have variously classified. and which seem to have no relation to the praises of that "unknown youth" who has been supposed to preside over five-sixths of the entire series of verses. We have little doubt that the "begetter" of the Sonnets was not able to beget, or obtain, all; and that there is a considerable hiatus between the 20th Sonnet and the second hyperbolical close, which he filled up as well as he could, from other "sugared sonnets amongst private friends:"

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 unwoo'd, 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, by verse distils your truth.-54.

Not marble, not the gilded monuments
Of princes, shall outlive this powerful rhyme;
But you shall shine more bright in these con-
tents

Than unswept stone, besmear'd 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 judgment that yourself arise,
You live in this, and dwell in lovers' eyes.
-55.

Wherever we meet with these magnificent

promises of the immortality which the poet's verses are to bestow, we find them associated with that personage, the representative at once of "Adonis" and of "Helen," who presents himself to us as the unreal coinage of the fancy. In many of the lines which we have given in the second division of this inquiry, the reader will have noticed the affecting modesty, the humility without abasement, of the great poet comparing him

self with others. Here Shakspere indeed speaks. For example, take the whole of the 32nd Sonnet. We should scarcely imagine, if the poem were continuous, as Mr. Brown

believes, that the last stanza of the second portion of it in his classification would conclude with these lines :

"Not marble, not the gilded monuments

Of princes, shall outlive this powerful rhyme."

They contrast remarkably with the tone of the 32nd Sonnet,

"These poor rude lines of thy deceased lover.”

Meres has a passage: "As Ovid saith of his works

'Jamque opus exegi quod nec Jovis ira, nee ignis,

Nec poterit ferrum, nec edax abolere vetustas ;'

and as Horace saith of his,

'Exegi monumentum ære perennius, &c.; so say I severally of Sir Philip Sidney's, Spenser's, Daniel's, Drayton's, Shakespeare's, and Warner's works." What Ovid and Horace said is imitated in the 55th Sonnet. But we greatly doubt if what Meres would have said of Shakspere he would have said of himself, except in some assumed character, to which we have not the key. Ben Jonson, to whom a boastful spirit has with some justice been objected, never said anything so strong of his own writings; and he wrote with too much reliance, in this and other particulars, upon classical examples. But Jonson was not a writer of Sonnets, which, pitched in an artificial key, made this boastful tone a constituent part of the whole performance. The man, who never once speaks of his own merits in his dramas, the greatest

productions of the human intellect, when he put on the imaginary character in which a poet is weaving a fiction out of his supposed form himself to the practice of other masters personal relations, did not hesitate to conof the art. Shakspere here adopted the tone which Spenser, Daniel, and Drayton had remarkable; and we must beg the indulgence adopted. The parallel appears to us very of our readers while we present them a few passages from each of these writers.

And first of Spenser. His 27th Sonnet ! will furnish an adequate notion of the general tone of his 'Amoretti,' and of the self-exaltation which appears to belong to this species of poem :

"Fair Proud! now tell me, why should fair be proud,

Sith all world's glory is but dross unclean, And in the shade of death itself shall shroud, However now thereof ye little ween!