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; What e'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!

Shakespeare Sundays with Chop Bard

Sonnet 93

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 humor 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.

Sonnet 92

Some glory in their birth, some in their skill, Some in their wealth, some in their body's force, Some in their garments, though new-fangled ill, Some in their hawks and hounds, some in their horse; And every humor 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.

Sonnet 91

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 scap'd this sorrow, Come in the rearward of a conquer'd woe; Give not a windy night a rainy morrow, To linger out a purpos'd 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,     Compar'd with loss of thee will not seem so.

Sonnet 90

Say that thou didst forsake me for some fault, And I will comment upon that offense; Speak of my lameness, and I straight will halt, Against thy reasons making no defense. 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.

Sonnet 89

When thou shalt be dispos'd 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 shall 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.

Sonnet 88

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 gav'st, thy own worth then not knowing, Or me, to whom thou gav'st 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.

Sonnet 87

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.

Sonnet 86

My tongue-tied Muse in manners holds her still, While comments of your praise, richly compil'd, Reserve their character with golden quill And precious phrase by all the Muses fil'd. I think good thoughts whilst other write good words, And like unlettered clerk still cry  "Amen" To every hymn that able spirit affords In polish'd form of well-refined pen. Hearing you prais'd, 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.

Sonnet 85

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.

Sonnet 84

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.

Sonnet 83

I grant thou wert not married to my Muse, And therefore mayest 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 enforc'd to seek anew Some fresher stamp of the time-bettering days. And do so, love; yet when they have devis'd What strained touches rhetoric can lend, Thou, truly fair, wert truly sympathiz'd In true plain words by thy true-telling friend;     And their gross painting might be better us'd     Where cheeks need blood, in thee it is abus'd.

Sonnet 82

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.

Sonnet 81

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 willfully appear. Your shallowest help will hold me up afloat, Whilst he upon your soundless deep doth ride, Or (being wrack'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.

Sonnet 80

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.

Sonnet 79

Shakespeare Sundays with Chop Bard, is a practical, and enthusiastic exploration of William Shakespeare’s work. Each episode will take on a single subject taken from his words, lines, poetry, themes, or resources, in order to better understand them, and find out what use can be made of them.

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Shakespeare Sundays with Chop Bard

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