When in the chronicle of wasted time ? ? ? I see descriptions of the fairest wights, ? ? ? And beauty making beautiful old rhyme ? ? ? In praise of ladies dead and lovely knights, ? ? ? Then in the blazon of sweet beauty's best, ? ? ?...

Let not my love be call'd idolatry, ? ? ? Nor my belov d as an idol show, ? ? ? Since all alike my songs and praises be ? ? ? To one, of one, still such, and ever so. ? ? ? Kind is my love to-day, to-morrow kind, ? ? ? Still constant i...

What's in the brain that ink may character ? ? ? Which hath not figured to thee my true spirit? ? ? ? What's new to speak, what new to register, ? ? ? That may express my love, or thy dear merit? ? ? ? Nothing, sweet boy; but yet, like pra...

To me, fair friend, you never can be old, ? ? ? For as you were when first your eye I eyed, ? ? ? Such seems your beauty still. Three winters cold ? ? ? Have from the forests shook three summers' pride, ? ? ? Three beauteous springs to yel...

Сонет 57? 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-en...

Sin of self-love possesseth all mine eye, ? ? ? And all my soul, and all my every part; ? ? ? And for this sin there is no remedy, ? ? ? It is so grounded inward in my heart. ? ? ? Methinks no face so gracious is as mine, ? ? ? No shap...

That god forbid, that made me first your slave, I should in thought control your time of pleasure, Or at your hand th'account of hours to crave, Being your vassal bound to stay your leasure. O let me suffer (being at your beck) Th...

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)...

When I have seen by Time's fell hand defaced ? ? ? The rich proud cost of outworn buried age; ? ? ? When sometime lofty towers I see down rased, ? ? ? And brass eternal slave to mortal rage; ? ? ? When I have seen the hungry ocean gain ...

That time of year thou mayst in me behold When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang Upon those boughs which shake against the cold, Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang. In me thou seest the twilight of such day...