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|Sonnets of William Shakespeare |
|Sonnet 71 |
|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. |
| |

Sonnets of William Shakespeare

Sonnet 72

|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. |

|Sonnets of William Shakespeare |
|Sonnet 73 |
|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. |
| |

Sonnets of William Shakespeare

Sonnet 74

|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. |

Sonnets of William Shakespeare

Sonnet 75

|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. |

Sonnets of William Shakespeare

Sonnet 76

|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. |

Sonnets of William Shakespeare

Sonnet 77

|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. |

Sonnets of William Shakespeare

Sonnet 78

|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. |

Sonnets of William Shakespeare

Sonnet 79

|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. |

Sonnets of William Shakespeare

Sonnet 80

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