Beyond all things I ask that thou art true;
take all my love for thy love is thine own
for with no love no error will I rue,
no fault to seek nor grievance to atone.
Do what thou will for I do wish it so
for with my love thou hast a two-fold gain,
with mine and thine if thou wouldst suffer woe
then be not grieved for I will bear the pain.
Too sweet, too sweet are thou for this harsh world
and never was this world fit for thy state,
for where's the rose that keeps its beauty furl'd
and were it so 'twould be a counterfeit.
Be true to you as night doth follow day
or as the rose befitting as it may.

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.

A physician to me is what thou art
yet all of this is unbeknown to thee,
and if to prove all true where should I start
in truth to pay such an exquisite fee.
For upon none I call to intercede
for succour to cure such a sweet sick state
for no physician's counsel do I heed
as Eros stands by and scoffs at mine fate.
O, but to be with thee for just one hour
would ease mine fever'd brow and calm mine mind
for being in thy presence thou hast such pow'r
but when apart a paradox to find ⎯
it seems mine fate perforce I must endure
finding in thee my sickness and my cure.

If I could only reach out from this page
and hold thee in mine arms like lovers should,
like those star-cross'd lovers from past-gone Age,
from Shakespeare's Verona, why then I would ⎯
I would, I would hold thee like Orpheus
on saving his one love in hell ensnared,
but, ay me! 'tis false hope and of no use
and all but just a dream a fool has dared.
But if thou would think of me when thou read
and gently touch this page as if 'twas me,
if thou would only do this simple deed
do this for then thy touch would set me free.
For better is thy touch however small
if just mine page than have no touch at all.

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.

Fret not for Aphrodite is my muse
and with constancy guides mine thoughts and pen,
for thy beauty is hers for her to use
as she doth list, and she doth choose, and when;
and now is the hour that she speaks to me
but not an hour belonging to our time,
an eternal hour so the world can see
that she is true, as I to you, in rhyme.
And not for the world would I write thee wrong
for to my muse I am at her command,
so who will say I will not sing my song
with my true muse and you both near at hand?
So let this sonnet sing out to the world
on paper new or paper old and curl'd.

Let other Poets write of their sweet Loves
and talk of them as though a goddess true,
as though she were surrounded by white doves
while other birds sing from the summer blue.
And Kings; O let them have their sov'reigns gold,
full-stamp'd with their proud portrait finely wrought,
for though a portrait bright 'tis ever cold —
a worthless prize unlook'd for and unsought.
So let the Poets sit and dream and think
and let proud Kings count their golden treasure,
for thy rich beauty shines thru' this black ink
making this page priceless beyond measure —
Leave Kings to count and Poets down to sit
if this not true in truth I never writ.

As to how I feel thou wilt never know
like winter days crownèd with golden sun,
like bold summer replete with summer snow
while autumn's trees lose of their foliage none.
Much better for thee to view such a thing
than perjure the priz'd innocence of thine,
for such is its worth angels would take wing
and gather round thee thinking thou divine.
But O, to be at sixes and sevens
not wishing for thee to know of mine plight,
mouthing mine sorrows to the cold heavens
bearing this burden of wrong that is right.
For better for thee to think what thou will
when for me bad is good while all good ill.

O thou did ask why should I write of thee
in words not from thy mouth but from thine eyes,
and in their way they ask'd dost thou see me
as thou hast writ as if to catechize
upon the very substance of thy form
and that true deceit doth itself deceive,
like Nature doth herself with springtime warm
and all responds as though 'twere summer's eve.
Yet all is true but yet all is not so
for each to each hath in itself a part,
for past-gone Winter lends April his snow,
to him her flow'rs presaging Spring to start.
So with these lines thou dost lend of thyself
so lies the truth deceit deceives itself.

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.

Nicotine and black ink stain my fingers
confirming all I have done, do and will
in steadfast proof of spent Time that lingers
ever and anon upon new hours still,
and still this world hath nothing to compare
nor ever hath with someone such as thee
as Time doth prove the burden that I bear
thru' stainèd fingers of mine poetry,
for Time itself will vouchsafe mine labour
with honest judgement of fair-reckon'd Time,
while tongues that prate and cut like a sabre
shall be mute with thy beauty in mine rhyme —
vouchsafe me this, the sweetest sort of task
to prove thy worth is all that I do ask.

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.

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.

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.