莎士比亞十四行詩(shī)原文

莎士比亞十四行詩(shī)原文SONNET #1by: William ShakespeareFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,That thereby beautys 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,Feedst thy lights flame with self-substantial fuel,Making a famine where abundance lies,Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.Thout that are now the worlds fresh ornamentAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,Within thine own bud buriest thy contentAnd, tender churl, makst waste in niggarding.Pity the world, or else this glutton be,To eat the worlds due, by the grave and thee.SONNET #2by: William ShakespeareWHEN forty winters shall besiege thy browAnd dig deep trenches in thy beautys field,Thy youths proud livery, so gazed on now,Will be a tottered weed of small worth held:Then being asked where all thy beauty lies,Where all the treasure of thy lusty days,To say within thine own deep-sunken eyesWere an all-eating shame and thriftless praise.How much more prasie deserved thy beautys useIf thou couldst answer, This fair child of mineShall sum my count and make my old excuse,Proving his beauty by succession thine.This were to be new made when thou art oldAnd see thy blood warm when thou feelst cold.SONNET #3by: William ShakespeareLOOK in thy glass, and tell the face thou viewestNow is the time that face should form another,Whose fresh repair if now thou renewest,Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother.For where is she so fair whose uneared wombDisdains the tillage of thy husbandry?Or who is he so fond will be the tombOf his self-love, to stop posterity?Thou art thy mothers glass, and she in theeCalls back the lovely April of her prime;So thou through windows of thine age shalt see,Despite of wrinkles, this thy golden time.But if thou live remembred not to be,Die single, and thine image dies with thee.SONNET #4by: William ShakespeareUNTHRIFTY loveliness, why dost thou spendUpon thyself they beautys legacy?Natures bequest gives nothing but doth lend,And, being frank, she lends to those are free.Then, beateous niggard, why dost thou abuseThe bounteous largess given thee to give?Profitless userer, why dost thou useSo great a sum of sums, yet canst not live?For, having traffic with thyself alone,Thou of thyself thy sweet self dost deceive:Then how, when Nature calls thee to be gone,What acceptable audit canst thou leave?Thy unused beauty must be tombed with thee,Which, usd, lives th executor to be.SONNET #5by: William ShakespeareTHOSE hours that with gentle work did frameThe lovely gaze where every eye doth dwellWill play the tyrants to the very sameAnd that unfair which fairly doth excel;For never-resting time leads summer onTo hideous winter and confounds him there,Sap checked with frost and lusty leaves quite gone,Beauty oersnowed and bareness everywhere.Then, were not summers distillation leftA liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass,Beautys effect with beauty were bereft,Nor it nor no remembrance what it was:But flowers distilled, though they with winter meet,Leese but there snow; their substance still lives sweet.6.by: William ShakespeareTHEN let not winters ragged hand defaceIn thee thy summer ere thou be distilled:Make sweet some vial; treasure thou some placeWith beautys treasure ere it be self-killed.That use is not forbidden usuryWhich happies those that pay the willing loan;Thats for thyself to breed another thee,Or ten times happier be it ten for one.Ten times thyself were happier than thou art,If ten of thine ten times refigured thee:Then what could death do if thou shouldst depart,Leaving thee living in posterity?Be not self-willed, for thou art much too fairTo be deaths conquest and make worms thine heir.SONNET #7by: William ShakespeareLO, in the orient when the gracious lightLifts up his burning head, each under eyeDoth homage to his new-appearing sight,Serving with looks his sacred majesty;And having climbed the steep-up heavenly hill,Resembling strong yough in his middle age,Yet mortal looks adore his beauty still,Attending on his golden pilgrimage;But when from highmost pitch, with weary car,Like feeble age he reeleth from the day,The eyes, fore duteous, now converted areFrom his low tract and look another way:So thou, thyself outgoing in thy noon,Unlooked on diest unless thou get a son.SONNET #8by: William ShakespeareMUSIC to hear, why hearst thou music sadly?Sweets with sweets war not, joy delights in joy:Why lovst thou that which thou receivst not gladly,Or else receivst with pleasure thine annoy?If the true concord of well-tund sounds,By unions married, do offend thine ear,They do but sweetly chide thee, who confoundsIn singleness the parts that thou shouldst bear.Mark how one string, sweet husband to another,Strikes each in each by mutual ordering;Resembling sire and child and happy mother,Who, all in one, one pleasing note do sing;Whose speechless song, being many, seeming one,Sings this to thee, Thou single wilt prove none.SONNET #9by: William ShakespeareIS it for fear to wet a widows eyeThat thou consumst 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 weepThat thou no form of thee hast left behind,When every private widow well may keep,By childrens eyes, her husbands shape in mind.Look what an unthrift in the world doth spendShifts but his place, for still the world enjoys it;But beautys waste hath in the world an end,And, kept unused, the user so destroys it:No love toward others in that bosom sitsThan on himself such murdrous shame commitsSONNET #10by: William ShakespeareFOR shame, deny that thou bearst love to anyWho for thyself art so unprovident:Grant, if thou wilt, thou art beloved of many,But that thou none lovst is most evident;For thou art so possessed with murdrous hateThat gainst thyself thou stickst not to conspire,Seeking that beauteous roof to ruinateWhich to repair should be thy chief desire.O, change thy thought, that I may change my mind;Shall hate be fairer lodged than gentle love?Be as thy presence is, gracious and kind,Or to thyself at least kind-hearted prove:Make thee another self for love of me,That beauty still may live in thine or thee.SONNET #11by: William ShakespeareAS fast as thou shalt wane, so fast thou growstIn one of thine, from that which thou departest;And that fresh blood which youngly thou bestowstThou mayst call thine when thou from youth convertest.Herein lives wisdom, beauty, and increase;Without this, folly, age, and cold decay.If all were minded so, the times should cease,And threescore year would make the world away.Let those whom Nature hath not made for store,Harsh, featureless, and rude, barrenly perish:Look whom she best endowed she gave the more,Which bounteous gift thou shouldst in bounty cherish.She carved thee for her seal, and meant therebyThou shouldst print more, not let that copy die.SONNET #12by: William ShakespeareWHEN I do count the clock that tells the timeAnd see the brave day sunk in hideous night,When I behold the violet past primeAnd sable curls all silvered oer with white,When lofty trees I see barren of leaves,Which erst from heat did canopy the herd,And summers green all girded up in sheavesBorne on the bier with white and bristly beard;Then of thy beauty do I question makeThat thou among the wastes of time must go,Since sweets and beauties do themselves forsakeAnd die as fast as they see others grow;And nothing gainst Times scythe can make defenseSave breed, to brave him when he takes thee hence.SONNET #13by: William ShakespeareO , THAT you were yourself, but, love, you areNo 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 leaseFind no determination; then you wereYourself again after yourselfs deceaseWhen your sweet issue your sweet form should bear.Who lets so fair a house fall to decay,Which husbandry in honor might upholdAgainst the stormy gusts of winters dayAnd barren rage of deaths eternal cold?O, none but unthrifts! Dear my love, you knowYou had a father - let your son say so.SONNET #14by: William ShakespeareNOT 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 wellBy oft predict that I in heaven find;But from thine eyes my knowledge I derive,And, constant stars, in them I read such artAs truth and beauty shall together thriveIf from thyself to store thou wouldst convert:Or else of thee this I prognosticate,Thy end is truths and beautys doom and date.SONNET #15by: William ShakespeareWHEN I consider everything that growsHolds in perfection but a little moment,That this huge stage presenteth nought but showsWhereon the stars in secret influence comment;When I perceive that men as plants increase,Cheerd and checked even by the selfsame sky,Vaunt in their youthful sap, at height decrease,And wear their brave state out of memory:Then the conceit of this inconstant staySets you most rich in youth before my sight,Where wasteful Time debateth with DecayTo change your day of youth to sullied night;And, all in war with Time for love of you,As he takes from you, I ingraft you new.SONNET #16by: William ShakespeareBUT wherefore do not you a mightier wayMake war upon this bloody tyrant, Time?And fortify yourself in your decayWith means more blessd than my barren rime?Now stand you on the top of happy hours,And many maiden gardens, yet unset,With virtuous wish would bear your living flowers,Much liker than your painted counterfeit:So should the lines of life that life repairWhich this times pencil or my pupil pen,Neither in inward worth nor outward fairCan make you live yourself in eyes of men.To give away yourself keeps yourself still,And you must live, drawn by your own sweet skill."Sonnet #16" was originally published in Shake-speares Sonnets: Never before Imprinted (1609).SONNET #17by: William ShakespeareHO will believe my verse in time to comeIf it were filled with your most high deserts?Though yet, heaven knows, it is but as a tombWhich hides your life and shows not half your parts.If I could write the beauty of your eyesAnd in fresh numbers number all your graces,The age to come would say, This poet lies-Such heavenly touches neer touched earthly faces.So should my papers, yellowed with their age,Be scorned, like old men of less truth than tongue,And your true rights be termed a poets rageAnd stretchd metre of an antique song.But were some child of yours alive that time,You should live twice-in it and in my rime."Sonnet #17" was originally published in Shake-speares Sonnets: Never before Imprinted (1609).SONNET #18by: William ShakespeareHALL I compare thee to a summers day?Thou art more lovely and more temperate.Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,And summers lease hath all too short a date.Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,And often is his gold complexion dimmed;And every fair from fair sometime declines,By chance, or natures changing course, untrimmed:But thy eternal summer shall not fadeNor lose possession of that fair thou owst,Nor shall Death brag thou wandrest in his shadeWhen in eternal lines to time thou growst.So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,So long lives this, and this gives life to thee."Sonnet #18" was originally published in Shake-speares Sonnets: Never before Imprinted (1609).SONNET #19by: William ShakespeareEVOURING time, blunt thou the lions paws,And make the earth devour her own sweet brood;Pluck the keen teeth from the fierce tigers jaws,And burn the long-lived phoenix in her blood;Make glad and sorry seasons as they fleetst,And do whateer 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 loves fair brow,Nor draw no lines there with thine antique pen;Him in thy course untainted do allowFor beautys pattern to succeeding men.Yet do thy worst, old Time: despite thy wrong,My love shall in my verse ever live young."Sonnet #19" was originally published in Shake-speares Sonnets: Never before Imprinted (1609).SONNET #20by: William Shakespeare (1564-1616)WOMANS face, with Natures own hand painted,Hast thou, the master-mistress of my passion;A womans gentle heart, but not acquaintedWith shifting change, as is false womens fashion;An eye more bright than theirs, less false in rolling,Gilding the object whereupon it gazeth;A man in hue all hues in his controlling,Which steals mens eyes and womens 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 defeatedBy adding one thing to my purpose nothing.But since she pricked thee out for womens pleasure,Mine be thy love, and thy loves use their treasure."Sonnet #20" was originally published in Shake-speares Sonnets: Never before Imprinted (1609).SONNET #21by: William Shakespeare (1564-1616)O is it not with me as with that MuseStirred by a painted beauty to his verse,Who heaven itself for ornament doth useAnd every fair with his fair doth rehearse;Making a couplement of proud compareWith sun and moon, with earth and seas rich gems,With Aprils first-born flowers, and all things rareThat heavens airs in this huge rondure hems.O let me, true in love, but truly write,And then believe me, my love is as fairAs any mothers child, though not so brightAs those gold candles fixed in heavens air:Let them say more that like of hearsay well;I will not praise that purpose not to sell."Sonnet #21" was originally published in Shake-speares Sonnets: Never before Imprinted (1609).SONNET #22by: William Shakespeare (1564-1616)MY glass shall not persuade me I am oldSo long as youth and thou are of one date;But when in thee times furrows I behold,Then look I death my days should expiate.For all that beauty that doth cover theeIs but the seemly raiment of my heart,Which in they breast doth live, as thine in me:How can I then be elder than thou art?O therefore, love, be of thyself so waryAs I, not for myself, but for thee will,Bearing thy heart, which I will keep so charyAs tender nurse her babe from faring ill.Presume not on thy heart when mine is slain;Thou gavst me thine not to give back again."Sonnet #22" was originally published in Shake-speares Sonnets: Never before Imprinted (1609).SONNET #23by: William Shakespeare (1564-1616)AS an unperfect actor on the stage,Who with his fear is put besides his part,Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage,Whose strengths abundance weakens his own heart;So I, for fear of trust, forget to sayThe perfect ceremony of loves rite,And in mine own loves strength seem to decay,Oercharged with burden of mine own loves might.O, let my books be then the eloquenceAnd dump presagers of my speaking breast,Who plead for love, and look for recompense,More than that tongue that more hath more expressed.O, learn to read what silent love hath writ:To hear with eyes belongs to loves fine wit."Sonnet #23" was originally published in Shake-speares Sonnets: Never before Imprinted (1609).SONNET #24by: William Shakespeare (1564-1616)MINE eye hath played the painter and hath stelledThy beautys form in table of my heart;My body is the frame wherein tis held,And perspective it is best painters art.For through the painter must you see his skillTo fine where your true image pictured lies,Which in my bosoms shop is hanging still,That hath his windows glazd with thine eyes.Now see what good turns eyes for eyes have done:Mine eyes have drawn thy shape, and thine for meAre windows to my breast, wherethrough the sunDelights to peep, to gaze therein on thee.Yet eyes this cunning want to grace their art;They draw but what they see, know not the heart."Sonnet #24" was originally published in Shake-speares Sonnets: Never before Imprinted (1609).SONNET #25by: William Shakespeare (1564-1616)LET those who are in favor with their starsOf public honor and proud titles boast,Whilst I, whom fortune of such triumph bars,Unlooked for joy in that I honor most.Great princes favorites their fair leaves spreadBut as the marigold at the suns eye;And in themselves their pride lies burid,For at a frown they in their glory die.The painful warrior famousd for fight,After a thousand victories once foiled,Is from the book of honor rasd quite,And all the rest forgot for which he toiled.Then happy I, that love and am belovedWhere I may not remove nor be removed."Sonnet #25" was originally published in Shake-speares Sonnets: Never before Imprinted (1609).SONNET #26by: William Shakespeare (1564-1616)LORD of my love, to whom in vassalageThy merit hath my duty strongly knit,To thee I send this written ambassageTo witness duty, not to show my wit;Duty so great, which wit so poor as mineMay make seem bare, in wanting words to show it,But that I hope some good coneit of thineIn thy souls thought, all naked, will bestow it;Till whatsoever star that guides my movingPoints on me graciously with fair aspect,And puts apparel on my tottered lovingTo show me worthy of thy sweet respect:Then may I dare to boast how I do love thee;Till then not show my head where thou mayest prove me."Sonnet #26" was originally published in Shake-speares Sonnets: Never before Imprinted (1609).SONNET #27by: William Shakespeare (1564-1616)WEARY with toil, I haste to my bed,The dear repose for limbs with travel tired,But then begins a journey in my headTo work my mind when bodys works 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 souls imaginary sightPresents thy shadow to my sightless view,Which, like a jewel hung in ghastly night,Makes black night beauteous and her old face new.Lo, thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind,For thee and for myself no quiet find."Sonnet #27" was originally published in Shake-speares Sonnets: Never before Imprinted (1609).SONNET #28by: William Shakespeare (1564-1616)HOW can I then return in happy plightThat am debarred the benefit of rest,When days oppression is not eased by night,And each, though enemies to eithers reign,Do in consent shake hands to torture me,The one by toil, the other to complainHow far I toil, still farther off from thee?I tell the day, to please him, thou art bright