SONNET莎士比亚十四行诗全文

SONNET #1

by: William Shakespeare

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.

Thout that are 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.

SONNET #2

by: William Shakespeare

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 tottered 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 prasie deserved 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 cold.

SONNET #3

by: William Shakespeare

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 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 rememb'red not to be,

Die single, and thine image dies with thee.

SONNET #4

by: William Shakespeare

UNTHRIFTY loveliness, why dost thou spend

Upon thyself they beauty's legacy?

Nature's bequest gives nothing but doth lend,

And, being frank, she lends to those are free.

Then, beateous niggard, why dost thou abuse

The bounteous largess given thee to give?

Profitless userer, 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, usèd, lives th' executor to be.

SONNET #5

by: William Shakespeare

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'ersnowed and bareness everywhere.

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 there snow; their substance still lives sweet.

SONNET #6

by: William Shakespeare

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.

SONNET #7

by: William Shakespeare

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 yough 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 outgoing in thy noon,

Unlooked on diest unless thou get a son.

SONNET #8

by: William Shakespeare

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-tunèd 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.'

SONNET #9

by: William Shakespeare

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

Than on himself such murd'rous shame commits

SONNET #10

by: William Shakespeare

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.

SONNET #11

by: William Shakespeare

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 the 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.

SONNET #12

by: William Shakespeare

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 defense

Save breed, to brave him when he takes thee hence.

SONNET #13

by: William Shakespeare

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 honor 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.

SONNET #14

by: William Shakespeare

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.

SONNET #15

by: William Shakespeare

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,

Cheerèd and checked even 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 ingraft you new.

SONNET #16

by: William Shakespeare

BUT wherefore do not you a mightier way

Make war upon this bloody tyrant, Time?

And fortify yourself in your decay

With means more blessèd than my barren rime?

Now stand you on the top of happy hours,

And many maiden gardens, yet unset,

With virtuous wish would bear your 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.

"Sonnet #16" was originally published in Shake-speares Sonnets: Never before Imprinted

(1609).

SONNET #17

by: William Shakespeare

HO 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 stretchèd metre of an antique song.

But were some child of yours alive that time,

You should live twice--in it and in my rime.

"Sonnet #17" was originally published in Shake-speares Sonnets: Never before Imprinted

(1609).

SONNET #18

by: William Shakespeare

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.

"Sonnet #18" was originally published in Shake-speares Sonnets: Never before Imprinted

(1609).

SONNET #19

by: William Shakespeare

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 they 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.

"Sonnet #19" was originally published in Shake-speares Sonnets: Never before Imprinted

(1609).

SONNET #20

by: William Shakespeare (1564-1616)

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.

"Sonnet #20" was originally published in Shake-speares Sonnets: Never before Imprinted

(1609).

SONNET #21

by: William Shakespeare (1564-1616)

O is it not with me as with that Muse

Stirred by a painted beauty to his verse,

Who heaven itself 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 airs 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.

"Sonnet #21" was originally published in Shake-speares Sonnets: Never before Imprinted

(1609).

SONNET #22

by: William Shakespeare (1564-1616)

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 they 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 myself, 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.

"Sonnet #22" was originally published in Shake-speares Sonnets: Never before Imprinted

(1609).

SONNET #23

by: William Shakespeare (1564-1616)

AS an unperfect actor on the stage,

Who with his fear is put besides 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 burden of mine own love's might.

O, let my books be then the eloquence

And dump 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.

"Sonnet #23" was originally published in Shake-speares Sonnets: Never before Imprinted

(1609).

SONNET #24

by: William Shakespeare (1564-1616)

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 fine where your true image pictured lies,

Which in my bosom's shop is hanging still,

That hath his windows glazèd 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, wherethrough 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.

"Sonnet #24" was originally published in Shake-speares Sonnets: Never before Imprinted

(1609).

SONNET #25

by: William Shakespeare (1564-1616)

LET those who are in favor with their stars

Of public honor and proud titles boast,

Whilst I, whom fortune of such triumph bars,

Unlooked for joy in that I honor most.

Great princes' favorites their fair leaves spread

But as the marigold at the sun's eye;

And in themselves their pride lies burièd,

For at a frown they in their glory die.

The painful warrior famousèd for fight,

After a thousand victories once foiled,

Is from the book of honor rasèd 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.

"Sonnet #25" was originally published in Shake-speares Sonnets: Never before Imprinted

(1609).

SONNET #26

by: William Shakespeare (1564-1616)

LORD of my love, to whom in vassalage

Thy merit hath my duty strongly knit,

To thee I send this written ambassage

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 coneit 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 tottered 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 mayest prove me.

"Sonnet #26" was originally published in Shake-speares Sonnets: Never before Imprinted

(1609).

SONNET #27

by: William Shakespeare (1564-1616)

WEARY with toil, I haste to my bed,

The dear repose 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 myself no quiet find.

"Sonnet #27" was originally published in Shake-speares Sonnets: Never before Imprinted

(1609).

SONNET #28

by: William Shakespeare (1564-1616)

HOW can I then return in happy plight

That am debarred the benefit of rest,

When day's oppression is not eased by night,

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 strength seem stronger.

"Sonnet #28" was originally published in Shake-speares Sonnets: Never before Imprinted

(1609).

SONNET #29

by: William Shakespeare (1564-1616)

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 myself and curse my fate,

Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,

Featured like him, like him with friend's possessed,

Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope,

With what I most enjoy contented least;

Yet in these thoughts myself 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 rememb'red such wealth brings

That then I scorn to change my state with kings.

"Sonnet #29" was originally published in Shake-speares Sonnets: Never before Imprinted

(1609).

SONNET #30

by: William Shakespeare (1564-1616)

WHEN to the sessions of sweet silent thought

I summon up remembrance of things past,

I sigh the lack of many a thought 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-bemoanèd 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.

"Sonnet #30" was originally published in Shake-speares Sonnets: Never before Imprinted

(1609).

SONNET #31

by: William Shakespeare (1564-1616)

THY bosom is endearèd with all hearts

Which I by lacking have supposèd dead;

And their reigns love, and all love's loving parts,

And all those friends which I thought burièd.

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 vew in thee,

And thou, all they, hast all the all of me.

"Sonnet #31" was originally published in Shake-speares Sonnets: Never before Imprinted

(1609).

SONNET #32

by: William Shakespeare (1564-1616)

IF thou survive my well-contented day

When that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover,

And shalt by fortune once more resurvey

These poor rude lines of thy deceasèd 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 rime,

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.'