But, O my sweet, what labour is 't to leave The thing we have not, mast'ring what not strives, 240 Playing the place which did no form receive, "O, pardon me, in that my boast is true. 256 "When thou impressest, what are precepts worth Of stale example? When thou wilt inflame, And sweetens, in the suff'ring pangs it bears, "Now all these hearts that do on mine depend, Feeling it break, with bleeding groans they pine; 275 And supplicant their sighs to you extend, Lending soft audience to my sweet design, "This said, his watery eyes he did dismount, THE PASSIONATE PILGRIM THE volume entitled "The Passionate Pilgrim. By William Shakespeare" is a small piratical publication printed for W. Jaggard in 1599. Of the second edition, no copy is known to survive. A third edition, also ascribed to Shakespeare, appeared in 1612, with unacknowledged additions from Thomas Heywood. Heywood, claiming to speak for Shakespeare as well as himself, protested against the theft, and a new title-page was printed without Shakespeare's name. In 1640 the contents were again re-printed, along with Shakespeare's Sonnets and other miscellaneous poems. The whole of the first edition is here reprinted; but, of its twenty poems, only five are certainly by Shakespeare. Of these, I and II appeared later as Sonnets 138 and 144 in the edition of 1609; III, v, and xvi are from Love's Labour's Lost, IV. ii. 96–109, Iv. iii. 58-71, and IV. iii. 99-118. The authorship of four others is definitely known: VIII, XX (and probably xvn) are by Richard Barnefield; x1 appears as the third sonnet in Bartholomew Griffin's Fidessa; XIX is by Marlowe, and its last stanza, "Love's Answer," is ascribed by Walton to Raleigh. Of the authorship of the remaining ten nothing is known, the probability of Shakespeare's authorship depending on evidences of style which vary from poem to poem, but which are in no case strong. Some critics accept IV and VI; fewer, vII, IX, XII, XVIII; while X, XIII, XIV, and xv are usually rejected. Sonnets to Sundry Notes of Music" is merely the title of the second part of The Passionate Pilgrim. I WHEN my love swears that she is made of truth, I do believe her, though I know she lies, me, 10 Since that our faults in love thus smother'd be. II Two loves I have, of comfort and despair, 15 20 25 The truth I shall not know, but live in doubt, If love make me forsworn, how shall I swear to love? O never faith could hold, if not to beauty vowed: tle; Softer than wax, and yet, as iron, rusty: A lily pale, with damask dye to grace her, None fairer, nor none falser to deface her. 90 Her lips to mine how often hath she joined, Between each kiss her oaths of true love swearing! How many tales to please me hath she coined, Dreading my love, the loss thereof still fearing! Yet in the midst of all her pure protestings, 95 Her faith, her oaths, her tears, and all were jestings. She burn'd with love, as straw with fire flameth; She burn'd out love, as soon as straw outburneth; Crabbed age and youth cannot live together: Youth is full of pleasance, age is full of care; Youth like summer morn, age like winter weather; Youth like summer brave, age like winter bare. Youth is full of sport, age's breath is short; 161 Youth is nimble, age is lame; Youth is hot and bold, age is weak and cold; Youth is wild, and age is tame. Age, I do abhor thee; youth, I do adore thee; 165 O, my love, my love is young! Age, I do defy thee: O, sweet shepherd, hie thee, For methinks thou stay'st too long. Yet at my parting sweetly did she smile, In scorn or friendship, nill I construe whether. 'T may be, she joy'd to jest at my exile, 'T may be, again to make me wander thither: 190 "Wander," a word for shadows like myself, As take the pain but cannot pluck the pelf. Lord, how mine eyes throw gazes to the east! My heart doth charge the watch; the morning rise Doth cite each moving sense from idle rest. 155 Not daring trust the office of mine eyes, While Philomela sits and sings, I sit and mark, And wish her lays were tuned like the lark: 200 For she doth welcome daylight with her ditty, Sorrow chang'd to solace, and solace mix'd with sorrow; For why, she sigh'd and bade me come to morrow. Were I with her, the night would post too But now are minutes added to the hours; Short, night, to-night, and length thyself to |