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. William Shakespeare. 1564-1616 149. Sonnets v 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. foison] plenty. William Shakespeare. 1564-1616 150. Sonnets vi 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 vade, my verse distils your truth. William Shakespeare. 1564-1616 151. Sonnets vii 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. William Shakespeare. 1564-1616 152. Sonnets viii