My love is strength'ned, though more weak in seeming, I love not less, though less the show appear; That love is merchandiz'd 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 burdens 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.

Shakespeare Sundays with Chop Bard

Sonnet 102

O truant Muse, what shall be thy amends For thy neglect of truth in beauty dy'd? 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 color with his color 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 prais'd of ages yet to be.     Then do thy office, Muse; I teach thee how     To make him seem long hence, as he shows now.

Sonnet 101

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, Dark'ning thy pow'r 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.

Sonnet 100

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 dy'd. The lily I condemned for thy hand, And buds of marjerom 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 robb'ry 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 color it had stol'n from thee.

Sonnet 99

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 leapt with him. Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell Of different flowers in odor 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.

Sonnet 98

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 remov'd was summer's time, The teeming autumn, big with rich increase, Bearing the wanton burden of the prime, Like widowed wombs after their lords' decease: Yet this abundant issue seem'd to me But hope of orphans and unfathered 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.

Sonnet 97

Some say thy fault is youth, some wantonness, Some say thy grace is youth and gentle sport; Both grace and faults are lov'd of more and less: Thou mak'st 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.

Sonnet 96

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 turns to fair that eyes can see!     Take heed, dear heart, of this large privilege,     The hardest knife ill us'd doth lose his edge.

Sonnet 95

They that have pow'r 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 flow'r is to the summer sweet, Though to itself it only live and die, But if that flow'r 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.

Sonnet 94

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!

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

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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