To this urn let those repair That are either true or fair; For these dead birds sigh a prayer. _Sonnets_ _145._ _i_ Shall I compare thee to a Summer’s day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate: Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, And Summer’s lease hath all too short a date: Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, And often is his gold complexion dimm’d; And every fair from fair sometime declines, By chance or nature’s changing course untrimm’d: But thy eternal Summer shall not fade Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest; Nor shall Death brag thou wanderest in his shade, When in eternal lines to time thou growest: So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee. _146._ _ii_ When, in disgrace with Fortune and men’s eyes, I all alone beweep my outcast state, And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries, And look upon myself, and curse my fate, Wishing me like to one more rich in hope, Featured like him, like him with friends possest, Desiring this man’s art and that man’s scope, With what I most enjoy contented least; Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising-- Haply I think on thee: and then my state, Like to the Lark at break of day arising From sullen earth, sings hymns at Heaven’s gate; For thy sweet love rememb’red such wealth brings That then I scorn to change my state with Kings. _147._ _iii_ When to the Sessions of sweet silent thought I summon up remembrance of things past, I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought, And with old woes new wail my dear time’s waste: Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow, For precious friends hid in death’s dateless night, And weep afresh love’s long-since-cancell’d woe, And moan th’ expense of many a vanish’d sight: Then can I grieve at grievances foregone, And heavily from woe to woe tell o’er The sad account of fore-bemoanèd moan, Which I new pay as if not paid before. But if the while I think on thee, dear friend, All losses are restored and sorrows end. _148._ _iv_ Thy bosom is endearèd with all hearts Which I, by lacking, have supposèd dead; And there reigns Love, and all Love’s loving parts, And all those friends which I thought burièd. 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. _149._ _v_