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 blessèd shape we know. In all external grace you have some part, But you like none, none you, for constant heart. _149._ foison] plenty. _150._ _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 perfumèd tincture of the Roses, Hang on such thorns, and play as wantonly When summer’s breath their maskèd 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. _151._ _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. _152._ _viii_ That time of year thou may’st in me behold When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang Upon those boughs which shake against the cold-- Bare ruin’d choirs where late the sweet birds sang. In me thou see’st the twilight of such day As after Sunset fadeth in the West, Which by and by black night doth take away, Death’s second self, that seals up all in rest. In me thou see’st the glowing of such fire That on the ashes of his youth doth lie, As the death-bed whereon it must expire, Consumed with that which it was nourish’d by. This thou perceiv’st, which makes thy love more strong To love that well which thou must leave ere long. _153._ _ix_