William Shakespeare Sonnet 1 to 10

Sonnet I

aFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's arose might never die,
But as the ariper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his amemory:
But thou, acontracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st athy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a afamine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to athy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the wworld's fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within tthine own bud buriest thy content
And, atender churl, makes waste in niggard.
Pity the aworld, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's adue, by the grave and thee.

Sonnet II

aWhen forty winters shall besiege thy brow,
aAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
aThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
aWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
Then being ask'd where all athy beauty lies,
Where all the treasure of athy lusty days,
To say, within thine own adeep-sunken eyes,
Were an all-eating ashame and thriftless praise.
How much more apraise deserved thy beauty's use,
If thou couldst answer 'aThis fair child of mine
Shall sum my count and amake my old excuse,'
Proving his beauty by asuccession thine!
This were to be new amade when thou art old,
And see thy blood awarm when thou feel'st it cold.

Sonnet III

aLook in thy glass, and tell the face thou vie west
Now is the time that face should form vanother;
Whose fresh repair if now thou not re anewest,
sThou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother.
For where is she so fair whose unear'd womb
Disdains the tillage of thy ahusbandry?
Or who is he so afond will be the tomb
Of his aself-love, to stop posterity?
Thou art thy mother's aglass, and she in thee
aCalls back the lovely April of her prime:
So thou through awindows of thine age shall see
Despite of wrinkles this thy agolden time.
But if thou alive, remember'd not to be,
Die single, and thine aimage dies with thee.

Sonnet IV

aUnthrifty loveliness, why dost thou spend
Upon thyself thy beauty's alegacy?
aNature's bequest gives nothing but doth lend,
And abeing frank she lends to those are free.
Then, beauteous niggard, why dost thou aabuse
The abounteous largess given thee to give?
Profitless ausurer, why dost thou use
So great a sum of asums, yet canst not live?
For having traffic with hthyself alone,
Thou of thyself thy asweet self dost deceive.
Then show, when nature calls thee to be gone,
What acceptable audit acanst thou leave?
Thy aunused beauty must be tomb'd with thee,
Which, aused, lives th' executor to be.

Sonnet V

aThose hours, that with gentle work did frame
The alovely gaze where every eye doth dwell,
Will play the tyrants to the very asame
And that aunfair which fairly doth excel:
For anever-resting time leads summer on
aTo hideous winter and confounds him there;
Sap cheque'd with frost and lusty leaves quite gone,
Beauty ao'ersnow'd and bareness every where:
Then, were not summer's adistillation left,
A liquid aprisoner pent in walls of glass,
aBeauty's effect with beauty were bereft,
Nor it nor no aremembrance what it was:
But aflowers distill'd though they with winter meet,
Leese but their ashow; their substance still lives sweet.

Sonnet VI

Then let not awinter's ragged hand deface
In thee thy summer, ere thou be adistill'd:
Make sweet some vial; treasure thou some place
With abeauty's treasure, ere it be self-kill'd.
That use is not forbidden ausury,
Which happies those that pay the awilling loan;
That's for athyself to breed another thee,
Or ten times happier, abe it ten for one;
Ten times thyself were ahappier than thou art,
If ten of athine ten times re figured thee:
Then what acould death do, if thou should st depart,
aLeaving thee living in posterity?
Be not self-will'd, for athou art much too fair
To be death's conquest and make aworms thine heir.

Sonnet VII

Lo! in the aorient when the gracious light
Lifts up his burning head, aeach under eye
aDoth homage to his new-appearing sight,
Serving with looks his sacred amajesty;
And having aclimb'd the steep-up heavenly hill,
aResembling strong youth in his middle age,
yet mortal looks adore his abeauty still,
Attending on his agolden pilgrimage;
But when from ahigh most pitch, with weary car,
aLike feeble age, he free lets from the day,
The eyes, 'fore duteous, now converted are
aFrom his low tract and look another way:
So thou, thyself out-going in thy anoon,
Unlock on deist, unless athou get a son.

Sonnet VIII

aMusic to hear, why hear'st thou music sadly?
Sweets with sweets  awar not, joy delights in joy.
Why aloves thou that which thou receives not gladly,
Or else receives with apleasure thine annoy?
If the true concord of well-tuned asounds,
By aunions married, do offend thine ear,
They do but sweetly chide athee, who confounds
In asingleness the parts that thou should st bear.
Mark how one string, sweet husband to another,
Strikes each in each by amutual ordering,
aResembling sire and child and happy mother
Who all in one, one apleasing note do sing:
Whose aspeechless song, being many, seeming one,
Sings this to thee: 'thou asingle wilt prove none.'

Sonnet IX

Is it for afear to wet a widow's eye
That thou aconsume st thyself in single life?
Ah! if thou issue less ashalt hap to die.
The aworld will wail thee, like a amake-less wife;
The world will be thy awidow and still weep
That athou no form of thee ahast left behind,
When every private awidow well may keep
By children's eyes her ahusband's shape in mind.
Look, what an unthrift in the world doth spend
Shifts but his place, for still the aworld enjoys it;
But abeauty's waste hath in the world an end,
And kept unused, the auser so destroys it.
No alove toward others in that bosom sits
That on himself such amurderous shame commits.

Sonnet X

For ashame! deny that thou bear'st love to any,
Who for thyself art so aunprovident.
Grant, if thou wilt, thou art beloved of amany,
But that thou anone loves is most evident;
For athou art so possess'd with murderous hate
That 'gainst thyself thou stick'st not to conspire.
Seeking that abeauteous roof to ruminate
Which to arepair should be thy chief desire.
O, change thy thought, that I may achange my mind!
Shall hate be fairer alodged than gentle love?
Be, as thy apresence is, gracious and kind,
Or to thyself at least akind-heated prove:
aMake thee another self, for love of me,
That beauty still may alive in thine or thee.

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