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Sonnets (1-154) 十四行詩集 (全部154首) 


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I.

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'st 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, makest waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.

II.

When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
Then being ask'd 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 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 it cold.

III.

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 shall 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.

IV.

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 tomb'd with thee,
Which, used, lives th' executor to be.

V.

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 check'd with frost and lusty leaves quite gone,
Beauty o'ersnow'd 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 distill'd though they with winter meet,
Leese but their show; their substance still lives sweet.

VI.

Then let not winter's ragged hand deface
In thee thy summer, ere thou be distill'd:
Make sweet some vial; 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 refigured thee:
Then what could death do, if thou shouldst depart,
Leaving thee living in posterity?
Be not self-will'd, for thou art much too fair
To be death's conquest and make worms thine heir.

VII.

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 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,
Unlook'd on diest, unless thou get a son.

VIII.

Music to hear, why hear'st thou music sadly?
Sweets with sweets war not, joy delights in joy.
Why lovest thou that which thou receivest not gladly,
Or else receivest 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.'

IX.

Is it for fear to wet a widow's eye
That thou consumest 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 murderous shame commits.

X.

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 lovest is most evident;
For thou art so possess'd with murderous 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.

XI.

As fast as thou shalt wane, so fast thou growest
In one of thine, from that which thou departest;
And that fresh blood which youngly thou bestowest
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 endow'd 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.

XII.

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.

XIII.

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.

XIV.

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 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.

XV.

When I consider every thing 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 check'd 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.

XVI.

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 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.

XVII.

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 earthly 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.

XVIII.

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 untrimm'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 shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou growest:
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this and this gives life to thee.

XIX.

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 fleets,
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.

XX.

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,
Much 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.

XXI.

So is it not with me as with that Muse
Stirr'd 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 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 fix'd in heaven's air:
Let them say more than like of hearsay well;
I will not praise that purpose not to sell.

XXII.

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 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 gavest me thine, not to give back again.

XXIII.

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 dumb presagers of my speaking breast,
Who plead for love and look for recompense
More than that tongue that more hath more express'd.
O, learn to read what silent love hath writ:
To hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit.

XXIV.

Mine eye hath play'd the painter and hath stell'd
Thy beauty's form in table of my heart;
My body is the frame wherein 'tis held,
And perspective it is the 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.

XXV.

Let those who are in favour with their stars
Of public honour and proud titles boast,
Whilst I, whom fortune of such triumph bars,
Unlook'd 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 foil'd,
Is from the book of honour razed quite,
And all the rest forgot for which he toil'd:
Then happy I, that love and am beloved
Where I may not remove nor be removed.

XXVI.

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 tatter'd 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.

XXVII.

Weary with toil, I haste me 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.

XXVIII.

How can I then return in happy plight,
That am debarr'd the benefit of rest?
When day's oppression is not eased by night,
But day by night, and night by day, oppress'd?
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 them thou art bright
And dost him grace when clouds do blot the heaven:
So flatter I the swart-complexion'd 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.

XXIX.

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 friends possess'd,
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 remember'd such wealth brings
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.

XXX.

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 cancell'd woe,
And moan the expense of many a vanish'd 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.

XXXI.

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.

XXXII.

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 bettering of the time,
And though they be outstripp'd 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.'

XXXIII.

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 splendor on my brow;
But out, alack! he was but one hour mine;
The region cloud hath mask'd him from me now.
Yet him for this my love no whit disdaineth;
Suns of the world may stain when heaven's sun staineth.

XXXIV.

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 bravery 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:
The 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.

XXXV.

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,
Myself 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 myself 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.

XXXVI.

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.

XXXVII.

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!

XXXVIII.

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.

XXXIX.

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 deservest 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!

XL.

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 love's wrong than hate's known injury.
Lascivious grace, in whom all ill well shows,
Kill me with spites; yet we must not be foes.

XLI.

Those petty 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 she have prevailed?
Ay me! but yet thou mightest 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.

XLII.

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 knowst I love her;
And for my sake even so doth she abuse me,
Suffering 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.

XLIII.

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.

XLIV.

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.

XLV.

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, oppress'd with melancholy;
Until life's composition be recured
By those swift messengers return'd 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.

XLVI.

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 'cide this title is impanneled
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.

XLVII.

Betwixt mine eye and heart a league is took,
And each doth good turns now unto the other:
When that mine eye is famish'd 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 resent 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.

XLVIII.

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 of 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 lock'd 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.

XLIX.

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,
Call'd 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 myself 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.

L.

How heavy do I journey on the way,
When what I seek, my weary travel's end,
Doth teach that ease 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.

LI.

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.

LII.

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 the 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 imprison'd pride.
Blessed are you, whose worthiness gives scope,
Being had, to triumph, being lack'd, to hope.

LIII.

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.

LIV.

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, my verse distills your truth.

LV.

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 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 lover's eyes.

LVI.

Sweet love, renew thy force; be it not said
Thy edge should blunter be than appetite,
Which but to-day by feeding is allay'd,
To-morrow sharpen'd in his former might:
So, love, be thou; although to-day thou fill
Thy hungry eyes even till they wink with fullness,
To-morrow see again, and do not kill
The spirit of love with a perpetual dullness.
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;
Else call it winter, which being full of care
Makes summer's welcome thrice more wish'd, more rare.

LVII.

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.

LVIII.

That god forbid that made me first your slave,
I should in thought control your times of pleasure,
Or at your hand the account of hours to crave,
Being your vassal, bound to stay your leisure!
O, let me suffer, being at your beck,
The imprison'd 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 privilege 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.

LIX.

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 burden 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.

LX.

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 crown'd,
Crooked elipses '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.

LXI.

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 tenor 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.

LXII.

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 myself mine own worth do define,
As I all other in all worths surmount.
But when my glass shows me myself indeed,
Beated and chopp'd with tann'd 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.

LXIII.

Against my love shall be, as I am now,
With Time's injurious hand crush'd and o'er-worn;
When hours have drain'd his blood and fill'd his brow
With lines and wrinkles; when his youthful morn
Hath travell'd on to age's steepy night,
And all those beauties whereof now he's king
Are vanishing or vanish'd 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.

LXIV.

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-razed
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 itself 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.

LXV.

Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea,
But sad mortality o'er-sways 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 wreckful siege of battering 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.

LXVI.

Tired with all these, for restful death I cry,
As, to behold desert a beggar born,
And needy nothing trimm'd in jollity,
And purest faith unhappily forsworn,
And guilded 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 miscall'd 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.

LXVII.

Ah! wherefore with infection should he live,
And with his presence grace impiety,
That sin by him advantage should achieve
And lace itself with his society?
Why should false painting imitate his cheek
And steal dead seeing 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,
Beggar'd of blood to blush through lively veins?
For she hath no excheckr 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.

LXVIII.

Thus is his cheek the map of days outworn,
When beauty lived and died as flowers do now,
Before the 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, itself 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.

LXIX.

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 crown'd;
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 solve is this, that thou dost common grow.

LXX.

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 woo'd of time;
For canker vice the sweetest buds doth love,
And thou present'st a pure unstained prime.
Thou hast pass'd by the ambush of young days,
Either not assail'd or victor being charged;
Yet this thy praise cannot be so thy praise,
To tie up envy evermore enlarged:
If some suspect of ill mask'd not thy show,
Then thou alone kingdoms of hearts shouldst owe.

LXXI.

No longer mourn for me when I am dead
Then 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.

LXXII.

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.

LXXIII.

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 ruin'd 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 see'st 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 nourish'd by.
This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more strong,
To love that well which thou must leave ere long.

LXXIV.

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.

LXXV.

So are you to my thoughts as food to life,
Or as sweet-season'd 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 better'd 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.

LXXVI.

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.

LXXVII.

Thy glass will show thee how thy beauties wear,
Thy dial how thy precious minutes waste;
The 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 can not contain
Commit to these waste blanks, and thou shalt find
Those children nursed, deliver'd 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.

LXXVIII.

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.

LXXIX.

Whilst I alone did call upon thy aid,
My verse alone had all thy gentle grace,
But now my gracious numbers are decay'd
And my sick Muse doth give another 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 behavior; 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.

LXXX.

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 wreck'd, 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.

LXXXI.

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.

LXXXII.

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.

LXXXIII.

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
The 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.

LXXXIV.

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.

LXXXV.

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 unletter'd clerk still cry 'Amen'
To every hymn that able spirit affords
In polish'd 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.

LXXXVI.

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 fill'd up his line,
Then lack'd I matter; that enfeebled mine.

LXXXVII.

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 gavest, thy own worth then not knowing,
Or me, to whom thou gavest it, else mistaking;
So thy great gift, upon misprision growing,
Comes home again, on better judgment making.
Thus have I had thee, as a dream doth flatter,
In sleep a king, but waking no such matter.

LXXXVIII.

When thou shalt be disposed to set me light,
And place my merit in the eye of scorn,
Upon thy side against myself 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 conceal'd, 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 myself I do,
Doing thee vantage, double-vantage me.
Such is my love, to thee I so belong,
That for thy right myself will bear all wrong.

LXXXIX.

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 myself 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 myself I'll vow debate,
For I must ne'er love him whom thou dost hate.

XC.

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 'scoped this sorrow,
Come in the rearward of a conquer'd 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.

XCI.

Some glory in their birth, some in their skill,
Some in their wealth, some in their bodies' 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' cost,
Of more delight than hawks or 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.

XCII.

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.

XCIII.

So shall I live, supposing thou art true,
Like a deceived husband; so love's face
May still seem love to me, though alter'd 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!

XCIV.

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 itself 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.

XCV.

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 turn to fair that eyes can see!
Take heed, dear heart, of this large privilege;
The hardest knife ill-used doth lose his edge.

XCVI.

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 makest faults graces that to thee resort.
As on the finger of a throned queen
The basest jewel will be well esteem'd,
So are those errors that in thee are seen
To truths translated and for true things deem'd.
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.

XCVII.

How like a winter hath my absence been
From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year!
What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen!
What old December's bareness every where!
And yet this time removed was summer's time,
The teeming autumn, big with rich increase,
Bearing the wanton burden of the prime,
Like widow'd wombs after their lords' decease:
Yet this abundant issue seem'd to me
But hope of orphans and unfather'd fruit;
For summer and his pleasures wait on thee,
And, thou away, the very birds are mute;
Or, if they sing, 'tis with so dull a cheer
That leaves look pale, dreading the winter's near.

XCVIII.

From you have I been absent in the spring,
When proud-pied April dress'd in all his trim
Hath put a spirit of youth in every thing,
That heavy Saturn laugh'd and leap'd with him.
Yet nor the lays of birds nor the sweet smell
Of different flowers in odour and in hue
Could make me any summer's story tell,
Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew;
Nor did I wonder at the lily's white,
Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose;
They were but sweet, but figures of delight,
Drawn after you, you pattern of all those.
Yet seem'd it winter still, and, you away,
As with your shadow I with these did play:

XCIX.

The forward violet thus did I chide:
Sweet thief, whence didst thou steal thy sweet that smells,
If not from my love's breath? The purple pride
Which on thy soft cheek for complexion dwells
In my love's veins thou hast too grossly dyed.
The lily I condemned for thy hand,
And buds of marjoram had stol'n thy hair:
The roses fearfully on thorns did stand,
One blushing shame, another white despair;
A third, nor red nor white, had stol'n of both
And to his robbery had annex'd thy breath;
But, for his theft, in pride of all his growth
A vengeful canker eat him up to death.
More flowers I noted, yet I none could see
But sweet or colour it had stol'n from thee.

C.

Where art thou, Muse, that thou forget'st so long
To speak of that which gives thee all thy might?
Spend'st thou thy fury on some worthless song,
Darkening thy power to lend base subjects light?
Return, forgetful Muse, and straight redeem
In gentle numbers time so idly spent;
Sing to the ear that doth thy lays esteem
And gives thy pen both skill and argument.
Rise, resty Muse, my love's sweet face survey,
If Time have any wrinkle graven there;
If any, be a satire to decay,
And make Time's spoils despised every where.
Give my love fame faster than Time wastes life;
So thou prevent'st his scythe and crooked knife.

CI.

O truant Muse, what shall be thy amends
For thy neglect of truth in beauty dyed?
Both truth and beauty on my love depends;
So dost thou too, and therein dignified.
Make answer, Muse: wilt thou not haply say
'Truth needs no colour, with his colour fix'd;
Beauty no pencil, beauty's truth to lay;
But best is best, if never intermix'd?'
Because he needs no praise, wilt thou be dumb?
Excuse not silence so; for't lies in thee
To make him much outlive a gilded tomb,
And to be praised of ages yet to be.
Then do thy office, Muse; I teach thee how
To make him seem long hence as he shows now.

CII.

My love is strengthen'd, though more weak in seeming;
I love not less, though less the show appear:
That love is merchandized whose rich esteeming
The owner's tongue doth publish every where.
Our love was new and then but in the spring
When I was wont to greet it with my lays,
As Philomel in summer's front doth sing
And stops her pipe in growth of riper days:
Not that the summer is less pleasant now
Than when her mournful hymns did hush the night,
But that wild music burthens every bough
And sweets grown common lose their dear delight.
Therefore like her I sometime hold my tongue,
Because I would not dull you with my song.

CIII.

Alack, what poverty my Muse brings forth,
That having such a scope to show her pride,
The argument all bare is of more worth
Than when it hath my added praise beside!
O, blame me not, if I no more can write!
Look in your glass, and there appears a face
That over-goes my blunt invention quite,
Dulling my lines and doing me disgrace.
Were it not sinful then, striving to mend,
To mar the subject that before was well?
For to no other pass my verses tend
Than of your graces and your gifts to tell;
And more, much more, than in my verse can sit
Your own glass shows you when you look in it.

CIV.

To me, fair friend, you never can be old,
For as you were when first your eye I eyed,
Such seems your beauty still. Three winters cold
Have from the forests shook three summers' pride,
Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn turn'd
In process of the seasons have I seen,
Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burn'd,
Since first I saw you fresh, which yet are green.
Ah! yet doth beauty, like a dial-hand,
Steal from his figure and no pace perceived;
So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand,
Hath motion and mine eye may be deceived:
For fear of which, hear this, thou age unbred;
Ere you were born was beauty's summer dead.

CV.

Let not my love be call'd idolatry,
Nor my beloved as an idol show,
Since all alike my songs and praises be
To one, of one, still such, and ever so.
Kind is my love to-day, to-morrow kind,
Still constant in a wondrous excellence;
Therefore my verse to constancy confined,
One thing expressing, leaves out difference.
'Fair, kind and true' is all my argument,
'Fair, kind, and true' varying to other words;
And in this change is my invention spent,
Three themes in one, which wondrous scope affords.
'Fair, kind, and true,' have often lived alone,
Which three till now never kept seat in one.

CVI.

When in the chronicle of wasted time
I see descriptions of the fairest wights,
And beauty making beautiful old rhyme
In praise of ladies dead and lovely knights,
Then, in the blazon of sweet beauty's best,
Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow,
I see their antique pen would have express'd
Even such a beauty as you master now.
So all their praises are but prophecies
Of this our time, all you prefiguring;
And, for they look'd but with divining eyes,
They had not skill enough your worth to sing:
For we, which now behold these present days,
Had eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise.

CVII.

Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul
Of the wide world dreaming on things to come,
Can yet the lease of my true love control,
Supposed as forfeit to a confined doom.
The mortal moon hath her eclipse endured
And the sad augurs mock their own presage;
Incertainties now crown themselves assured
And peace proclaims olives of endless age.
Now with the drops of this most balmy time
My love looks fresh, and death to me subscribes,
Since, spite of him, I'll live in this poor rhyme,
While he insults o'er dull and speechless tribes:
And thou in this shalt find thy monument,
When tyrants' crests and tombs of brass are spent.

CVIII.

What's in the brain that ink may character
Which hath not figured to thee my true spirit?
What's new to speak, what new to register,
That may express my love or thy dear merit?
Nothing, sweet boy; but yet, like prayers divine,
I must, each day say o'er the very same,
Counting no old thing old, thou mine, I thine,
Even as when first I hallow'd thy fair name.
So that eternal love in love's fresh case
Weighs not the dust and injury of age,
Nor gives to necessary wrinkles place,
But makes antiquity for aye his page,
Finding the first conceit of love there bred
Where time and outward form would show it dead.

CIX.

O, never say that I was false of heart,
Though absence seem'd my flame to qualify.
As easy might I from myself depart
As from my soul, which in thy breast doth lie:
That is my home of love: if I have ranged,
Like him that travels I return again,
Just to the time, not with the time exchanged,
So that myself bring water for my stain.
Never believe, though in my nature reign'd
All frailties that besiege all kinds of blood,
That it could so preposterously be stain'd,
To leave for nothing all thy sum of good;
For nothing this wide universe I call,
Save thou, my rose; in it thou art my all.

CX.

Alas, 'tis true I have gone here and there
And made myself a motley to the view,
Gored mine own thoughts, sold cheap what is most dear,
Made old offences of affections new;
Most true it is that I have look'd on truth
Askance and strangely: but, by all above,
These blenches gave my heart another youth,
And worse essays proved thee my best of love.
Now all is done, have what shall have no end:
Mine appetite I never more will grind
On newer proof, to try an older friend,
A god in love, to whom I am confined.
Then give me welcome, next my heaven the best,
Even to thy pure and most most loving breast.

CXI.

O, for my sake do you with Fortune chide,
The guilty goddess of my harmful deeds,
That did not better for my life provide
Than public means which public manners breeds.
Thence comes it that my name receives a brand,
And almost thence my nature is subdued
To what it works in, like the dyer's hand:
Pity me then and wish I were renew'd;
Whilst, like a willing patient, I will drink
Potions of eisel 'gainst my strong infection
No bitterness that I will bitter think,
Nor double penance, to correct correction.
Pity me then, dear friend, and I assure ye
Even that your pity is enough to cure me.

CXII.

Your love and pity doth the impression fill
Which vulgar scandal stamp'd upon my brow;
For what care I who calls me well or ill,
So you o'er-green my bad, my good allow?
You are my all the world, and I must strive
To know my shames and praises from your tongue:
None else to me, nor I to none alive,
That my steel'd sense or changes right or wrong.
In so profound abysm I throw all care
Of others' voices, that my adder's sense
To critic and to flatterer stopped are.
Mark how with my neglect I do dispense:
You are so strongly in my purpose bred
That all the world besides methinks are dead.

CXIII.

Since I left you, mine eye is in my mind;
And that which governs me to go about
Doth part his function and is partly blind,
Seems seeing, but effectually is out;
For it no form delivers to the heart
Of bird of flower, or shape, which it doth latch:
Of his quick objects hath the mind no part,
Nor his own vision holds what it doth catch:
For if it see the rudest or gentlest sight,
The most sweet favour or deformed'st creature,
The mountain or the sea, the day or night,
The crow or dove, it shapes them to your feature:
Incapable of more, replete with you,
My most true mind thus makes mine eye untrue.

CXIV.

Or whether doth my mind, being crown'd with you,
Drink up the monarch's plague, this flattery?
Or whether shall I say, mine eye saith true,
And that your love taught it this alchemy,
To make of monsters and things indigest
Such cherubins as your sweet self resemble,
Creating every bad a perfect best,
As fast as objects to his beams assemble?
O,'tis the first; 'tis flattery in my seeing,
And my great mind most kingly drinks it up:
Mine eye well knows what with his gust is 'greeing,
And to his palate doth prepare the cup:
If it be poison'd, 'tis the lesser sin
That mine eye loves it and doth first begin.

CXV.

Those lines that I before have writ do lie,
Even those that said I could not love you dearer:
Yet then my judgment knew no reason why
My most full flame should afterwards burn clearer.
But reckoning time, whose million'd accidents
Creep in 'twixt vows and change decrees of kings,
Tan sacred beauty, blunt the sharp'st intents,
Divert strong minds to the course of altering things;
Alas, why, fearing of time's tyranny,
Might I not then say 'Now I love you best,'
When I was certain o'er incertainty,
Crowning the present, doubting of the rest?
Love is a babe; then might I not say so,
To give full growth to that which still doth grow?

CXVI.

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come:
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

CXVII.

Accuse me thus: that I have scanted all
Wherein I should your great deserts repay,
Forgot upon your dearest love to call,
Whereto all bonds do tie me day by day;
That I have frequent been with unknown minds
And given to time your own dear-purchased right
That I have hoisted sail to all the winds
Which should transport me farthest from your sight.
Book both my wilfulness and errors down
And on just proof surmise accumulate;
Bring me within the level of your frown,
But shoot not at me in your waken'd hate;
Since my appeal says I did strive to prove
The constancy and virtue of your love.

CXVIII.

Like as, to make our appetites more keen,
With eager compounds we our palate urge,
As, to prevent our maladies unseen,
We sicken to shun sickness when we purge,
Even so, being full of your ne'er-cloying sweetness,
To bitter sauces did I frame my feeding
And, sick of welfare, found a kind of meetness
To be diseased ere that there was true needing.
Thus policy in love, to anticipate
The ills that were not, grew to faults assured
And brought to medicine a healthful state
Which, rank of goodness, would by ill be cured:
But thence I learn, and find the lesson true,
Drugs poison him that so fell sick of you.

CXIX.

What potions have I drunk of Siren tears,
Distill'd from limbecks foul as hell within,
Applying fears to hopes and hopes to fears,
Still losing when I saw myself to win!
What wretched errors hath my heart committed,
Whilst it hath thought itself so blessed never!
How have mine eyes out of their spheres been fitted
In the distraction of this madding fever!
O benefit of ill! now I find true
That better is by evil still made better;
And ruin'd love, when it is built anew,
Grows fairer than at first, more strong, far greater.
So I return rebuked to my content
And gain by ill thrice more than I have spent.

CXX.

That you were once unkind befriends me now,
And for that sorrow which I then did feel
Needs must I under my transgression bow,
Unless my nerves were brass or hammer'd steel.
For if you were by my unkindness shaken
As I by yours, you've pass'd a hell of time,
And I, a tyrant, have no leisure taken
To weigh how once I suffered in your crime.
O, that our night of woe might have remember'd
My deepest sense, how hard true sorrow hits,
And soon to you, as you to me, then tender'd
The humble salve which wounded bosoms fits!
But that your trespass now becomes a fee;
Mine ransoms yours, and yours must ransom me.

CXXI.

'Tis better to be vile than vile esteem'd,
When not to be receives reproach of being,
And the just pleasure lost which is so deem'd
Not by our feeling but by others' seeing:
For why should others false adulterate eyes
Give salutation to my sportive blood?
Or on my frailties why are frailer spies,
Which in their wills count bad what I think good?
No, I am that I am, and they that level
At my abuses reckon up their own:
I may be straight, though they themselves be bevel;
By their rank thoughts my deeds must not be shown;
Unless this general evil they maintain,
All men are bad, and in their badness reign.

CXXII.

Thy gift, thy tables, are within my brain
Full character'd with lasting memory,
Which shall above that idle rank remain
Beyond all date, even to eternity;
Or at the least, so long as brain and heart
Have faculty by nature to subsist;
Till each to razed oblivion yield his part
Of thee, thy record never can be miss'd.
That poor retention could not so much hold,
Nor need I tallies thy dear love to score;
Therefore to give them from me was I bold,
To trust those tables that receive thee more:
To keep an adjunct to remember thee
Were to import forgetfulness in me.

CXXIII.

No, Time, thou shalt not boast that I do change:
Thy pyramids built up with newer might
To me are nothing novel, nothing strange;
They are but dressings of a former sight.
Our dates are brief, and therefore we admire
What thou dost foist upon us that is old,
And rather make them born to our desire
Than think that we before have heard them told.
Thy registers and thee I both defy,
Not wondering at the present nor the past,
For thy records and what we see doth lie,
Made more or less by thy continual haste.
This I do vow and this shall ever be;
I will be true, despite thy scythe and thee.

CXXIV.

If my dear love were but the child of state,
It might for Fortune's bastard be unfather'd'
As subject to Time's love or to Time's hate,
Weeds among weeds, or flowers with flowers gather'd.
No, it was builded far from accident;
It suffers not in smiling pomp, nor falls
Under the blow of thralled discontent,
Whereto the inviting time our fashion calls:
It fears not policy, that heretic,
Which works on leases of short-number'd hours,
But all alone stands hugely politic,
That it nor grows with heat nor drowns with showers.
To this I witness call the fools of time,
Which die for goodness, who have lived for crime.

CXXV.

Were 't aught to me I bore the canopy,
With my extern the outward honouring,
Or laid great bases for eternity,
Which prove more short than waste or ruining?
Have I not seen dwellers on form and favour
Lose all, and more, by paying too much rent,
For compound sweet forgoing simple savour,
Pitiful thrivers, in their gazing spent?
No, let me be obsequious in thy heart,
And take thou my oblation, poor but free,
Which is not mix'd with seconds, knows no art,
But mutual render, only me for thee.
Hence, thou suborn'd informer! a true soul
When most impeach'd stands least in thy control.

CXXVI.

O thou, my lovely boy, who in thy power
Dost hold Time's fickle glass, his sickle, hour;
Who hast by waning grown, and therein show'st
Thy lovers withering as thy sweet self grow'st;
If Nature, sovereign mistress over wrack,
As thou goest onwards, still will pluck thee back,
She keeps thee to this purpose, that her skill
May time disgrace and wretched minutes kill.
Yet fear her, O thou minion of her pleasure!
She may detain, but not still keep, her treasure:
Her audit, though delay'd, answer'd must be,
And her quietus is to render thee.

CXXVII.

In the old age black was not counted fair,
Or if it were, it bore not beauty's name;
But now is black beauty's successive heir,
And beauty slander'd with a bastard shame:
For since each hand hath put on nature's power,
Fairing the foul with art's false borrow'd face,
Sweet beauty hath no name, no holy bower,
But is profaned, if not lives in disgrace.
Therefore my mistress' brows are raven black,
Her eyes so suited, and they mourners seem
At such who, not born fair, no beauty lack,
Slandering creation with a false esteem:
Yet so they mourn, becoming of their woe,
That every tongue says beauty should look so.

CXXVIII.

How oft, when thou, my music, music play'st,
Upon that blessed wood whose motion sounds
With thy sweet fingers, when thou gently sway'st
The wiry concord that mine ear confounds,
Do I envy those jacks that nimble leap
To kiss the tender inward of thy hand,
Whilst my poor lips, which should that harvest reap,
At the wood's boldness by thee blushing stand!
To be so tickled, they would change their state
And situation with those dancing chips,
O'er whom thy fingers walk with gentle gait,
Making dead wood more blest than living lips.
Since saucy jacks so happy are in this,
Give them thy fingers, me thy lips to kiss.

CXXIX.

The expense of spirit in a waste of shame
Is lust in action; and till action, lust
Is perjured, murderous, bloody, full of blame,
Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust,
Enjoy'd no sooner but despised straight,
Past reason hunted, and no sooner had
Past reason hated, as a swallow'd bait
On purpose laid to make the taker mad;
Mad in pursuit and in possession so;
Had, having, and in quest to have, extreme;
A bliss in proof, and proved, a very woe;
Before, a joy proposed; behind, a dream.
All this the world well knows; yet none knows well
To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell.

CXXX.

My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips' red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damask'd, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.

CXXXI.

Thou art as tyrannous, so as thou art,
As those whose beauties proudly make them cruel;
For well thou know'st to my dear doting heart
Thou art the fairest and most precious jewel.
Yet, in good faith, some say that thee behold
Thy face hath not the power to make love groan:
To say they err I dare not be so bold,
Although I swear it to myself alone.
And, to be sure that is not false I swear,
A thousand groans, but thinking on thy face,
One on another's neck, do witness bear
Thy black is fairest in my judgment's place.
In nothing art thou black save in thy deeds,
And thence this slander, as I think, proceeds.

CXXXII.

Thine eyes I love, and they, as pitying me,
Knowing thy heart torments me with disdain,
Have put on black and loving mourners be,
Looking with pretty ruth upon my pain.
And truly not the morning sun of heaven
Better becomes the grey cheeks of the east,
Nor that full star that ushers in the even
Doth half that glory to the sober west,
As those two mourning eyes become thy face:
O, let it then as well beseem thy heart
To mourn for me, since mourning doth thee grace,
And suit thy pity like in every part.
Then will I swear beauty herself is black
And all they foul that thy complexion lack.

CXXXIII.

Beshrew that heart that makes my heart to groan
For that deep wound it gives my friend and me!
Is't not enough to torture me alone,
But slave to slavery my sweet'st friend must be?
Me from myself thy cruel eye hath taken,
And my next self thou harder hast engross'd:
Of him, myself, and thee, I am forsaken;
A torment thrice threefold thus to be cross'd.
Prison my heart in thy steel bosom's ward,
But then my friend's heart let my poor heart bail;
Whoe'er keeps me, let my heart be his guard;
Thou canst not then use rigor in my gaol:
And yet thou wilt; for I, being pent in thee,
Perforce am thine, and all that is in me.

CXXXIV.

So, now I have confess'd that he is thine,
And I myself am mortgaged to thy will,
Myself I'll forfeit, so that other mine
Thou wilt restore, to be my comfort still:
But thou wilt not, nor he will not be free,
For thou art covetous and he is kind;
He learn'd but surety-like to write for me
Under that bond that him as fast doth bind.
The statute of thy beauty thou wilt take,
Thou usurer, that put'st forth all to use,
And sue a friend came debtor for my sake;
So him I lose through my unkind abuse.
Him have I lost; thou hast both him and me:
He pays the whole, and yet am I not free.

CXXXV.

Whoever hath her wish, thou hast thy 'Will,'
And 'Will' to boot, and 'Will' in overplus;
More than enough am I that vex thee still,
To thy sweet will making addition thus.
Wilt thou, whose will is large and spacious,
Not once vouchsafe to hide my will in thine?
Shall will in others seem right gracious,
And in my will no fair acceptance shine?
The sea all water, yet receives rain still
And in abundance addeth to his store;
So thou, being rich in 'Will,' add to thy 'Will'
One will of mine, to make thy large 'Will' more.
Let no unkind, no fair beseechers kill;
Think all but one, and me in that one 'Will.'

CXXXVI.

If thy soul check thee that I come so near,
Swear to thy blind soul that I was thy 'Will,'
And will, thy soul knows, is admitted there;
Thus far for love my love-suit, sweet, fulfil.
'Will' will fulfil the treasure of thy love,
Ay, fill it full with wills, and my will one.
In things of great receipt with ease we prove
Among a number one is reckon'd none:
Then in the number let me pass untold,
Though in thy stores' account I one must be;
For nothing hold me, so it please thee hold
That nothing me, a something sweet to thee:
Make but my name thy love, and love that still,
And then thou lovest me, for my name is 'Will.'

CXXXVII.

Thou blind fool, Love, what dost thou to mine eyes,
That they behold, and see not what they see?
They know what beauty is, see where it lies,
Yet what the best is take the worst to be.
If eyes corrupt by over-partial looks
Be anchor'd in the bay where all men ride,
Why of eyes' falsehood hast thou forged hooks,
Whereto the judgment of my heart is tied?
Why should my heart think that a several plot
Which my heart knows the wide world's common place?
Or mine eyes seeing this, say this is not,
To put fair truth upon so foul a face?
In things right true my heart and eyes have erred,
And to this false plague are they now transferr'd.

CXXXVIII.

When my love swears that she is made of truth
I do believe her, though I know she lies,
That she might think me some untutor'd youth,
Unlearned in the world's false subtleties.
Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me young,
Although she knows my days are past the best,
Simply I credit her false speaking tongue:
On both sides thus is simple truth suppress'd.
But wherefore says she not she is unjust?
And wherefore say not I that I am old?
O, love's best habit is in seeming trust,
And age in love loves not to have years told:
Therefore I lie with her and she with me,
And in our faults by lies we flatter'd be.

CXXXIX.

O, call not me to justify the wrong
That thy unkindness lays upon my heart;
Wound me not with thine eye but with thy tongue;
Use power with power and slay me not by art.
Tell me thou lovest elsewhere, but in my sight,
Dear heart, forbear to glance thine eye aside:
What need'st thou wound with cunning when thy might
Is more than my o'er-press'd defense can bide?
Let me excuse thee: ah! my love well knows
Her pretty looks have been mine enemies,
And therefore from my face she turns my foes,
That they elsewhere might dart their injuries:
Yet do not so; but since I am near slain,
Kill me outright with looks and rid my pain.

CXL.

Be wise as thou art cruel; do not press
My tongue-tied patience with too much disdain;
Lest sorrow lend me words and words express
The manner of my pity-wanting pain.
If I might teach thee wit, better it were,
Though not to love, yet, love, to tell me so;
As testy sick men, when their deaths be near,
No news but health from their physicians know;
For if I should despair, I should grow mad,
And in my madness might speak ill of thee:
Now this ill-wresting world is grown so bad,
Mad slanderers by mad ears believed be,
That I may not be so, nor thou belied,
Bear thine eyes straight, though thy proud heart go wide.

CXLI.

In faith, I do not love thee with mine eyes,
For they in thee a thousand errors note;
But 'tis my heart that loves what they despise,
Who in despite of view is pleased to dote;
Nor are mine ears with thy tongue's tune delighted,
Nor tender feeling, to base touches prone,
Nor taste, nor smell, desire to be invited
To any sensual feast with thee alone:
But my five wits nor my five senses can
Dissuade one foolish heart from serving thee,
Who leaves unsway'd the likeness of a man,
Thy proud hearts slave and vassal wretch to be:
Only my plague thus far I count my gain,
That she that makes me sin awards me pain.

CXLII.

Love is my sin and thy dear virtue hate,
Hate of my sin, grounded on sinful loving:
O, but with mine compare thou thine own state,
And thou shalt find it merits not reproving;
Or, if it do, not from those lips of thine,
That have profaned their scarlet ornaments
And seal'd false bonds of love as oft as mine,
Robb'd others' beds' revenues of their rents.
Be it lawful I love thee, as thou lovest those
Whom thine eyes woo as mine importune thee:
Root pity in thy heart, that when it grows
Thy pity may deserve to pitied be.
If thou dost seek to have what thou dost hide,
By self-example mayst thou be denied!

CXLIII.

Lo! as a careful housewife runs to catch
One of her feather'd creatures broke away,
Sets down her babe and makes an swift dispatch
In pursuit of the thing she would have stay,
Whilst her neglected child holds her in chase,
Cries to catch her whose busy care is bent
To follow that which flies before her face,
Not prizing her poor infant's discontent;
So runn'st thou after that which flies from thee,
Whilst I thy babe chase thee afar behind;
But if thou catch thy hope, turn back to me,
And play the mother's part, kiss me, be kind:
So will I pray that thou mayst have thy 'Will,'
If thou turn back, and my loud crying still.

CXLIV.

Two loves I have of comfort and despair,
Which like two spirits do suggest me still:
The better angel is a man right fair,
The worser spirit a woman colour'd ill.
To win me soon to hell, my female evil
Tempteth my better angel from my side,
And would corrupt my saint to be a devil,
Wooing his purity with her foul pride.
And whether that my angel be turn'd fiend
Suspect I may, but not directly tell;
But being both from me, both to each friend,
I guess one angel in another's hell:
Yet this shall I ne'er know, but live in doubt,
Till my bad angel fire my good one out.

CXLV.

Those lips that Love's own hand did make
Breathed forth the sound that said 'I hate'
To me that languish'd for her sake;
But when she saw my woeful state,
Straight in her heart did mercy come,
Chiding that tongue that ever sweet
Was used in giving gentle doom,
And taught it thus anew to greet:
'I hate' she alter'd with an end,
That follow'd it as gentle day
Doth follow night, who like a fiend
From heaven to hell is flown away;
'I hate' from hate away she threw,
And saved my life, saying 'not you.'

CXLVI.

Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth,
[ ] these rebel powers that thee array;
Why dost thou pine within and suffer dearth,
Painting thy outward walls so costly gay?
Why so large cost, having so short a lease,
Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend?
Shall worms, inheritors of this excess,
Eat up thy charge? is this thy body's end?
Then soul, live thou upon thy servant's loss,
And let that pine to aggravate thy store;
Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross;
Within be fed, without be rich no more:
So shalt thou feed on Death, that feeds on men,
And Death once dead, there's no more dying then.

CXLVII.

My love is as a fever, longing still
For that which longer nurseth the disease,
Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill,
The uncertain sickly appetite to please.
My reason, the physician to my love,
Angry that his prescriptions are not kept,
Hath left me, and I desperate now approve
Desire is death, which physic did except.
Past cure I am, now reason is past care,
And frantic-mad with evermore unrest;
My thoughts and my discourse as madmen's are,
At random from the truth vainly express'd;
For I have sworn thee fair and thought thee bright,
Who art as black as hell, as dark as night.

CXLVIII.

O me, what eyes hath Love put in my head,
Which have no correspondence with true sight!
Or, if they have, where is my judgment fled,
That censures falsely what they see aright?
If that be fair whereon my false eyes dote,
What means the world to say it is not so?
If it be not, then love doth well denote
Love's eye is not so true as all men's 'No.'
How can it? O, how can Love's eye be true,
That is so vex'd with watching and with tears?
No marvel then, though I mistake my view;
The sun itself sees not till heaven clears.
O cunning Love! with tears thou keep'st me blind,
Lest eyes well-seeing thy foul faults should find.

CXLIX.

Canst thou, O cruel! say I love thee not,
When I against myself with thee partake?
Do I not think on thee, when I forgot
Am of myself, all tyrant, for thy sake?
Who hateth thee that I do call my friend?
On whom frown'st thou that I do fawn upon?
Nay, if thou lour'st on me, do I not spend
Revenge upon myself with present moan?
What merit do I in myself respect,
That is so proud thy service to despise,
When all my best doth worship thy defect,
Commanded by the motion of thine eyes?
But, love, hate on, for now I know thy mind;
Those that can see thou lovest, and I am blind.

CL.

O, from what power hast thou this powerful might
With insufficiency my heart to sway?
To make me give the lie to my true sight,
And swear that brightness doth not grace the day?
Whence hast thou this becoming of things ill,
That in the very refuse of thy deeds
There is such strength and warrantize of skill
That, in my mind, thy worst all best exceeds?
Who taught thee how to make me love thee more
The more I hear and see just cause of hate?
O, though I love what others do abhor,
With others thou shouldst not abhor my state:
If thy unworthiness raised love in me,
More worthy I to be beloved of thee.

CLI.

Love is too young to know what conscience is;
Yet who knows not conscience is born of love?
Then, gentle cheater, urge not my amiss,
Lest guilty of my faults thy sweet self prove:
For, thou betraying me, I do betray
My nobler part to my gross body's treason;
My soul doth tell my body that he may
Triumph in love; flesh stays no father reason;
But, rising at thy name, doth point out thee
As his triumphant prize. Proud of this pride,
He is contented thy poor drudge to be,
To stand in thy affairs, fall by thy side.
No want of conscience hold it that I call
Her love for whose dear love I rise and fall.

CLII.

In loving thee thou know'st I am forsworn,
But thou art twice forsworn, to me love swearing,
In act thy bed-vow broke and new faith torn,
In vowing new hate after new love bearing.
But why of two oaths' breach do I accuse thee,
When I break twenty? I am perjured most;
For all my vows are oaths but to misuse thee
And all my honest faith in thee is lost,
For I have sworn deep oaths of thy deep kindness,
Oaths of thy love, thy truth, thy constancy,
And, to enlighten thee, gave eyes to blindness,
Or made them swear against the thing they see;
For I have sworn thee fair; more perjured eye,
To swear against the truth so foul a lie!

CLIII.

Cupid laid by his brand, and fell asleep:
A maid of Dian's this advantage found,
And his love-kindling fire did quickly steep
In a cold valley-fountain of that ground;
Which borrow'd from this holy fire of Love
A dateless lively heat, still to endure,
And grew a seething bath, which yet men prove
Against strange maladies a sovereign cure.
But at my mistress' eye Love's brand new-fired,
The boy for trial needs would touch my breast;
I, sick withal, the help of bath desired,
And thither hied, a sad distemper'd guest,
But found no cure: the bath for my help lies
Where Cupid got new fire--my mistress' eyes.

CLIV.

The little Love-god lying once asleep
Laid by his side his heart-inflaming brand,
Whilst many nymphs that vow'd chaste life to keep
Came tripping by; but in her maiden hand
The fairest votary took up that fire
Which many legions of true hearts had warm'd;
And so the general of hot desire
Was sleeping by a virgin hand disarm'd.
This brand she quenched in a cool well by,
Which from Love's fire took heat perpetual,
Growing a bath and healthful remedy
For men diseased; but I, my mistress' thrall,
Came there for cure, and this by that I prove,
Love's fire heats water, water cools not love.

一

對天生的尤物我們要求蕃盛,
以便美的玫瑰永遠不會枯死,
但開透的花朵既要及時雕零,
就應把記憶交給嬌嫩的後嗣;
但你,只和你自己的明眸定情,
把自己當燃料喂養眼中的火焰,
和自己作對,待自己未免太狠,
把一片豐沃的土地變成荒田。
你現在是大地的清新的點綴,
又是錦繡陽春的唯一的前鋒,
為什麼把富源葬送在嫩蕊里,
溫柔的鄙夫,要吝嗇,反而浪用?
  可憐這個世界吧,要不然,貪夫,
  就吞噬世界的份,由你和墳墓。
  
二

當四十個冬天圍攻你的朱顏,
在你美的園地挖下深的戰壕,
你青春的華服,那麼被人艷羨,
將成襤褸的敗絮,誰也不要瞧︰
那時人若問起你的美在何處,
哪里是你那少壯年華的寶藏,
你說,"在我這雙深陷的眼眶里,
是貪婪的羞恥,和無益的頌揚。"
你的美的用途會更值得贊美,
如果你能夠說,"我這寧馨小童
將總結我的賬,寬恕我的老邁,"
證實他的美在繼承你的血統!
  這將使你在衰老的暮年更生,
  並使你垂冷的血液感到重溫。

三

照照鏡子,告訴你那鏡中的臉龐,
說現在這龐兒應該另造一副;
如果你不趕快為它重修殿堂,
就欺騙世界,剝掉母親的幸福。
因為哪里會有女人那麼淑貞
她那處女的胎不願被你耕種?
哪里有男人那麼蠢,他竟甘心
做自己的墳墓,絕自己的血統?
你是你母親的鏡子,在你里面
她喚回她的盛年的芳菲四月︰
同樣,從你暮年的窗你將眺見--
縱皺紋滿臉--你這黃金的歲月。
  但是你活著若不願被人惦記,
  就獨自死去,你的肖像和你一起。

四

俊俏的浪子,為什麼把你那份
美的遺產在你自己身上耗盡?
造化的饋贈非賜予,她只出賃;
她慷慨,只賃給寬宏大量的人。
那麼,美麗的鄙夫,為什麼濫用
那交給你轉交給別人的厚禮?
賠本的高利貸者,為什麼浪用
那麼一筆大款,還不能過日子?
因為你既然只和自己做買賣,
就等于欺騙你那嫵媚的自我。
這樣,你將拿什麼賬目去交代,
當造化喚你回到她懷里長臥?
  你未用過的美將同你進墳墓;
  用呢,就活著去執行你的遺囑。
  
五

那些時辰曾經用輕盈的細工
織就這眾目共注的可愛明眸,
終有天對它擺出魔王的面孔,
把絕代佳麗剁成龍鍾的老丑︰
因為不舍晝夜的時光把盛夏
帶到猙獰的冬天去把它結果;
生機被嚴霜窒息,綠葉又全下,
白雪掩埋了美,滿目是赤裸裸︰
那時候如果夏天尚未經提煉,
讓它凝成香露鎖在玻璃瓶里,
美和美的流澤將一起被截斷,
美,和美的記憶都無人再提起︰
  但提煉過的花,縱和冬天抗衡,
  只失掉顏色,卻永遠吐著清芬。
  
六

那麼,別讓冬天嶙峋的手抹掉
你的夏天,在你未經提煉之前︰
燻香一些瓶子;把你美的財寶
藏在寶庫里,趁它還未及消散。
這樣的借貸並不是違禁取利,
既然它使那樂意納息的高興;
這是說你該為你另生一個你,
或者,一個生十,就十倍地幸運;
十倍你自己比你現在更快樂,
如果你有十個兒子來重現你︰
這樣,即使你長辭,死將奈你何,
既然你繼續活在你的後裔里?
  別任性︰你那麼標致,何必甘心
  做死的勝利品,讓蛆蟲做子孫。
  
七

看,當普照萬物的太陽從東方
抬起了火紅的頭,下界的眼楮
都對他初升的景象表示敬仰,
用目光來恭候他神聖的駕臨;
然後他既登上了蒼穹的極峰,
像精力飽滿的壯年,雄姿英發,
萬民的眼楮依舊膜拜他的崢嶸,
緊緊追隨著他那疾馳的金駕。
但當他,像耄年拖著塵倦的車輪,
從絕頂顫巍巍地離開了白天,
眾目便一齊從他下沉的足印
移開它們那原來恭順的視線。
  同樣,你的燦爛的日中一消逝,
  你就會悄悄死去,如果沒後嗣。
  
八

我的音樂,為何听音樂會生悲?
甜蜜不相克,快樂使快樂歡笑。
為何愛那你不高興愛的東西,
或者為何樂于接受你的煩惱?
如果悅耳的聲音的完美和諧
和親摯的協調會惹起你煩憂,
它們不過委婉地責備你不該
用獨奏窒息你心中那部合奏。
試看這一根弦,另一根的良人,
怎樣融洽地互相呼應和振蕩;
宛如父親、兒子和快活的母親,
它們聯成了一片,齊聲在歡唱。
  它們的無言之歌都異曲同工
  對你唱著︰"你獨身就一切皆空。"
  
九

是否因為怕打濕你寡婦的眼,
你在獨身生活里消磨你自己?
哦,如果你不幸無後離開人間,
世界就要哀哭你,像喪偶的妻。
世界將是你寡婦,她永遠傷心
你生前沒給她留下你的容貌;
其他的寡婦,靠兒女們的眼楮,
反能把良人的肖像在心里長保。
看吧,浪子在世上的種種浪費
只換了主人,世界仍然在享受;
但美的消耗在人間將有終尾︰
留著不用,就等于任由它腐朽。
  這樣的心決不會對別人有愛,
  既然它那麼忍心把自己戕害。
  
一○

羞呀,否認你並非不愛任何人,
對待你自己卻那麼欠缺綢繆。
承認,隨你便,許多人對你鐘情,
但說你並不愛誰,誰也要點頭。
因為怨毒的殺機那麼纏住你,
你不惜多方設計把自己戕害,
銳意摧殘你那座崢嶸的殿宇,
你唯一念頭卻該是把它重蓋。
哦,趕快回心吧,讓我也好轉意!
難道憎比溫婉的愛反得處優?
你那麼貌美,願你也一樣心慈,
否則至少對你自己也要溫柔。
  另造一個你吧,你若是真愛我,
  讓美在你兒子或你身上永活。
  
一一

和你一樣快地消沉,你的兒子,
也將一樣快在世界生長起來;
你灌注給青春的這新鮮血液
仍將是你的,當青春把你拋開。
這里面活著智慧、美麗和昌盛;
沒有這,便是愚蠢、衰老和腐朽︰
人人都這樣想,就要鐘停漏盡,
六十年便足使世界化為烏有。
讓那些人生來不配生育傳宗,
粗魯、丑陋和笨拙,無後地死去;
造化的至寵,她的饋贈也最豐,
該盡量愛惜她這慷慨的賜予︰
  她把你刻做她的印,意思是要
  你多印幾份,並非要毀掉原稿。
  
一二

當我數著壁上報時的自鳴鐘,
見明媚的白晝墜入猙獰的夜,
當我凝望著紫羅蘭老了春容,
青絲的卷發遍灑著皚皚白雪;
當我看見參天的樹枝葉盡脫,
它不久前曾蔭蔽喘息的牛羊;
夏天的青翠一束一束地就縛,
帶著堅挺的白須被舁上殮床;
于是我不禁為你的朱顏焦慮︰
終有天你要加入時光的廢堆,
既然美和芳菲都把自己拋棄,
眼看著別人生長自己卻枯萎;
  沒什麼抵擋得住時光的毒手,
  除了生育,當他來要把你拘走。
  
一三

哦,但願你是你自己,但愛呀,你
終非你有,當你不再活在世上︰
對這將臨的日子你得要準備,
快交給別人你那俊秀的肖像。
這樣,你所租賃的朱顏就永遠
不會有滿期;于是你又將變成
你自己,當你已經離開了人間,
既然你兒子保留著你的倩影。
誰肯讓一座這樣的華廈傾頹,
如果小心地看守便可以維護
它的光彩,去抵抗隆冬的狂吹
和那冷酷的死神無情的暴怒?
  哦,除非是浪子;我愛呀,你知道
  你有父親;讓你兒子也可自豪。
  
一四

並非從星辰我采集我的推斷;
可是我以為我也精通佔星學,
但並非為了推算氣運的通蹇,
以及饑荒、瘟疫或四時的風色;
我也不能為短促的時辰算命,
指出每個時辰的雷電和風雨,
或為國王佔卜流年是否亨順,
依據我常從上蒼探得的天機。
我的術數只得自你那雙明眸,
恆定的雙星,它們預兆這吉祥︰
只要你回心轉意肯儲蓄傳後,
真和美將雙雙偕你永世其昌。
  要不然關于你我將這樣昭示︰
  你的末日也就是真和美的死。
  
一五

當我默察一切活潑潑的生機
保持它們的芳菲都不過一瞬,
宇宙的舞台只搬弄一些把戲
被上蒼的星宿在冥冥中牽引;
當我發覺人和草木一樣蕃衍,
任同一的天把他鼓勵和阻撓,
少壯時欣欣向榮,盛極又必反,
繁華和璀璨都被從記憶抹掉;
于是這一切奄忽浮生的征候
便把妙齡的你在我眼前呈列,
眼見殘暴的時光與腐朽同謀,
要把你青春的白晝化作黑夜;
  為了你的愛我將和時光爭持︰
  他摧折你,我要把你重新接枝。
  
一六

但是為什麼不用更凶的法子
去抵抗這血淋淋的魔王--時光?
不用比我的枯筆吉利的武器,
去防御你的衰朽,把自己加強?
你現在站在黃金時辰的絕頂,
許多少女的花園,還未經播種,
貞潔地切盼你那絢爛的群英,
比你的畫像更酷肖你的真容︰
只有生命的線能把生命重描;
時光的畫筆,或者我這枝弱管,
無論內心的美或外貌的姣好,
都不能使你在人們眼前活現。
  獻出你自己依然保有你自己,
  而你得活著,靠你自己的妙筆。
  
一七

未來的時代誰會相信我的詩,
如果它充滿了你最高的美德?
雖然,天知道,它只是一座墓地
埋著你的生命和一半的本色。
如果我寫得出你美目的流盼,
用清新的韻律細數你的秀妍,
未來的時代會說︰"這詩人撒謊︰
這樣的天姿哪里會落在人間!"
于是我的詩冊,被歲月所燻黃,
就要被人藐視,像饒舌的老頭;
你的真容被誣作詩人的瘋狂,
以及一支古歌的夸張的節奏︰
  但那時你若有個兒子在人世,
  你就活兩次︰在他身上,在詩里。
  
一八

我怎麼能夠把你來比作夏天?
你不獨比它可愛也比它溫婉︰
狂風把五月寵愛的嫩蕊作踐,
夏天出賃的期限又未免太短︰
天上的眼楮有時照得太酷烈,
它那炳耀的金顏又常遭掩蔽︰
被機緣或無常的天道所摧折,
沒有芳艷不終于雕殘或銷毀。
但是你的長夏永遠不會雕落,
也不會損失你這皎潔的紅芳,
或死神夸口你在他影里漂泊,
當你在不朽的詩里與時同長。
  只要一天有人類,或人有眼楮,
  這詩將長存,並且賜給你生命。
  
一九

饕餮的時光,去磨鈍雄獅的爪,
命大地吞噬自己寵愛的幼嬰,
去猛虎的顎下把它利牙拔掉,
焚毀長壽的鳳凰,滅絕它的種,
使季節在你飛逝時或悲或喜;
而且,捷足的時光,盡肆意地摧殘
這大千世界和它易謝的芳菲;
只有這極惡大罪我禁止你犯︰
哦,別把歲月刻在我愛的額上,
或用古老的鐵筆亂畫下皺紋︰
在你的飛逝里不要把它弄髒,
好留給後世永作美麗的典型。
  但,盡管猖狂,老時光,憑你多狠,
  我的愛在我詩里將萬古長青。
  
二○

你有副女人的臉,由造化親手
塑就,你,我熱愛的情婦兼情郎;
有顆女人的溫婉的心,但沒有
反復和變幻,像女人的假心腸;
眼楮比她明媚,又不那麼造作,
流盼把一切事物都鍍上黃金;
絕世的美色,駕御著一切美色,
既使男人暈眩,又使女人震驚。
開頭原是把你當女人來創造︰
但造化塑造你時,不覺著了迷,
誤加給你一件東西,這就剝掉
我的權利--這東西對我毫無意義。
  但造化造你既專為女人愉快,
  讓我佔有,而她們享受,你的愛。

二一

我的詩神?並不像那一位詩神
只知運用脂粉涂抹他的詩句,
連蒼穹也要搬下來作妝飾品,
羅列每個佳麗去贊他的佳麗,
用種種浮夸的比喻作成對偶,
把他比太陽、月亮、海陸的瑰寶,
四月的鮮花,和這浩蕩的宇宙
蘊藏在它的懷里的一切奇妙。
哦,讓我既真心愛,就真心歌唱,
而且,相信我,我的愛可以媲美
任何母親的兒子,雖然論明亮
比不上掛在天空的金色燭台。
  誰喜歡空話,讓他盡說個不窮;
  我志不在出售,自用不著禱頌。
  
二二

這鏡子決不能使我相信我老,
只要大好韶華和你還是同年;
但當你臉上出現時光的深槽,
我就盼死神來了結我的天年。
因為那一切妝點著你的美麗
都不過是我內心的表面光彩;
我的心在你胸中跳動,正如你
在我的︰那麼,我怎會比你先衰?
哦,我的愛呵,請千萬自己珍重,
像我珍重自己,乃為你,非為我。
懷抱著你的心,我將那麼鄭重,
像慈母防護著嬰兒遭受病魔。
  別僥幸獨存,如果我的心先碎;
  你把心交我,並非為把它收回。
  
二三

仿佛舞台上初次演出的戲子
慌亂中竟忘記了自己的角色,
又像被觸犯的野獸滿腔怒氣,
它那過猛的力量反使它膽怯;
同樣,缺乏著冷靜,我不覺忘掉
舉行愛情的儀節的彬彬盛典,
被我愛情的過度重量所壓倒,
在我自己的熱愛中一息奄奄。
哦,請讓我的詩篇做我的辯士,
替我把纏綿的衷曲默默訴說,
它為愛情申訴,並希求著賞賜,
多于那對你絮絮不休的狡舌︰
  請學會去讀緘默的愛的情書,
  用眼楮來听原屬于愛的妙術。
  
二四

我眼楮扮作畫家,把你的肖像
描畫在我的心版上,我的肉體
就是那嵌著你的姣顏的鏡框,
而畫家的無上的法寶是透視。
你要透過畫家的巧妙去發見
那珍藏你的奕奕真容的地方;
它長掛在我胸內的畫室中間,
你的眼楮卻是畫室的玻璃窗。
試看眼楮多麼會幫眼楮的忙︰
我的眼楮畫你的像,你的卻是
開向我胸中的窗,從那里太陽
喜歡去偷看那藏在里面的你。
  可是眼楮的藝術終欠這高明︰
  它只能畫外表,卻不認識內心。
  
二五

讓那些人(他們既有吉星高照)
到處夸說他們的顯位和高官,
至于我,命運拒絕我這種榮耀,
只暗中獨自賞玩我心里所歡。
王公的寵臣舒展他們的金葉
不過像太陽眷顧下的金盞花,
他們的驕傲在自己身上消滅,
一蹙額便足雕謝他們的榮華。
轉戰沙場的名將不管多功高,
百戰百勝後只要有一次失手,
便從功名冊上被人一筆勾消,
畢生的勛勞只落得無聲無臭︰
  那麼,愛人又被愛,我多麼幸福!
  我既不會遷徙,又不怕被驅逐。
  
二六

我愛情的至尊,你的美德已經
使我這藩屬加強對你的擁戴,
我現在寄給你這詩當作使臣,
去向你述職,並非要向你炫才。
職責那麼重,我又才拙少俊語,
難免要顯得赤裸裸和她相見,
但望你的妙思,不嫌它太粗鄙,
在你靈魂里把它的赤裸裸遮掩;
因而不管什麼星照引我前程,
都對我露出一副和悅的笑容,
把華服加給我這寒傖的愛情,
使我配得上你那繾綣的恩寵。
  那時我才敢對你夸耀我的愛,
  否則怕你考驗我,總要躲起來。
  
二七

精疲力竭,我趕快到床上躺下,
去歇息我那整天勞頓的四肢;
但馬上我的頭腦又整裝出發,
以勞我的心,當我身已得休息。
因為我的思想,不辭離鄉背井,
虔誠地趲程要到你那里進香,
睜大我這雙沉沉欲睡的眼楮,
向著瞎子看得見的黑暗凝望;
不過我的靈魂,憑著它的幻眼,
把你的倩影獻給我失明的雙眸,
像顆明珠在陰森的夜里高懸,
變老丑的黑夜為明麗的白晝。
  這樣,日里我的腿,夜里我的心,
  為你、為我自己,都得不著安寧。
  
二八

那麼,我怎麼能夠喜洋洋歸來,
既然得不著片刻身心的安息?
當白天的壓逼入夜並不稍衰,
只是夜繼日、日又繼夜地壓逼?
日和夜平時雖事事各不相下,
卻互相攜手來把我輪流挫折,
一個用跋涉,一個卻呶呶怒罵,
說我離開你更遠,雖整天跋涉。
為討好白天,我告它你是光明,
在陰雲密布時你將把它映照。
我又這樣說去討黑夜的歡心︰
當星星不眨眼,你將為它閃耀。
  但天天白天盡拖長我的苦痛,
  夜夜黑夜又使我的憂思轉凶。
  

二九

當我受盡命運和人們的白眼,
暗暗地哀悼自己的身世飄零,
徒用呼吁去干擾聾的昊天,
顧盼著身影,詛咒自己的生辰,
願我和另一個一樣富于希望,
面貌相似,又和他一樣廣交游,
希求這人的淵博,那人的內行,
最賞心的樂事覺得最不對頭;
可是,當我正要這樣看輕自己,
忽然想起了你,于是我的精神,
便像雲雀破曉從陰霾的大地
振翮上升,高唱著聖歌在天門︰
  一想起你的愛使我那麼富有,
  和帝王換位我也不屑于屈就。
  
三○

當我傳喚對已往事物的記憶
出庭于那馨香的默想的公堂,
我不禁為命中許多缺陷嘆息,
帶著舊恨,重新哭蹉跎的時光;
于是我可以淹沒那枯涸的眼,
為了那些長埋在夜台的親朋,
哀悼著許多音容俱渺的美艷,
痛哭那情愛久已勾消的哀痛︰
于是我為過去的惆悵而惆悵,
並且一一細算,從痛苦到痛苦,
那許多嗚咽過的嗚咽的舊賬,
仿佛還未付過,現在又來償付。
  但是只要那刻我想起你,摯友,
  損失全收回,悲哀也化為烏有。
  
三一

你的胸懷有了那些心而越可親
(它們的消逝我只道已經死去);
原來愛,和愛的一切可愛部分,
和埋掉的友誼都在你懷里藏住。
多少為哀思而流的聖潔淚珠
那虔誠的愛曾從我眼楮偷取
去祭奠死者!我現在才恍然大悟
他們只離開我去住在你的心里。
你是座收藏已往恩情的芳?V,
滿掛著死去的情人的紀念牌,
他們把我的饋贈盡向你呈貢,
你獨自享受許多人應得的愛。
  在你身上我瞥見他們的倩影,
  而你,他們的總和,盡有我的心。
  
三二

倘你活過我躊躇滿志的大限,
當鄙夫"死神"用黃土把我掩埋,
偶然重翻這拙劣可憐的詩卷,
你情人生前寫來獻給你的愛,
把它和當代俊逸的新詩相比,
發覺它的詞筆處處都不如人,
請保留它專為我的愛,而不是
為那被幸運的天才凌駕的韻。
哦,那時候就請賜給我這愛思︰
"要是我朋友的詩神與時同長,
他的愛就會帶來更美的產兒,
可和這世紀任何杰作同俯仰︰
  但他既死去,詩人們又都邁進,
  我讀他們的文采,卻讀他的心。"
  
三三

多少次我曾看見燦爛的朝陽
用他那至尊的眼媚悅著山頂,
金色的臉龐吻著青碧的草場,
把黯淡的溪水鍍成一片黃金︰
然後驀地任那最卑賤的雲彩
帶著黑影馳過他神聖的霽顏,
把他從這淒涼的世界藏起來,
偷移向西方去掩埋他的污點;
同樣,我的太陽曾在一個清朝
帶著輝煌的光華臨照我前額;
但是唉!他只一刻是我的榮耀,
下界的烏雲已把他和我遮隔。
  我的愛卻並不因此把他鄙賤,
  天上的太陽有瑕疵,何況人間!
  
三四

為什麼預告那麼璀璨的日子,
哄我不攜帶大衣便出來游行,
讓鄙賤的烏雲中途把我侵襲,
用臭腐的煙霧遮蔽你的光明?
你以為現在沖破烏雲來曬干
我臉上淋灕的雨點便已滿足?
須知無人會贊美這樣的藥丹︰
只能醫治創傷,但洗不了恥辱。
你的愧赧也無補于我的心疼;
你雖已懺悔,我依然不免損失︰
對于背著恥辱的十字架的人,
冒犯者引咎只是微弱的慰藉。
  唉,但你的愛所流的淚是明珠,
  它們的富麗夠贖你的罪有余。
  
三五

別再為你冒犯我的行為痛苦︰
玫瑰花有刺,銀色的泉有爛泥,
烏雲和蝕把太陽和月亮玷污,
可惡的毛蟲把香的嫩蕊盤據。
每個人都有錯,我就犯了這點︰
運用種種比喻來解釋你的惡,
弄髒我自己來洗滌你的罪愆,
赦免你那無可赦免的大錯過。
因為對你的敗行我加以諒解--
你的原告變成了你的辯護士--
我對你起訴,反而把自己出賣︰
愛和憎老在我心中互相排擠,
  以致我不得不變成你的助手
  去幫你劫奪我,你,溫柔的小偷!
  
三六

讓我承認我們倆一定要分離,
盡管我們那分不開的愛是一體︰
這樣,許多留在我身上的瑕疵,
將不用你分擔,由我獨自承起。
你我的相愛全出于一片至誠,
盡管不同的生活把我們隔開,
這縱然改變不了愛情的真純,
卻偷掉許多密約佳期的歡快。
我再也不會高聲認你做知己,
生怕我可哀的罪過使你含垢,
你也不能再當眾把我來贊美,
除非你甘心使你的名字蒙羞。
  可別這樣做;我既然這樣愛你,
  你是我的,我的榮光也屬于你。
  
三七

像一個衰老的父親高興去看
活潑的兒子表演青春的伎倆,
同樣,我,受了命運的惡毒摧殘,
從你的精誠和美德找到力量。
因為,無論美、門第、財富或才華,
或這一切,或其一,或多于這一切,
在你身上登峰造極,我都把
我的愛在你這個寶藏上嫁接。
那麼,我並不殘廢、貧窮、被輕藐,
既然這種種幻影都那麼充實,
使我從你的富裕得滿足,並倚靠
你的光榮的一部分安然度日。
  看,生命的至寶,我暗祝你盡有︰
  既有這心願,我便十倍地無憂。
  
三八

我的詩神怎麼會找不到詩料,
當你還呼吸著,灌注給我的詩哦,
感謝你自己吧,如果我詩中
有值得一讀的獻給你的目光︰
哪里有啞巴,寫到你,不善禱頌--
既然是你自己照亮他的想象?
做第十位藝神吧,你要比凡夫
所祈求的古代九位高明得多;
有誰向你呼吁,就讓他獻出
一些可以傳久遠的不朽詩歌。
  我卑微的詩神如可取悅于世,
  痛苦屬于我,所有贊美全歸你。
  


三九

哦,我怎能不越禮地把你歌頌,
當我的最優美部分全屬于你?
贊美我自己對我自己有何用?
贊美你豈不等于贊美我自己?
就是為這點我們也得要分手,
使我們的愛名義上各自獨處,
以便我可以,在這樣分離之後,
把你該獨得的贊美全部獻出。
別離呵!你會給我多大的痛創,
倘若你辛酸的閑暇不批準我
拿出甜蜜的情思來款待時光,
用甜言把時光和相思蒙混過--
  如果你不教我怎樣化一為二,
  使我在這里贊美遠方的人兒!
  
四○

奪掉我的愛,愛呵,請通通奪去;
看看比你已有的能多些什麼?
沒什麼,愛呵,稱得上真情實義;
我所愛早屬你,縱使不添這個。
那麼,你為愛我而接受我所愛,
我不能對你這享受加以責備;
但得受責備,若甘心自我欺紿,
你故意貪嘗不願接受的東西。
我可以原諒你的掠奪,溫柔賊,
雖然你把我僅有的通通偷走;
可是,忍受愛情的暗算,愛曉得,
比憎恨的明傷是更大的煩憂。
  風流的嫵媚,連你的惡也嫵媚,
  盡管毒殺我,我們可別相仇視。

四一

你那放蕩不羈所犯的風流罪
(當我有時候遠遠離開你的心)
與你的美貌和青春那麼相配,
無論到哪里,誘惑都把你追尋。
你那麼溫文,誰不想把你奪取?
那麼姣好,又怎麼不被人圍攻?
而當女人追求,凡女人的兒子
誰能堅苦掙扎,不向她懷里送?
唉!但你總不必把我的位兒佔,
並斥責你的美麗和青春的迷惑︰
它們引你去犯那麼大的狂亂,
使你不得不撕毀了兩重誓約︰
  她的,因為你的美誘她去就你;
  你的,因為你的美對我失信義。
  
四二

你佔有她,並非我最大的哀愁,
可是我對她的愛不能說不深;
她佔有你,才是我主要的煩憂,
這愛情的損失更能使我傷心。
愛的冒犯者,我這樣原諒你們︰
你所以愛她,因為曉得我愛她;
也是為我的原故她把我欺瞞,
讓我的朋友替我殷勤款待她。
失掉你,我所失是我情人所獲,
失掉她,我朋友卻找著我所失;
你倆互相找著,而我失掉兩個,
兩個都為我的原故把我磨折︰
  但這就是快樂︰你和我是一體;
  甜蜜的阿諛!她卻只愛我自己。
  
四三

我眼楮閉得最緊,看得最明亮︰
它們整天只看見無味的東西;
而當我入睡,夢中卻向你凝望,
幽暗的火焰,暗地里放射幽輝。
你的影子既能教黑影放光明,
對閉上的眼照耀得那麼輝煌,
你影子的形會形成怎樣的美景,
在清明的白天里用更清明的光!
我的眼楮,我說,會感到多幸運
若能夠凝望你在光天化日中,
既然在死夜里你那不完全的影
對酣睡中閉著的眼透出光容!
  天天都是黑夜一直到看見你,
  夜夜是白天當好夢把你顯示!
  
四四

假如我這笨拙的體質是思想,
不做美的距離就不能阻止我,
因為我就會從那迢迢的遠方,
無論多隔絕,被帶到你的寓所。
那麼,縱使我的腿站在那離你
最遠的天涯,對我有什麼妨礙?
空靈的思想無論想到達哪里,
它立刻可以飛越崇山和大海。
但是唉,這思想毒殺我︰我並非思想,
能飛越遼遠的萬里當你去後;
而只是滿盛著泥水的鈍皮囊,
就只好用悲泣去把時光伺候;
  這兩種重濁的元素毫無所賜
  除了眼淚,二者的苦惱的標志。
  
四五

其余兩種,輕清的風,淨化的火,
一個是我的思想,一個是欲望,
都是和你一起,無論我居何所;
它們又在又不在,神速地來往。
因為,當這兩種較輕快的元素
帶著愛情的溫柔使命去見你,
我的生命,本賦有四大,只守住
兩個,就不勝其憂郁,奄奄待斃;
直到生命的結合得完全恢復
由于這兩個敏捷使者的來歸。
它們現正從你那里回來,欣悉
你起居康吉,在向我欣欣告慰。
  說完了,我樂,可是並不很長久,
  我打發它們回去,馬上又發愁。
  
四六

我的眼和我的心在作殊死戰,
怎樣去把你姣好的容貌分贓;
眼兒要把心和你的形象隔斷,
心兒又不甘願把這權利相讓。
心兒聲稱你在它的深處潛隱,
從沒有明眸闖得進它的寶箱;
被告卻把這申辯堅決地否認,
說是你的倩影在它里面珍藏。
為解決這懸案就不得不邀請
我心里所有的住戶--思想--協商;
它們的共同的判詞終于決定
明眸和親摯的心應得的分量
  如下︰你的儀表屬于我的眼楮,
  而我的心佔有你心里的愛情。
  
四七

現在我的眼和心締結了同盟,
為的是互相幫忙和互相救濟︰
當眼兒渴望要一見你的尊容,
或痴情的心快要給嘆氣窒息,
眼兒就把你的畫像大擺筵桌,
邀請心去參加這圖畫的盛宴;
有時候眼楮又是心的座上客,
去把它繾綣的情思平均分沾︰
這樣,或靠你的像或我的依戀,
你本人雖遠離還是和我在一起;
你不能比我的情思走得更遠,
我老跟著它們,它們又跟著你;
  或者,它們倘睡著,我眼中的像
  就把心喚醒,使心和眼都舒暢。
  
四八

我是多麼小心,在未上路之前,
為了留以備用,把瑣碎的事物
一一鎖在箱子里,使得到保險,
不致被一些奸詐的手所褻瀆!
但你,比起你來珠寶也成廢品,
你,我最親最好和唯一的牽掛,
無上的慰安(現在是最大的傷心)
卻留下來讓每個扒手任意拿。
我沒有把你鎖進任何保險箱,
除了你不在的地方,而我覺得
你在,那就是我的溫暖的心房,
從那里你可以隨便進進出出;
  就是在那里我還怕你被偷走︰
  看見這樣珍寶,忠誠也變扒手。
  
四九

為抵抗那一天,要是終有那一天,
當我看見你對我的缺點蹙額,
當你的愛已花完最後一文錢,
被周詳的顧慮催去清算賬目;
為抵抗那一天,當你像生客走過,
不用那太陽--你眼楮--向我致候,
當愛情,已改變了面目,要搜羅
種種必須決絕的莊重的理由;
為抵抗那一天我就躲在這里,
在對自己的恰當評價內安身,
並且高舉我這只手當眾宣誓,
為你的種種合法的理由保證︰
  拋棄可憐的我,你有法律保障,
  既然為什麼愛,我無理由可講。
  
五○

多麼沉重地我在旅途上跋涉,
當我的目的地(我倦旅的終點)
唆使安逸和休憩這樣對我說︰
"你又離開了你的朋友那麼遠!"
那馱我的畜牲,經不起我的憂厄,
馱著我心里的重負慢慢地走,
仿佛這畜牲憑某種本能曉得
它主人不愛快,因為離你遠游︰
有時惱怒用那血淋淋的靴釘
猛刺它的皮,也不能把它催促;
它只是沉重地報以一聲呻吟,
對于我,比刺它的靴釘還要殘酷,
  因為這呻吟使我省悟和熟籌︰
  我的憂愁在前面,快樂在後頭。
  
五一

這樣,我的愛就可原諒那笨獸
(當我離開你),不嫌它走得太慢︰
從你所在地我何必匆匆跑走?
除非是歸來,絕對不用把路趕。
那時可憐的畜牲怎會得寬容,
當極端的迅速還要顯得遲鈍?
那時我就要猛刺,縱使在御風,
如飛的速度我只覺得是停頓︰
那時就沒有馬能和欲望齊驅;
因此,欲望,由最理想的愛構成,
就引頸長嘶,當它火似地飛馳;
但愛,為了愛,將這樣饒恕那畜牲︰
  既然別你的時候它有意慢走,
  歸途我就下來跑,讓它得自由。
  
五二

我像那富翁,他那幸運的鑰匙
能把他帶到他的心愛的寶藏,
可是他並不願時常把它啟視,
以免磨鈍那難得的銳利的快感。
所以過節是那麼莊嚴和希有,
因為在一年中僅疏疏地來臨,
就像寶石在首飾上稀稀嵌就,
或大顆的珍珠在瓔珞上晶瑩。
同樣,那保存你的時光就好像
我的寶箱,或裝著華服的衣櫥,
以便偶一重展那被囚的寶光,
使一些幸福的良辰分外幸福。
  你真運氣,你的美德能夠使人
  有你,喜洋洋,你不在,不勝憧憬。
  
五三

你的本質是什麼,用什麼造成,
使得萬千個倩影都追隨著你?
每人都只有一個,每人,一個影;
你一人,卻能幻作千萬個影子。
試為阿都尼寫生,他的畫像
不過是模仿你的拙劣的贗品;
盡量把美容術施在海倫頰上,
便是你披上希臘妝的新的真身。
一提起春的明媚和秋的豐饒,
一個把你的綽約的倩影顯示,
另一個卻是你的慷慨的寫照;
一切天生的俊秀都蘊含著你。
  一切外界的嫵媚都有你的份,
  但誰都沒有你那顆堅貞的心。
  
五四

哦,美看起來要更美得多少倍,
若再有真加給它溫馨的裝潢!
玫瑰花很美,但我們覺得它更美,
因為它吐出一縷甜蜜的芳香。
野薔薇的姿色也是同樣旖旎,
比起玫瑰的芳馥四溢的姣顏,
同掛在樹上,同樣會搔首弄姿,
當夏天呼息使它的嫩蕊輕展︰
但它們唯一的美德只在色相,
開時無人眷戀,萎謝也無人理;
寂寞地死去。香的玫瑰卻兩樣;
她那溫馨的死可以釀成香液︰
  你也如此,美麗而可愛的青春,
  當韶華雕謝,詩提取你的純精。
  
五五

沒有雲石或王公們金的墓碑
能夠和我這些強勁的詩比壽;
你將永遠閃耀于這些詩篇里,
遠勝過那被時光涂髒的石頭。
當著殘暴的戰爭把銅像推翻,
或內訌把城池蕩成一片廢墟,
無論戰神的劍或戰爭的烈焰
都毀不掉你的遺芳的活歷史。
突破死亡和湮沒一切的仇恨,
你將昂然站起來︰對你的贊美
將在萬世萬代的眼楮里彪炳,
直到這世界消耗完了的末日。
  這樣,直到最後審判把你喚醒,
  你長在詩里和情人眼里輝映。
  
五六

溫柔的愛,恢復你的勁︰別被說
你的刀鋒趕不上食欲那樣快,
食欲只今天飽餐後暫覺滿足,
到明天又照舊一樣饕餐起來︰
願你,愛呵,也一樣︰你那雙餓眼
盡管今天已飽看到膩得直眨,
明天還得看,別讓長期的癱瘓
把那愛情的精靈活生生窒煞︰
讓這淒涼的間歇恰像那隔斷
兩岸的海洋,那里一對情侶
每天到岸邊相會,當他們看見
愛的來歸,心里感到加倍歡愉;
  否則,喚它做冬天,充滿了憂悒,
  使夏至三倍受歡迎,三倍希奇。
  
五七

既然是你奴隸,我有什麼可做,
除了時時刻刻伺候你的心願?
我毫無寶貴的時間可消磨,
也無事可做,直到你有所驅遣。
我不敢罵那綿綿無盡的時刻,
當我為你,主人,把時辰來看守;
也不敢埋怨別離是多麼殘酷,
在你已經把你的僕人辭退後;
也不敢用妒忌的念頭去探索
你究竟在哪里,或者為什麼忙碌,
只是,像個可憐的奴隸,呆想著
你所在的地方,人們會多幸福。
  愛這呆子是那麼無救藥的呆
  憑你為所欲為,他都不覺得壞。
  
五八

那使我做你奴隸的神不容我,
如果我要管制你行樂的時光,
或者清算你怎樣把日子消磨,
既然是奴隸,就得听從你放浪︰
讓我忍受,既然什麼都得依你,
你那自由的離棄(于我是監牢);
讓忍耐,慣了,接受每一次申斥,
絕不會埋怨你對我損害分毫。
無論你高興到哪里,你那契約
那麼有效,你自有絕對的主權
去支配你的時間;你犯的罪過
你也有主權隨意把自己赦免。
  我只能等待,雖然等待是地獄,
  不責備你行樂,任它是善或惡。
  
五九

如果天下無新事,現在的種種
從前都有過,我們的頭腦多上當,
當它苦心要創造,卻懷孕成功
一個前代有過的嬰孩的重擔!
哦,但願歷史能用回溯的眼光
(縱使太陽已經運行了五百周),
在古書里對我顯示你的肖像,
自從心靈第一次寫成了句讀!--
讓我曉得古人曾經怎樣說法,
關于你那雍容的體態的神奇;
是我們高明,還是他們優越,
或者所謂演變其實並無二致。
  哦,我敢肯定,不少才子在前代
  曾經贊揚過遠不如你的題材。
  
六○

像波浪滔滔不息地滾向沙灘︰
我們的光陰息息奔赴著終點;
後浪和前浪不斷地循環替換,
前推後擁,一個個在奮勇爭先。
生辰,一度涌現于光明的金海,
爬行到壯年,然後,既登上極頂,
凶冥的日蝕便遮沒它的光彩,
時光又撕毀了它從前的贈品。
時光戳破了青春頰上的光艷,
在美的前額挖下深陷的戰壕,
自然的至珍都被它肆意狂喊,
一切挺立的都難逃它的鐮刀︰
  可是我的詩未來將屹立千古,
  歌頌你的美德,不管它多殘酷!

六一

你是否故意用影子使我垂垂
欲閉的眼楮睜向厭厭的長夜?
你是否要我輾轉反側不成寐,
用你的影子來玩弄我的視野?
那可是從你那里派來的靈魂
遠離了家園,來刺探我的行為,
來找我的荒廢和恥辱的時辰,
和執行你的妒忌的職權和範圍?
不呀!你的愛,雖多,並不那麼大︰
是我的愛使我張開我的眼楮,
是我的真情把我的睡眠打垮,
為你的緣故一夜守候到天明!
  我為你守夜,而你在別處清醒,
  遠遠背著我,和別人卻太靠近。
  
六二

自愛這罪惡佔據著我的眼楮,
我整個的靈魂和我身體各部;
而對這罪惡什麼藥石都無靈,
在我心內扎根扎得那麼深固。
我相信我自己的眉目最秀麗,
態度最率真,胸懷又那麼俊偉;
我的優點對我這樣估計自己︰
不管哪一方面我都出類拔萃。
但當我的鏡子照出我的真相,
全被那焦黑的老年剁得稀爛,
我對于自愛又有相反的感想︰
這樣溺愛著自己實在是罪愆。
  我歌頌自己就等于把你歌頌,
  用你的青春來粉刷我的隆冬。
  
六三

像我現在一樣,我愛人將不免
被時光的毒手所粉碎和消耗,
當時辰吮干他的血,使他的臉
布滿了皺紋;當他韶年的清朝
已經爬到暮年的?f岩的黑夜,
使他所佔領的一切風流逸韻
都漸漸消滅或已經全部消滅,
偷走了他的春天所有的至珍;
為那時候我現在就厲兵秣馬
去抵抗凶暴時光的殘酷利刃,
使他無法把我愛的芳菲抹煞,
雖則他能夠砍斷我愛的生命。
  他的豐韻將在這些詩里現形,
  墨跡長在,而他也將萬古長青。
  
六四

當我眼見前代的富麗和豪華
被時光的手毫不留情地磨滅;
當巍峨的塔我眼見淪為碎瓦,
連不朽的銅也不免一場浩劫;
當我眼見那欲壑難填的大海
一步一步把岸上的疆土侵蝕,
汪洋的水又漸漸被陸地覆蓋,
失既變成了得,得又變成了失;
當我看見這一切擾攘和廢興,
或者連廢興一旦也化為烏有;
毀滅便教我再三這樣地反省︰
時光終要跑來把我的愛帶走。
  哦,多麼致命的思想!它只能夠
  哭著去把那刻刻怕失去的佔有。
  
六五

既然銅、石、或大地、或無邊的海,
沒有不屈服于那陰慘的無常,
美,她的活力比一朵花還柔脆,
怎能和他那肅殺的嚴重抵抗?
哦,夏天溫馨的呼息怎能支持
殘暴的日子刻刻猛烈的轟炸,
當岩石,無論多麼麼險固,或鋼扉,
無論多堅強,都要被時光熔化?
哦,駭人的思想!時光的珍飾,
唉,怎能夠不被收進時光的寶箱?
什麼勁手能挽他的捷足回來,
或者誰能禁止他把美麗奪搶?
  哦,沒有誰,除非這奇跡有力量︰
  我的愛在翰墨里永久放光芒。
  
六六

厭了這一切,我向安息的死疾呼,
比方,眼見天才注定做叫化子,
無聊的草包打扮得衣冠楚楚,
純潔的信義不幸而被人背棄,
金冠可恥地戴在行尸的頭上,
處女的貞操遭受暴徒的玷辱,
嚴肅的正義被人非法地詬讓,
壯士被當權的跛子弄成殘缺,
愚蠢擺起博士架子駕馭才能,
藝術被官府統治得結舌箝口,
淳樸的真誠被人瞎稱為愚笨,
囚徒"善"不得不把統帥"惡"伺候︰
  厭了這一切,我要離開人寰,
  但,我一死,我的愛人便孤單。
  
六七

唉,我的愛為什麼要和臭腐同居,
把他的綽約的豐姿讓人褻瀆,
以至罪惡得以和他結成伴侶,
涂上純潔的外表來眩耀耳目?
騙人的脂粉為什麼要替他寫真,
從他的奕奕神采偷取死形似?
為什麼,既然他是玫瑰花的真身,
可憐的美還要找玫瑰的影子?
為什麼他得活著,當造化破了產,
缺乏鮮血去灌注淡紅的脈絡?
因為造化現在只有他作富源,
自夸富有,卻靠他的利潤過活。
  哦,她珍藏他,為使荒歉的今天
  認識從前曾有過怎樣的豐年。
  
六八

這樣,他的朱顏是古代的圖志,
那時美開了又謝像今天花一樣,
那時冒牌的艷色還未曾出世,
或未敢公然高據活人的額上,
那時死者的美發,墳墓的財產,
還未被偷剪下來,去活第二回
在第二個頭上?;那時美的死金鬟
還未被用來使別人顯得華貴︰
這聖潔的古代在他身上呈現,
赤裸裸的真容,毫無一點鉛華,
不用別人的青翠做他的夏天,
不掠取舊脂粉妝飾他的鮮花;
  就這樣造化把他當圖志珍藏,
  讓假藝術賞識古代美的真相。
  
六九

你那眾目共睹的無瑕的芳容,
誰的心思都不能再加以增改;
眾口,靈魂的聲音,都一致贊同︰
赤的真理,連仇人也無法掩蓋。
這樣,表面的贊揚載滿你儀表;
但同一聲音,既致應有的崇敬,
便另換口吻去把這贊揚勾消,
當心靈看到眼看不到的內心。
它們向你那靈魂的美的海洋
用你的操行作測量器去探究,
于是吝嗇的思想,眼楮雖大方,
便加給你的鮮花以野草的惡臭︰
  為什麼你的香味趕不上外觀?
  土壤是這樣,你自然長得平凡。
  
七○

你受人指摘,並不是你的瑕疵,
因為美麗永遠是誹謗的對象;
美麗的無上的裝飾就是猜疑,
像烏鴉在最晴朗的天空飛翔。
所以,檢點些,讒言只能更恭維
你的美德,既然時光對你鐘情;
因為惡蛆最愛那甜蜜的嫩蕊,
而你的正是純潔無瑕的初春。
你已經越過年輕日子的埋伏,
或未遭遇襲擊,或已克服敵手;
可是,對你這樣的贊美並不足
堵住那不斷擴大的嫉妒的口︰
  若沒有猜疑把你的清光遮掩,
  多少個心靈的王國將歸你獨佔。
  
七一

我死去的時候別再為我悲哀,
當你听見那沉重淒慘的葬鐘
普告給全世界說我已經離開
這齷齪世界去伴最齷齪的蟲︰
不呀,當你讀到這詩,別再記起
那寫它的手;因為我愛到這樣,
寧願被遺忘在你甜蜜的心里,
如果想起我會使你不勝哀傷。
如果呀,我說,如果你看見這詩,
那時候或許我已經化作泥土,
連我這可憐的名字也別提起,
但願你的愛與我的生命同腐。
  免得這聰明世界猜透你的心,
  在我死去後把你也當作笑柄。
  
七二

哦,免得這世界要強逼你自招
我有什麼好處,使你在我死後
依舊愛我,愛人呀,把我全忘掉,
因外我一點值得提的都沒有;
除非你捏造出一些美麗的謊,
過分為我吹噓我應有的價值,
把瞑目長眠的我阿諛和夸獎,
遠超過鄙吝的事實所願昭示︰
哦,怕你的真愛因此顯得虛偽,
怕你為愛的原故替我說假話,
願我的名字永遠和肉體同埋,
免得活下去把你和我都羞煞。
  因為我可憐的作品使我羞慚,
  而你愛不值得愛的,也該愧赧。
  
七三

在我身上你或許會看見秋天,
當黃葉,或盡脫,或只三三兩兩
掛在瑟縮的枯枝上索索抖顫--
荒廢的歌壇,那里百鳥曾合唱。
在我身上你或許會看見暮靄,
它在日落後向西方徐徐消退︰
黑夜,死的化身,漸漸把它趕開,
嚴靜的安息籠住紛紜的萬類。
在我身上你或許全看見余燼,
它在青春的寒灰里奄奄一息,
在慘淡靈床上早晚總要斷魂,
給那滋養過它的烈焰所銷毀。
  看見了這些,你的愛就會加強,
  因為他轉瞬要辭你溘然長往。
  
七四

但是放心吧︰當那無情的拘票
終于絲毫不寬假地把我帶走,
我的生命在詩里將依然長保,
永生的紀念品,永久和你相守。
當你重讀這些詩,就等于重讀
我獻給你的至純無二的生命︰
塵土只能有它的份,那就是塵土;
靈魂卻屬你,這才是我的真身。
所以你不過失掉生命的糟粕
(當我肉體死後),惡蛆們的食餌,
無賴的刀下一個怯懦的俘獲,
太卑賤的穢物,不配被你記憶。
  它唯一的價值就在它的內蘊,
  那就是這詩︰這詩將和它長存。
  
七五

我的心需要你,像生命需要食糧,
或者像大地需要及時的甘霖;
為你的安寧我內心那麼淒惶
就像貪夫和他的財富作斗爭︰
他,有時自夸財主,然後又顧慮
這慣竊的時代會偷他的財寶;
我,有時覺得最好獨自伴著你,
忽然又覺得該把你當眾夸耀︰
有時飽餐秀色後膩到化不開,
漸漸地又餓得慌要瞟你一眼;
既不佔有也不追求別的歡快,
除掉那你已施或要施的恩典。
  這樣,我整天垂涎或整天不消化,
  我狼吞虎咽,或一點也咽不下。
  
七六

為什麼我的詩那麼缺新光彩,
趕不上現代善變多姿的風尚?
為什麼我不學時人旁征博采
那競奇斗艷,窮妍極巧的新腔?
為什麼我寫的始終別無二致,
寓情思旨趣于一些老調陳言,
幾乎每一句都說出我的名字,
透露它們的身世,它們的來源?
哦,須知道,我愛呵,我只把你描,
你和愛情就是我唯一的主題;
推陳出新是我的無上的訣竅,
我把開支過的,不斷重新開支︰
  因為,正如太陽天天新天天舊,
  我的愛把說過的事絮絮不休。
  
七七

鏡子將告訴你朱顏怎樣消逝,
日規怎樣一秒秒耗去你的華年;
這白紙所要記錄的你的心跡
將教你細細玩味下面的教言。
你的鏡子所忠實反映的皺紋
將令你記起那張開口的墳墓;
從日規上陰影的潛移你將認清,
時光走向永劫的悄悄的腳步。
看,把記憶所不能保留的東西
交給這張白紙,在那里面你將
看見你精神的產兒受到撫育,
使你重新認識你心靈的本相。
  這些日課,只要你常拿來重溫,
  將有利于你,並豐富你的書本。
  
七八

我常常把你當詩神向你禱告,
在詩里找到那麼有力的神助,
以致凡陌生的筆都把我仿效,
在你名義下把他們的詩散布。
你的眼楮,曾教會啞巴們歌唱,
曾教會沉重的愚昧高飛上天,
又把新羽毛加給博學的翅膀,
加給溫文爾雅以兩重的尊嚴。
可是我的詩應該最使你驕傲,
它們的誕生全在你的感召下︰
對別人的作品你只潤飾格調,
用你的美在他們才華上添花。
  但對于我,你就是我全部藝術,
  把我的愚拙提到博學的高度。
  
七九

當初我獨自一個懇求你協助,
只有我的詩佔有你一切嫵媚;
但現在我清新的韻律既陳腐,
我的病詩神只好給別人讓位。
我承認,愛呵,你這美妙的題材
值得更高明的筆的精寫細描;
可是你的詩人不過向你還債,
他把奪自你的當作他的創造。
他賜你美德,美德這詞他只從
你的行為偷取;他加給你秀妍,
其實從你頰上得來;他的歌頌
沒有一句不是從你身上發見。
  那麼,請別感激他對你的稱贊,
  既然他只把欠你的向你償還。
  
八○

哦,我寫到你的時候多麼氣餒,
得知有更大的天才利用你名字,
他不惜費盡力氣去把你贊美,
使我箝口結舌,一提起你聲譽!
但你的價值,像海洋一樣無邊,
不管輕舟或艨艟同樣能載起,
我這莽撞的艇,盡管小得可憐,
也向你茫茫的海心大膽行駛。
你最淺的灘瀨已足使我浮泛,
而他岸岸然駛向你萬頃汪洋;
或者,萬一覆沒,我只是片輕帆,
他卻是結構雄偉,氣宇軒昂︰
  如果他安全到達,而我遭失敗,
  最不幸的是︰毀我的是我的愛。

八一

無論我將活著為你寫墓志銘,
或你未亡而我已在地下腐朽,
縱使我已被遺忘得一干二淨,
死神將不能把你的憶念奪走。
你的名字將從這詩里得永生,
雖然我,一去,對人間便等于死;
大地只能夠給我一座亂葬墳,
而你卻將長埋在人們眼楮里。
我這些小詩便是你的紀念碑,
未來的眼楮固然要百讀不厭,
未來的舌頭也將要傳誦不衰,
當現在呼吸的人已瞑目長眠。
  這強勁的筆將使你活在生氣
  最蓬勃的地方,在人們的嘴里。
  
八二

我承認你並沒有和我的詩神
結同心,因而可以絲毫無愧恧
去俯覽那些把你作主題的詩人
對你的贊美,褒獎著每本詩集。
你的智慧和姿色都一樣出眾,
又發覺你的價值比我的贊美高,
因而你不得不到別處去追蹤
這邁進時代的更生動的寫照。
就這麼辦,愛呵,但當他們既已
使盡了浮夸的辭藻把你刻劃,
真美的你只能由真誠的知己
用真樸的話把你真實地表達;
  他們的濃脂粉只配拿去染紅
  貧血的臉頰;對于你卻是濫用。
  
八三

我從不覺得你需要涂脂蕩粉,
因而從不用脂粉涂你的朱顏;
我發覺,或以為發覺,你的豐韻
遠超過詩人獻你的無味繾綣︰
因此,關于你我的歌只裝打盹,
好讓你自己生動地現身說法,
證明時下的文筆是多麼粗笨,
想把美德,你身上的美德增華。
你把我這沉默認為我的罪行,
其實卻應該是我最大的榮光;
因為我不作聲于美絲毫無損,
別人想給你生命,反把你埋葬。
  你的兩位詩人所模擬的贊美,
  遠不如你一只慧眼所藏的光輝。
  
八四

誰說得最好?哪個說得更圓滿
比起這豐美的贊詞︰"只有你是你"?
這贊詞蘊藏著你的全部資產,
誰和你爭妍,就必須和它比擬。
那枝文筆實在是貧瘠得可憐,
如果它不能把題材稍事增華;
但誰寫到你,只要他能夠表現
你就是你,他的故事已夠偉大。
讓他只照你原稿忠實地直抄,
別把造化的清新的素描弄壞,
這樣的摹本已顯出他的巧妙,
使他的風格到處受人們崇拜。
  你將對你美的祝福加以咒詛︰
  太愛人贊美,連美也變成庸俗。
  
八五

我的緘口的詩神只脈脈無語;
他們對你的美評卻累牘連篇,
用金筆刻成輝煌奪目的大字,
和經過一切藝神雕琢的名言。
我滿腔熱情,他們卻善頌善禱;
像不識字的牧師只知喊"阿門",
去響應才子們用精煉的筆調
熔鑄成的每一首贊美的歌詠。
听見人贊美你,我說,"的確,很對",
憑他們怎樣歌頌我總嫌不夠;
但只在心里說,因為我對你的愛
雖拙于詞令,行動卻永遠帶頭。
  那麼,請敬他們,為他們的虛文;
  敬我,為我的啞口無言的真誠。
  
八六

是否他那雄渾的詩句,昂昂然
揚帆直駛去奪取太寶貴的你,
使我成熟的思想在腦里流產,
把孕育它們的胎盤變成墓地?
是否他的心靈,從幽靈學會寫
超凡的警句,把我活生生殛斃?
不,既不是他本人,也不是黑夜
遣送給他的助手,能使我昏迷。
他,或他那個和善可親的幽靈
(它夜夜用機智騙他),都不能自豪
是他們把我打垮,使我默不作聲;
他們的威脅絕不能把我嚇倒。
  但當他的詩充滿了你的鼓勵,
  我就要缺靈感;這才使我喪氣。
  
八七

再會吧!你太寶貴了,我無法高攀;
顯然你也曉得你自己的聲價︰
你的價值的證券夠把你贖還,
我對你的債權只好全部作罷。
因為,不經你批準,我怎能佔有你?
我哪有福氣消受這樣的珍寶?
這美惠對于我既然毫無根據,
便不得不取消我的專利執照。
你曾許了我,因為低估了自己,
不然就錯識了我,你的受賜者;
因此,你這份厚禮,既出自誤會,
就歸還給你,經過更好的判決。
  這樣,我曾佔有你,像一個美夢,
  在夢里稱王,醒來只是一場空。
  
八八

當你有一天下決心瞧我不起,
用侮蔑的眼光衡量我的輕重,
我將站在你那邊打擊我自己,
證明你賢德,盡管你已經背盟。
對自己的弱點我既那麼內行,
我將為你的利益捏造我種種
無人覺察的過失,把自己中傷;
使你拋棄了我反而得到光榮︰
而我也可以借此而大有收獲;
因為我全部情思那麼傾向你,
我為自己所招惹的一切侮辱
既對你有利,對我就加倍有利。
  我那麼衷心屬你,我愛到那樣,
  為你的美譽願承當一切誹謗。
  
八九

說你拋棄我是為了我的過失,
我立刻會對這冒犯加以闡說︰
叫我做瘸子,我馬上兩腳都,
對你的理由絕不作任何反駁。
為了替你的反復無常找借口,
愛呵,憑你怎樣侮辱我,總比不上
我侮辱自己來得厲害;既看透
你心腸,我就要絞殺交情,假裝
路人避開你;你那可愛的名字,
那麼香,將永不掛在我的舌頭,
生怕我,太褻瀆了,會把它委屈;
萬一還會把我們的舊歡泄漏。
  我為你將展盡辯才反對自己,
  因為你所憎惡的,我絕不愛惜。
  
九○

恨我,倘若你高興;請現在就開首;
現在,當舉世都起來和我作對,
請趁勢為命運助威,逼我低頭,
別意外地走來作事後的摧毀。
唉,不要,當我的心已擺脫煩惱,
來為一個已克服的厄難作殿,
不要在暴風後再來一個雨朝,
把那注定的浩劫的來臨拖延。
如果你要離開我,別等到最後,
當其他的煩憂已經肆盡暴虐;
請一開頭就來︰讓我好先嘗夠
命運的權威應有盡有的凶惡。
  于是別的苦痛,現在顯得苦痛,
  比起喪失你來便要無影無蹤。
  
九一

有人夸耀門第,有人夸耀技巧,
有人夸耀財富,有人夸耀體力;
有人夸耀新妝,丑怪盡管時髦;
有人夸耀鷹犬,有人夸耀駿驥;
每種嗜好都各饒特殊的趣味,
每一種都各自以為其樂無窮︰
可是這些癖好都不合我口胃--
我把它們融入更大的樂趣中。
你的愛對我比門第還要豪華,
比財富還要豐裕,比艷妝光彩,
它的樂趣遠勝過鷹犬和駿馬;
有了你,我便可以笑傲全世界︰
  只有這點可憐︰你隨時可罷免
  我這一切,使我成無比的可憐。
  
九二

但盡管你不顧一切偷偷溜走,
直到生命終點你還是屬于我。
生命也不會比你的愛更長久,
因為生命只靠你的愛才能活。
因此,我就不用怕最大的災害,
既然最小的已足置我于死地。
我瞥見一個對我更幸福的境界,
它不會隨著你的愛憎而轉移︰
你的反復再也不能使我頹喪,
既然你一反臉我生命便完畢。
哦,我找到了多麼幸福的保障︰
幸福地享受你的愛,幸福地死去!
  但人間哪有不怕玷污的美滿?
  你可以變心腸,同時對我隱瞞。
  
九三

于是我將活下去,認定你忠貞,
像被騙的丈夫,于是愛的面目
對我仍舊是愛,雖則已翻了新;
眼楮盡望著我,心兒卻在別處︰
憎恨既無法存在于你的眼里,
我就無法看出你心腸的改變。
許多人每段假情假義的歷史
都在顰眉、蹙額或氣色上表現;
但上天造你的時候早已注定
柔情要永遠在你的臉上逗留;
不管你的心怎樣變幻無憑準,
你眼楮只能訴說旖旎和溫柔。
  你的嫵媚會變成夏娃的隻果,
  如果你的美德跟外表不配合。
  
九四

誰有力量損害人而不這樣干,
誰不做人以為他們愛做的事,
誰使人動情,自己卻石頭一般,
冰冷、無動于衷,對誘惑能抗拒--
誰就恰當地承受上天的恩寵,
善于貯藏和保管造化的財富;
他們才是自己美貌的主人翁,
而別人只是自己姿色的家奴。
夏天的花把夏天燻得多芳馥,
雖然對自己它只自開又自落,
但是那花若染上卑劣的病毒,
最賤的野草也比它高貴得多︰
  極香的東西一腐爛就成極臭,
  爛百合花比野草更臭得難受。
  
九五

恥辱被你弄成多溫柔多可愛!
恰像馥郁的玫瑰花心的毛蟲,
它把你含苞欲放的美名污敗!
哦,多少溫馨把你的罪過遮蒙!
那講述你的生平故事的長舌,
想對你的娛樂作淫猥的評論,
只能用一種贊美口氣來貶責︰
一提起你名字,誣蔑也變諂佞。
哦,那些罪過找到了多大的華廈,
當它們把你挑選來作安樂窩,
在那兒美為污點披上了輕紗,
在那兒觸目的一切都變清和!
  警惕呵,心肝,為你這特權警惕;
  最快的刀被濫用也失去鋒利!
  
九六

有人說你的缺點在年少放蕩;
有人說你的魅力在年少風流;
魅力和缺點都多少受人贊賞︰
缺點變成添在魅力上的錦繡。
寶座上的女王手上戴的戒指,
就是最賤的寶石也受人尊重,
同樣,那在你身上出現的瑕疵
也變成真理,當作真理被推崇。
多少綿羊會受到野狼的引誘,
假如野狼戴上了綿羊的面目!
多少愛慕你的人會被你拐走,
假如你肯把你全部力量使出!
  可別這樣做;我既然這樣愛你,
  你是我的,我的光榮也屬于你。
  
九七

離開了你,日子多麼像嚴冬,
你,飛逝的流年中唯一的歡樂!
天色多陰暗!我又受盡了寒凍!
觸目是龍鍾臘月的一片蕭索!
可是別離的時期恰好是夏日;
和膨脹著累累的豐收的秋天,
滿載著青春的淫蕩結下的果實,
好像懷胎的新寡婦,大腹便便︰
但是這累累的豐收,在我看來,
只能成無父孤兒和乖異的果;
因夏天和它的歡娛把你款待,
你不在,連小鳥也停止了唱歌;
  或者,即使它們唱,聲調那麼沉,
  樹葉全變灰了,生怕冬天降臨。
  
九八

我離開你的時候正好是春天,
當絢爛的四月,披上新的錦襖,
把活潑的春心給萬物灌注遍,
連沉重的土星?也跟著笑和跳。
可是無論小鳥的歌唱,或萬紫
千紅、芬芳四溢的一簇簇鮮花,
都不能使我訴說夏天的故事,
或從爛熳的山窪把它們采掐︰
我也不羨慕那百合花的潔白,
也不贊美玫瑰花的一片紅暈;
它們不過是香,是悅目的雕刻,
你才是它們所要摹擬的真身。
  因此,于我還是嚴冬,而你不在,
  像逗著你影子,我逗它們開懷。
  
九九*

我對孟浪的紫羅蘭這樣譴責︰
"溫柔賊,你哪里偷來這縷溫馨,
若不是從我愛的呼息?這紫色
在你的柔頰上抹了一層紅暈,
還不是從我愛的血管里染得?"
我申斥百合花盜用了你的手,
茉沃蘭的蓓蕾偷取你的柔發;
站在刺上的玫瑰花嚇得直抖,
一朵羞得通紅,一朵絕望到發白,
另一朵,不紅不白,從雙方偷來;
還在贓物上添上了你的呼息,
但既犯了盜竊,當它正昂頭盛開,
一條怒沖沖的毛蟲把它咬死。
  我還看見許多花,但沒有一朵
  不從你那里偷取芬芳和婀娜。
  
一○○

你在哪里,詩神,竟長期忘記掉
把你的一切力量的源頭歌唱?
為什麼浪費狂熱于一些濫調,
消耗你的光去把俗物照亮?
回來吧,健忘的詩神,立刻輕彈
宛轉的旋律,贖回虛度的光陰;
唱給那衷心愛慕你並把靈感
和技巧賜給你的筆的耳朵听。
起來,懶詩神,檢查我愛的秀容,
看時光可曾在那里刻下皺紋;
假如有,就要盡量把衰老嘲諷,
使時光的剽竊到處遭人齒冷。
  快使愛成名,趁時光未下手前,
  你就擋得住它的風刀和霜劍。

一○一

偷懶的詩神呵,你將怎樣補救
你對那被美渲染的真的怠慢?
真和美都與我的愛相依相守;
你也一樣,要倚靠它才得通顯。
說吧,詩神;你或許會這樣回答︰
"真的固定色彩不必用色彩繪;
美也不用翰墨把美的真容畫;
用不著攙雜,完美永遠是完美。"
難道他不需要贊美,你就不作聲?
別替緘默辯護,因為你有力量
使他比鍍金的墳墓更享遐齡,
並在未來的年代永受人贊揚。
  當仁不讓吧,詩神,我要教你怎樣
  使他今後和現在一樣受景仰。
  
一○二

我的愛加強了,雖然看來更弱;
我的愛一樣熱,雖然表面稍冷︰
誰把他心中的崇拜到處傳播,
就等于把他的愛情看作商品。
我們那時才新戀,又正當春天,
我慣用我的歌去歡迎它來歸,
像夜鶯在夏天門前徹夜清囀,
到了盛夏的日子便停止歌吹。
並非現在夏天沒有那麼愜意
比起萬籟靜听它哀唱的時候,
只為狂歡的音樂載滿每一枝,
太普通,意味便沒有那麼深悠。
  所以,像它,我有時也默默無言,
  免得我的歌,太繁了,使你煩厭。
  
一○三

我的詩神的產品多貧乏可憐!
分明有無限天地可炫耀才華,
可是她的題材,盡管一無妝點,
比加上我的贊美價值還要大!
別非難我,如果我寫不出什麼!
照照鏡子吧,看你鏡中的面孔
多麼超越我的怪笨拙的創作,
使我的詩失色,叫我無地自容。
那可不是罪過嗎,努力要增飾,
反而把原來無瑕的題材涂毀?
因為我的詩並沒有其他目的,
除了要模仿你的才情和嫵媚;
  是的,你的鏡子,當你向它端詳,
  所反映的遠遠多于我的詩章。
  
一○四

對于我,俊友,你永遠不會哀老,
因為自從我的眼踫見你的眼,
你還是一樣美。三個嚴冬搖掉
三個蒼翠的夏天的樹葉和光艷,
三個陽春三度化作秋天的枯黃。
時序使我三度看見四月的芳菲
三度被六月的炎炎烈火燒光。
但你,還是和初見時一樣明媚;
唉,可是美,像時針,它躡著腳步
移過鐘面,你看不見它的蹤影;
同樣,你的姣顏,我以為是常駐,
其實在移動,迷惑的是我的眼楮。
  顫栗吧,未來的時代,听我呼吁︰
  你還沒有生,美的夏天已死去。
  
一○五

不要把我的愛叫作偶像崇拜,
也不要把我的愛人當偶像看,
既然所有我的歌和我的贊美
都獻給一個、為一個,永無變換。
我的愛今天仁慈,明天也仁慈,
有著驚人的美德,永遠不變心,
所以我的詩也一樣堅貞不渝,
全省掉差異,只敘述一件事情。
"美、善和真",就是我全部的題材,
"美、善和真",用不同的詞句表現;
我的創造就在這變化上演才,
三題一體,它的境界可真無限。
  過去"美、善和真"常常分道揚鑣,
  到今天才在一個人身上協調。
  
一○六

當我從那湮遠的古代的紀年
發見那絕代風流人物的寫真,
艷色使得古老的歌詠也香艷,
頌贊著多情騎士和絕命佳人,
于是,從那些國色天姿的描畫,
無論手腳、嘴唇、或眼楮或眉額,
我發覺那些古拙的筆所表達
恰好是你現在所佔領的姿色。
所以他們的贊美無非是預言
我們這時代,一切都預告著你;
不過他們觀察只用想象的眼,
還不夠才華把你歌頌得盡致︰
  而我們,幸而得親眼看見今天,
  只有眼驚羨,卻沒有舌頭詠嘆。
  
一○七

無論我自己的憂慮,或那夢想著
未來的這茫茫世界的先知靈魂,
都不能限制我的真愛的租約,
縱使它已注定作命運的抵償品。
人間的月亮已度過被蝕的災難,
不祥的佔卜把自己的預言嘲諷,
動蕩和疑慮既已獲得了保險,
和平在宣告橄橄枝永久蔥蘢。
于是在這時代甘露的遍灑下,
我的愛面貌一新,而死神降伏,
既然我將活在這拙作里,任憑他
把那些愚鈍的無言的種族凌辱。
  你將在這里找著你的紀念碑,
  魔王的金盔和銅墓卻被銷毀。
  
一○八

腦袋里有什麼,筆墨形容得出,
我這顆真心不已經對你描畫?
還有什麼新東西可說可記錄,
以表白我的愛或者你的真價?
沒有,乖乖;可是,虔誠的禱詞
我沒有一天不把它復說一遍;
老話並不老;你屬我,我也屬你,
就像我祝福你名字的頭一天。
所以永恆的愛在長青愛匣里
不會蒙受年歲的損害和塵土,
不會讓皺紋佔據應有的位置,
反而把老時光當作永久的家奴;
  發覺最初的愛苗依舊得保養,
  盡管時光和外貌都盼它枯黃。
  
一○九

哦,千萬別埋怨我改變過心腸,
別離雖似乎減低了我的熱情。
正如我拋不開自己遠走他方,
我也一刻離不開你,我的靈魂。
你是我的愛的家︰我雖曾流浪,
現在已經像遠行的游子歸來;
並準時到家,沒有跟時光改樣,
而且把洗滌我污點的水帶來。
哦,請千萬別相信(盡管我難免
和別人一樣經不起各種試誘)
我的天性會那麼荒唐和鄙賤
竟拋棄你這至寶去追求烏有;
  這無垠的宇宙對我都是虛幻;
  你才是,我的玫瑰,我全部財產。
  
一一○

唉,我的確曾經常東奔西跑,
扮作斑衣的小丑供眾人賞玩,
違背我的意志,把至寶賤賣掉,
為了新交不惜把舊知交冒犯;
更千真萬確我曾經斜著冷眼
去看真情;但天呀,這種種離乖
給我的心帶來了另一個春天,
最壞的考驗證實了你的真愛。
現在一切都過去了,請你接受
無盡的友誼︰我不再把欲望磨利,
用新的試探去考驗我的老友--
那拘禁我的、鐘情于我的神。
  那麼,歡迎我吧,我的人間的天,
  迎接我到你最親的純潔的胸間。
  
一一一

哦,請為我把命運的女神詬讓,
她是嗾使我造成業障的主犯,
因為她對我的生活別無贍養,
除了養成我粗鄙的眾人米飯。
因而我的名字就把烙印?接受,
也幾乎為了這緣故我的天性
被職業所玷污,如同染工的手︰
可憐我吧,並祝福我獲得更新;
像個溫順的病人,我甘心飲服
澀嘴的醋來消除我的重感染?;
不管它多苦,我將一點不覺苦,
也不辭兩重懺悔以贖我的罪愆。
  請憐憫我吧,摯友,我向你擔保
  你的憐憫已經夠把我醫治好。
  
一一二

你的愛憐抹掉那世俗的譏讒
打在我的額上的恥辱的烙印;
別人的毀譽對我有什麼相干,
你既表揚我的善又把惡遮隱!
你是我整個宇宙,我必須努力
從你的口里听取我的榮和辱;
我把別人,別人把我,都當作死,
誰能使我的鐵心腸變善或變惡?
別人的意見我全扔入了深淵,
那麼干淨,我簡直像聾蛇一般,
憑他奉承或誹謗都充耳不聞。
請傾听我怎樣原諒我的冷淡︰
  你那麼根深蒂固長在我心里,
  全世界,除了你,我都認為死去。
  
一一三

自從離開你,眼楮便移居心里,
于是那雙指揮我行動的眼楮,
既把職守分開,就成了半瞎子,
自以為還看見,其實已經失明;
因為它們所接觸的任何形狀,
花鳥或姿態,都不能再傳給心,
自己也留不住把捉到的景象;
一切過眼的事物心兒都無份。
因為一見粗俗或幽雅的景色,
最畸形的怪物或絕艷的面孔,
山或海,日或夜,烏鴉或者白鴿,
眼楮立刻塑成你美妙的姿容。
  心中滿是你,什麼再也裝不下,
  就這樣我的真心教眼楮說假話。
  
一一四

是否我的心,既把你當王冠戴,
喝過帝王們的鴆毒--自我阿諛?
還是我該說,我眼楮說的全對,
因為你的愛教會它這煉金術,
使它能夠把一切蛇神和牛鬼
轉化為和你一樣柔媚的天嬰,
把每個丑惡改造成盡善盡美,
只要事物在它的柔輝下現形?
哦,是前者;是眼楮的自我陶醉,
我偉大的心靈把它一口喝盡︰
眼楮曉得投合我心靈的口味,
為它準備好這杯可口的毒飲。
  盡管杯中有毒,罪過總比較輕,
  因為先愛上它的是我的眼楮。
  
一一五

我從前寫的那些詩全都撒謊,
連那些說"我愛你到極點"在內,
可是那時候我的確無法想象
白熱的火還發得出更大光輝。
只害怕時光的無數意外事故
鑽進密約間,勾銷帝王的意旨,
曬黑美色,並挫鈍鋒銳的企圖,
使倔強的心屈從事物的隆替︰
唉,為什麼,既怵于時光的專橫,
我不可說,"現在我愛你到極點,"
當我擺脫掉疑慮,充滿著信心,
覺得來日不可期,只掌握目前?
  愛是嬰兒;難道我不可這樣講,
  去促使在生長中的羽毛豐滿?
  
一一六

我絕不承認兩顆真心的結合
會有任何障礙;愛算不得真愛,
若是一看見人家改變便轉舵,
或者一看見人家轉彎便離開。
哦,決不!愛是亙古長明的塔燈,
它定楮望著風暴卻兀不為動;
愛又是指引迷舟的一顆恆星,
你可量它多高,它所值卻無窮。
愛不受時光的播弄,盡管紅顏
和皓齒難免遭受時光的毒手;
愛並不因瞬息的改變而改變,
它巍然矗立直到末日的盡頭。
  我這話若說錯,並被證明不確,
  就算我沒寫詩,也沒人真愛過。
  
一一七

請這樣控告我︰說我默不作聲,
盡管對你的深恩我應當酬謝;
說我忘記向你繾綣的愛慰問,
盡管我對你依戀一天天密切;
說我時常和陌生的心靈來往,
為偶爾機緣斷送你寶貴情誼;
說我不管什麼風都把帆高揚,
任它們把我吹到天涯海角去。
請把我的任性和錯誤都記下,
在真憑實據上還要積累嫌疑,
把我帶到你的顰眉蹙額底下,
千萬別喚醒怨毒來把我射死;
  因為我的訴狀說我急于證明
  你對我的愛多麼忠貞和堅定。
  
一一八

好比我們為了促使食欲增進,
用種種辛辣調味品刺激胃口;
又好比服清瀉劑以預防大病,
用較輕的病截斷重癥的根由;
同樣,飽嘗了你的不膩人的甜蜜,
我選上苦醬來當作我的食料;
厭倦了健康,覺得病也有意思,
盡管我還沒有到生病的必要。
這樣,為采用先發制病的手段,
愛的策略變成了真實的過失︰
我對健康的身體亂投下藥丹,
用痛苦來把過度的幸福療治。
  但我由此取得這真正的教訓︰
  藥也會變毒,誰若因愛你而生病。
  
一一九

我曾喝下了多少鮫人的淚珠
從我心中地獄般的鍋里蒸出來,
把恐懼當希望,又把希望當恐懼,
眼看著要勝利,結果還是失敗!
我的心犯了多少可憐的錯誤,
正好當它自以為再幸福不過;
我的眼楮怎樣地從眼眶躍出,
當我被瘋狂昏亂的熱病折磨!
哦,壞事變好事!我現在才知道
善的確常常因惡而變得更善!
被摧毀的愛,一旦重新修建好,
就比原來更宏偉、更美、更強頑。
  因此,我受了譴責,反心滿意足;
  因禍,我獲得過去的三倍幸福。
  
一二○

你對我狠過心反而于我有利︰
想起你當時使我受到的痛創,
我只好在我的過失下把頭低,
既然我的神經不是銅或精鋼。
因為,你若受過我狠心的搖撼,
像我所受的,該熬過多苦的日子!
可是我這暴君從沒有抽過閑
來衡量你的罪行對我的打擊!
哦,但願我們那悲怛之夜能使我
牢牢記住真悲哀打擊得多慘,
我就會立刻遞給你,像你遞給我,
那撫慰碎了的心的微賤藥丹。
  但你的罪行現在變成了保證,
  我贖你的罪,你也贖我的敗行。

一二一

寧可卑劣,也不願負卑劣的虛名,
當我們的清白蒙上不白之冤,
當正當的娛樂被人妄加惡聲,
不體察我們的感情,只憑偏見。
為什麼別人虛偽淫猥的眼楮
有權贊揚或詆毀我活躍的血?
專偵伺我的弱點而比我壞的人
為什麼把我認為善的恣意污蔑?
我就是我,他們對于我的詆毀
只能夠宣揚他們自己的卑鄙︰
我本方正,他們的視線自不軌;
這種壞心眼怎麼配把我非議?
  除非他們固執這糊涂的邪說︰
  惡是人性,統治著世間的是惡。
  
一二二

你贈我的手冊已經一筆一劃
永不磨滅地刻在我的心版上,
它將超越無聊的名位的高下,
跨過一切時代,以至無窮無疆︰
或者,至少直到大自然的規律
容許心和腦繼續存在的一天;
直到它們把你每部分都讓給
遺忘,你的記憶將永遠不逸散。
可憐的手冊就無法那樣持久,
我也不用籌碼把你的愛登記;
所以你的手冊我大膽地放走,
把你交給更能珍藏你的冊子︰
  要靠備忘錄才不會把你遺忘,
  豈不等于表明我對你也善忘?
  
一二三

不,時光,你斷不能夸說我在變︰
你新建的金字塔,不管多雄壯,
對我一點不稀奇,一點不新鮮;
它們只是舊景象披上了新裝。
我們的生命太短促,所以羨慕
你拿來蒙騙我們的那些舊貨;
幻想它們是我們心願的產物,
不肯信從前曾經有人談起過。
對你和你的紀錄我同樣不賣賬,
過去和現在都不能使我驚奇,
因為你的記載和我所見都扯謊,
都多少是你疾馳中造下的孽跡。
  我敢這樣發誓︰我將萬古不渝,
  不管你和你的鐮刀多麼鋒利。
  
一二四

假如我的愛只是權勢的嫡種,
它就會是命運的無父的私生子,
受時光的寵辱所磨折和播弄,
同野草閑花一起任人們采刈。
不呀,它並不是建立在偶然上;
它既不為榮華的笑顏所轉移,
也經受得起我們這時代風尚
司空見慣的抑郁、憤懣的打擊︰
它不害怕那只在短期間有效、
到處散播異端和邪說的權謀,
不因驕陽而生長,雨也沖不掉,
它巍然獨立在那里,深思熟籌。
  被時光愚弄的人們,起來作證!
  你們畢生作惡,卻一死得干淨。
  
一二五

這對我何益,縱使我高擎華蓋,
用我的外表來為你妝點門面,
或奠下偉大基礎,要留芳萬代,
其實比荒涼和毀滅為期更短?
難道我沒見過拘守儀表的人,
付出高昂的代價,卻喪失一切,
厭棄淡泊而拚命去追求葷辛,
可憐的贏利者,在顧盼中雕謝?
不,請讓我在你心里長保忠貞,
收下這份菲薄但由衷的獻禮,
它不攙雜次品,也不包藏機心,
而只是你我間互相致送誠意。
  被收買的告密者,滾開!你越誣告
  真摯的心,越不能損害它分毫。
  
一二六*

你,小乖乖,時光的無常的沙漏
和時辰(他的小鐮刀)都听你左右;
你在虧缺中生長,並昭示大眾
你的愛人如何雕零而你向榮;
如果造化(掌握盈虧的大主宰),
在你邁步前進時把你挽回來,
她的目的只是︰賣弄她的手法
去丟時光的臉,並把分秒扼殺。
可是你得怕她,你,她的小乖乖!
她只能暫留,並非常保,她的寶貝!
她的賬目,雖延了期,必須清算︰
要清償債務,她就得把你交還。

一二七

在遠古的時代黑並不算秀俊,
即使算,也沒有把美的名掛上;
但如今黑既成為美的繼承人,
于是美便招來了侮辱和誹謗。
因為自從每只手都修飾自然,
用藝術的假面貌去美化丑惡,
溫馨的美便失掉聲價和聖殿,
縱不忍辱偷生,也遭了褻瀆。
所以我情婦的頭發黑如烏鴉,
眼楮也恰好相襯,就像在哀泣
那些生來不美卻迷人的冤家,
用假名聲去中傷造化的真譽。
  這哀泣那麼配合她們的悲痛,
  大家齊聲說︰這就是美的真容。
  
一二八

多少次,我的音樂,當你在彈奏
音樂,我眼看那些幸福的琴鍵
跟著你那輕盈的手指的挑逗,
發出悅耳的旋律,使我魂倒神顛--
我多麼艷羨那些琴鍵輕快地
跳起來狂吻你那溫柔的掌心,
而我可憐的嘴唇,本該有這權利,
只能紅著臉對琴鍵的放肆出神!
經不起這引逗,我嘴唇巴不得
做那些舞蹈著的得意小木片,
因為你手指在它們身上輕掠,
使枯木比活嘴唇更值得艷羨。
  冒失的琴鍵既由此得到快樂,
  請把手指給它們,把嘴唇給我。
  
一二九

把精力消耗在恥辱的沙漠里,
就是色欲在行動;而在行動前,
色欲賭假咒、嗜血、好殺、滿身是
罪惡,凶殘、粗野、不可靠、走極端;
歡樂尚未央,馬上就感覺無味︰
毫不講理地追求;可是一到手,
又毫不講理地厭惡,像是專為
引上鉤者發狂而設下的釣鉤;
在追求時瘋狂,佔有時也瘋狂;
不管已有、現有、未有,全不放松;
感受時,幸福;感受完,無上災殃;
事前,巴望著的歡樂;事後,一場夢。
  這一切人共知;但誰也不知怎樣
  逃避這個引人下地獄的天堂。
  
一三○

我情婦的眼楮一點不像太陽;
珊瑚比她的嘴唇還要紅得多︰
雪若算白,她的胸就暗褐無光,
發若是鐵絲,她頭上鐵絲婆娑。
我見過紅白的玫瑰,輕紗一般;
她頰上卻找不到這樣的玫瑰;
有許多芳香非常逗引人喜歡,
我情婦的呼吸並沒有這香味。
我愛听她談話,可是我很清楚
音樂的悅耳遠勝于她的嗓子;
我承認從沒有見過女神走路,
我情婦走路時候卻腳踏實地︰
  可是,我敢指天發誓,我的愛侶
  勝似任何被捧作天仙的美女。
  
一三一

盡管你不算美,你的暴虐並不
亞于那些因美而驕橫的女人;
因為你知道我的心那麼糊涂,
把你當作世上的至美和至珍。
不過,說實話,見過你的人都說,
你的臉缺少使愛呻吟的魅力︰
盡管我心中發誓反對這說法,
我可還沒有公開否認的勇氣。
當然我發的誓一點也不欺人;
數不完的呻吟,一想起你的臉,
馬上聯翩而來,可以為我作證︰
對于我,你的黑勝于一切秀妍。
  你一點也不黑,除了你的人品,
  可能為了這原故,誹謗才流行。
  
一三二

我愛上了你的眼楮;你的眼楮
曉得你的心用輕蔑把我磨折,
對我的痛苦表示柔媚的悲憫,
就披上黑色,做旖旎的哭喪者。
而的確,無論天上燦爛的朝陽
多麼配合那東方蒼白的面容,
或那照耀著黃昏的明星煌煌
(它照破了西方的黯淡的天空),
都不如你的臉配上那雙淚眼。
哦,但願你那顆心也一樣為我
掛孝吧,既然喪服能使你增妍,
願它和全身一樣與悲憫配合。
  黑是美的本質(我那時就賭咒),
  一切缺少你的顏色的都是丑。
  
一三三

那使我的心呻吟的心該詛咒,
為了它給我和我的朋友的傷痕!
難道光是折磨我一個還不夠?
還要把朋友貶為奴隸的身分?
你冷酷的眼楮已奪走我自己,
那另一個我你又無情地霸佔︰
我已經被他(我自己)和你拋棄;
這使我遭受三三九倍的苦難。
請用你的鐵心把我的心包圍,
讓我可憐的心保釋朋友的心;
不管誰監視我,我都把他保衛;
你就不能在獄中再對我發狠。
  你還會發狠的,我是你的囚徒,
  我和我的一切必然任你擺布。
  
一三四

因此,現在我既承認他屬于你,
並照你的意旨把我當抵押品,
我情願讓你把我沒收,好教你
釋放另一個我來寬慰我的心︰
但你不肯放,他又不願被釋放,
因為你貪得無厭,他心腸又軟;
他作為保人簽字在那證券上,
為了開脫我,反而把自己緊拴。
分毫不放過的高利貸者,你將要
行使你的美麗賜給你的特權
去控訴那為我而負債的知交;
于是我失去他,因為把他欺騙。
  我把他失掉;你卻佔有他和我︰
  他還清了債,我依然不得開脫。
  
一三五*

假如女人有滿足,你就得如"願",
還有額外的心願,多到數不清;
而多余的我總是要把你糾纏,
想在你心願的花上添我的錦。
你的心願汪洋無邊,難道不能
容我把我的心願在里面隱埋?
難道別人的心願都那麼可親,
而我的心願就不配你的青睞?
大海,滿滿是水,照樣承受雨點,
好把它的貯藏品大量地增加;
多心願的你,就該把我的心願
添上,使你的心願得到更擴大。
  別讓無情的"不"把求愛者窒息;
  讓眾願同一願,而我就在這願里。
  
一三六

你的靈魂若罵你我走得太近,
請對你那瞎靈魂說我是你"心願",
而"心願",她曉得,對她並非陌生;
為了愛,讓我的愛如願吧,心肝。
心願將充塞你的愛情的寶藏,
請用心願充滿它,把我算一個,
須知道宏大的容器非常便當,
多裝或少裝一個算不了什麼。
請容許我混在隊伍中間進去,
不管怎樣說我總是其中之一;
把我看作微末不足道,但必須
把這微末看作你心愛的東西。
  把我名字當你的愛,始終如一,
  就是愛我,因為"心願"是我的名字。
  
一三七

又瞎又蠢的愛,你對我的眸子
干了什麼,以致它們視而不見?
它們認得美,也看見美在那里,
卻居然錯把那極惡當作至善。
我的眼楮若受了偏見的歪扭,
在那人人行駛的海灣里下錨,
你為何把它們的虛妄作成鉤,
把我的心的判斷力鉤得牢牢?
難道是我的心,明知那是公地,
硬把它當作私人游樂的花園?
還是我眼楮否認明顯的事實,
硬拿美麗的真蒙住丑惡的臉?
  我的心和眼既迷失了真方向,
  自然不得不陷入虛妄的膏肓。
  
一三八

我愛人賭咒說她渾身是忠實,
我相信她(雖然明知她在撒謊),
讓她認為我是個無知的孩子,
不懂得世間種種騙人的勾當。
于是我就妄想她當我還年輕,
雖然明知我盛年已一去不復返;
她的油嘴滑舌我天真地信任︰
這樣,純樸的真話雙方都隱瞞。
但是為什麼她不承認說假話?
為什麼我又不承認我已經衰老?
愛的習慣是連信任也成欺詐,
老年談戀愛最怕把年齡提到。
  因此,我既欺騙她,她也欺騙我,
  咱倆的愛情就在欺騙中作樂。
  
一三九

哦,別叫我原諒你的殘酷不仁
對于我的心的不公正的冒犯;
請用舌頭傷害我,可別用眼楮;
狠狠打擊我,殺我,可別耍手段。
說你已愛上了別人;但當我面,
心肝,可別把眼楮向旁邊張望︰
何必要耍手段,既然你的強權
已夠打垮我過分緊張的抵抗?
讓我替你辯解說︰"我愛人明知
她那明媚的流盼是我的死仇,
才把我的敵人從我臉上轉移,
讓它向別處放射害人的毒鏃!"
  可別這樣;我已經一息奄奄,
  不如一下盯死我,解除了苦難。
  
一四○

你狠心,也該放聰明;別讓侮蔑
把我不作聲的忍耐逼得太甚;
免得悲哀賜我喉舌,讓你領略
我的可憐的痛苦會怎樣發狠。
你若學了乖,愛呵,就覺得理應
對我說你愛我,縱使你不如此;
好像暴躁的病人,當死期已近,
只願听醫生報告健康的消息;
因為我若是絕望,我就會發瘋,
瘋狂中難保不把你胡亂咒罵︰
這乖張世界是那麼不成體統,
瘋狂的耳總愛听瘋子的壞話。
  要我不發瘋,而你不遭受誹謗,
  你得把眼楮正視,盡管心放蕩。

一四一

說實話,我的眼楮並不喜歡你,
它們發見你身上百孔和千瘡;
但眼楮瞧不起的,心兒卻著迷,
它一味溺愛,不管眼楮怎樣想。
我耳朵也不覺得你嗓音好听,
就是我那容易受刺激的觸覺,
或味覺,或嗅覺都不見得高興
參加你身上任何官能的盛酌。
可是無論我五種機智或五官
都不能勸阻痴心去把你侍奉,
我昂藏的丈夫儀表它再不管,
只甘願作你傲慢的心的僕從。
  不過我的災難也非全無好處︰
  她引誘我犯罪,也教會我受苦。
  
一四二

我的罪咎是愛,你的美德是憎,
你憎我的罪,為了我多咎的愛︰
哦,你只要比一比你我的實情,
就會發覺責備我多麼不應該。
就算應該,也不能出自你嘴唇,
因為它們褻瀆過自己的口紅,
劫奪過別人床弟應得的租金,
和我一樣屢次偷訂愛的假盟。
我愛你,你愛他們,都一樣正當,
盡管你追求他們而我討你厭。
讓哀憐的種子在你心里暗長,
終有天你的哀憐也得人哀憐。
  假如你只知追求,自己卻吝嗇,
  你自己的榜樣就會招來拒絕。
  
一四三

看呀,像一個小心翼翼的主婦
跑著去追攆一只逃走的母雞,
把孩子扔下,拚命快跑,要抓住
那個她急著要得回來的東西;
被扔下的孩子緊跟在她後頭,
哭哭啼啼要趕上她,而她只管
望前一直追攆,一步也不停留,
不顧她那可憐的小孩的不滿︰
同樣,你追那個逃避你的家伙,
而我(你的孩子)卻在後頭追你;
你若趕上了希望,請回頭照顧我,
盡媽媽的本分,輕輕吻我,很和氣。
  只要你回頭來撫慰我的悲啼,
  我就會禱告神讓你從心所欲。
  
一四四

兩個愛人像精靈般把我誘惑,
一個叫安慰,另外一個叫絕望︰
善的天使是個男子,豐姿綽約;
惡的幽靈是個女人,其貌不揚。
為了促使我早進地獄,那女鬼
引誘我的善精靈硬把我拋開,
還要把他迷惑,使淪落為妖魅,
用骯髒的驕傲追求純潔的愛。
我的天使是否已變成了惡魔,
我無法一下子確定,只能猜疑;
但兩個都把我扔下,互相結合,
一個想必進了另一個的地獄。
  可是這一點我永遠無法猜透,
  除非是惡的天使把善的攆走。
  
一四五

愛神親手捏就的嘴唇
對著為她而憔悴的我,
吐出了這聲音說,"我恨"︰
但是她一看見我難過,
心里就馬上大發慈悲,
責備那一向都是用來
宣布甜蜜的判詞的嘴,
教它要把口氣改過來︰
"我恨",她又把尾巴補綴,
那簡直像明朗的白天
趕走了魔鬼似的黑夜,
把它從天堂甩進陰間。
  她把"我恨"的恨字摒棄,
  救了我的命說,"不是你"。
  
一四六

可憐的靈魂,萬惡身軀的中心,
被圍攻你的叛逆勢力所俘擄,
為何在暗中憔悴,忍受著饑饉,
卻把外壁妝得那麼堂皇麗都?
賃期那麼短,這傾頹中的大廈
難道還值得你這樣鋪張浪費?
是否要讓蛆蟲來繼承這奢華,
把它吃光?這可是肉體的依皈?
所以,靈魂,請拿你僕人來度日,
讓他消瘦,以便充實你的貯藏,
拿無用時間來兌換永欠租期,
讓內心得滋養,別管外表堂皇︰
  這樣,你將吃掉那吃人的死神,
  而死神一死,世上就永無死人。
  
一四七

我的愛是一種熱病,它老切盼
那能夠使它長期保養的單方,
服食一種能維持病狀的藥散,
使多變的病態食欲長久盛旺。
理性(那醫治我的愛情的醫生)
生氣我不遵守他給我的囑咐,
把我扔下,使我絕望,因為不信
醫藥的欲望,我知道,是條死路。
我再無生望,既然喪失了理智,
整天都惶惑不安、煩躁、瘋狂;
無論思想或談話,全像個瘋子,
脫離了真實,無目的,雜亂無章;
  因為我曾賭咒說你美,說你璀璨,
  你卻是地獄一般黑,夜一般暗。
  
一四八

唉,愛把什麼眼楮裝在我腦里,
使我完全認不清真正的景象?
竟錯判了眼楮所見到的真相?
如果我眼楮所迷戀的真是美,
為何大家都異口同聲不承認?
若真不美呢,那就絕對無可諱,
愛情的眼楮不如一般人看得真︰
當然嘍,它怎能夠,愛眼怎能夠
看得真呢,它日夜都淚水汪汪?
那麼,我看不準又怎算得稀有?
太陽也要等天晴才照得明亮。
  狡猾的愛神!你用淚把我弄瞎,
  只因怕明眼把你的丑惡揭發。
  
一四九

你怎能,哦,狠心的,否認我愛你,
當我和你協力把我自己厭惡?
我不是在想念你,當我為了你
完全忘掉我自己,哦,我的暴主?
我可曾把那恨你的人當朋友?
我可曾對你厭惡的人獻殷勤?
不僅這樣,你對我一皺起眉頭,
我不是馬上嘆氣,把自己痛恨?
我還有什麼可以自豪的優點,
傲慢到不屑于為你服役奔命,
既然我的美都崇拜你的缺陷,
唯你的眼波的流徒轉移是听?
  但,愛呵,盡管憎吧,我已猜透你︰
  你愛那些明眼的,而我是瞎子。
  

一五○

哦,從什麼威力你取得這力量,
連缺陷也能把我的心靈支配?
教我誣蔑我可靠的目光撒謊,
並矢口否認太陽使白天明媚?
何來這化臭腐為神奇的本領,
使你的種種丑惡不堪的表現
都具有一種靈活強勁的保證,
使它們,對于我,超越一切至善?
誰教你有辦法使我更加愛你,
當我听到和見到你種種可憎?
哦,盡管我鍾愛著人家所嫌棄,
你總不該嫌棄我,同人家一條心︰
  既然你越不可愛,越使得我愛,
  你就該覺得我更值得你喜愛。
  
一五一

愛神太年輕,不懂得良心是什麼;
但誰不曉得良心是愛情所產?
那麼,好騙子,就別專找我的錯,
免得我的罪把溫婉的你也牽連。
因為,你出賣了我,我的笨肉體
又哄我出賣我更高貴的部分;
我靈魂叮囑我肉體,說它可以
在愛情上勝利;肉體再不作聲,
一听見你的名字就馬上指出
你是它的勝利品;它趾高氣揚,
死心蹋地作你最鄙賤的家奴,
任你頤指氣使,或倒在你身旁。
  所以我可問心無愧地稱呼她
  做"愛",我為她的愛起來又倒下。
  
一五二

你知道我對你的愛並不可靠,
但你賭咒愛我,這話更靠不住;
你撕掉床頭盟,又把新約毀掉,
既結了新歡,又種下新的憎惡。
但我為什麼責備你兩番背盟,
自己卻背了二十次!最反復是我;
我對你一切盟誓都只是濫用,
因而對于你已經失盡了信約。
我曾矢口作證你對我的深愛︰
說你多熱烈、多忠誠、永不變卦,
我使眼楮失明,好讓你顯光彩,
教眼楮發誓,把眼前景說成虛假--
  我發誓說你美!還有比這荒唐︰
  抹煞真理去堅持那麼黑的謊!
  
一五三

愛神放下他的火炬,沉沉睡去︰
月神的一個仙女乘了這機會
趕快把那枝煽動愛火的火炬
浸入山間一道冷冰冰的泉水;
泉水,既從這神聖的火炬得來
一股不滅的熱,就永遠在燃燒,
變成了沸騰的泉,一直到現在
還證實具有起死回生的功效。
但這火炬又在我情婦眼里點火,
為了試驗,愛神踫一下我胸口,
我馬上不舒服,又急躁又難過,
一刻不停地跑向溫泉去求救,
  但全不見效︰能治好我的溫泉
  只有新燃起愛火的、我情人的眼。
  
一五四

小小愛神有一次呼呼地睡著,
把點燃心焰的火炬放在一邊,
一群蹁躚的貞潔的仙女恰巧
走過;其中最美的一個天仙
用她處女的手把那曾經燒紅
萬千顆赤心的火炬偷偷拿走,
于是這玩火小法師在酣睡中
便繳械給那貞女的縴縴素手。
她把火炬往附近冷泉里一浸,
泉水被愛神的烈火燒得沸騰,
變成了溫泉,能消除人間百病;
但我呵,被我情婦播弄得頭疼,
  跑去溫泉就醫,才把這點弄清︰
  愛燒熱泉水,泉水冷不了愛情。

注釋
1. 詩神︰即詩人,故下面用男性代詞"他"字。
2. 當時制造假發的人常常買死人的頭發作原料。
3. 土星在西歐星相學里是沉悶和憂郁的象征。
4. 烙印︰恥辱。
5. 當時相信醋能防疫。

(梁宗岱 譯)





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