O, caught in a moment I can't escape
with sighs, and groans, and arms e'er folded so,
for Proteus himself can't take my shape
cast as it is with malcontent on show,
heaving with sighs that play on Cupid's ear
to make him smile and please his little frame
while his gold arrows strike about me near
as ever and anon he takes his aim.
Yet ever let his little bowstring sing
and let his arrows strike upon mine breast
to wound me with the maladies they bring
as I sigh by day and night brings no rest.
O, never let that dreadful blind boy miss
as deathwards I sink for want of a kiss.

O with thy smile thou could make angels fall
whilst the prince of hell would turn from all sin,
angels and demons would forsake their call
while their respective realms turn'd outside in;
would Romeo forsake his Juliet —
ay, a glimpse of thee would be all he'd need
and fair Verona could turn cold and wet
forsaken by the fair sun by one deed.
Nuns to riot and Kings down on their knees
such is the way of Aphrodite's hand,
and none of her choosing know her decrees
until too late as Aphrodite planned —
ay me! for ne'er such beauty such as thine
has shown in stone, in paint, or read in line.

Sunshine is nothing to the way thou shines
while frost'd morns do leave me chill'd and cold,
more bright and fresh for me are these poor lines
which in their way are more to me than gold.
Diminish'd is this world and all within
for with one smile thou made me double-blind
and in that moment then did I begin
to see naught else save thee within my mind.
For there is where I wear the laurel'd wreath,
pick up mine pen and gaze with lustrous eyes
upon a treasure safe from any thief
for buried deep in heart and mind thou lies —
And double-rich am I for in this way
each time we meet thou never was away.

If I need food then food is what thou art
as thou give strength to body and to mind,
for I feel feelings strong here in mine heart
while senses strive to paint thee in thy kind.
I cannot: can summer paint winter's face
when summer's treasures show in colour bright,
and pale the moon when he out-peeps from space
when sunshine coats the fields in warming light.
For darken'd brightness is not brightness true
and brighten'd darkness is but shades of grey,
so how can ink in shades of blackest hue
paint thee when thou art brighter than the day?
Let night and day be true but to its own
as thou to thee with beauty yet unknown.

O could I, should I, would I write of you
for Shakespeare wrote of his with gentlest skill,
but could this sonnet plain your looks make true
while others laugh at me and mock me ill.
For sometimes I do think they could be right
as I toil alone in this thankless task
yet when I think of you in my mind's sight
'tis like the sun peeping o'er his white mask.
Then, then your beauty shines all o'er my page
and dries my ink and stamps your beauty down
to dazzle readers of a future Age
in faded ink and faded paper brown.
For if in time to come these lines are read
your beauty shall live on while we lie dead.

I hate the day and O, I hate the night,
I hate myself for ev'rything is wrong,
the day no longer gladd'ning to mine sight
and worse the night with downy owlet song
full-shrieking from some dark and crumbly place
to welcome his false dawn of silver'd beams
as the bright moon its well-worn path doth trace
with its own bright shadow on darken'd streams.
O, happy he for he has his white sun
to burn full-cold upon his full-dark day,
when in both days such comfort I have none
when his gold moon doth rise with warming ray.
The moon a sun and lo, the sun a moon —
I swear, one kiss from thee — I swoon, I swoon!

In thine soft eyes mine portrait brightly shines
when close to thee I gaze upon thy face,
so with return do gaze upon these lines
and much more than thine outline thou shalt trace.
How should I begin; Shakespeare's summer's day?
a summer's day is scant compare to thee,
more like are thou a thousand days of May
when Nature at her best is there to see.
Yet this sonnet is all that I can give,
these fourteen lines upon this vellum plain
and what compare is this while thou dost live —
'tis like the rose without its scarlet stain.
O, scant regard give Shakespeare's sunny clime
when thou exceed all Seasons thru' my rhyme.