Procreation Sonnets 1- 17 Flashcards
Sonnets 1- 17 urges young men to marry and have children in order to immortalise his beauty by passing it to the next generation
Sonnet 1: From Fairest Creatures We Desire Increase
From fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty’s rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decrease,
His tender heir mught bear his memeory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed’st thy light’st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world’s fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world’s due, by the grave and thee.
We want all beautiful creatures to reproduce themselves so that beauty’s flower will not die out; but as an old man dies in time, he leaves a young heir to carry on his memory. But you, concerned only with your own beautiful eyes, feed the bright light of life with self-regarding fuel, making beauty shallow by your preoccupation with your looks. In this you are your own enemy, being cruel to yourself. You who are the world’s most beautiful ornament and the chief messenger of spring, are burying your gifts within yourself And, dear selfish one, because you decline to reproduce, you are actually wasting that beauty. Take pity on the world or else be the glutton who devours, with the grave, what belongs to the world.
Sonnet 2: When Forty Winters Shall Besiege Thy Brow
When forty winters shall besiege thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty’s field,
Thy youth’s proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter’d weed, of small worth held:
Then being ask’d where all thy beauty lies,
Where all the treasure of thy lusty days,
To say, within thine own deep-sunken eyes,
Were an all-eating shame and thriftless praise.
How much more praise deserved thy beauty’s use,
If thou couldst answer ‘This fair child of mine
Shall sum my count and make my old excuse,’
Proving his beauty by succession thine!
This were to be new made when thou art old,
And see thy blood warm when thou feel’st it cold.
When forty winters have attacked your brow and wrinkled your beautiful skin, the pride and impressiveness of your youth, so much admired by everyone now, will have become a worthless, tattered weed. Then, when you are asked where your beauty’s gone and what’s happened to all the treasures you had during your youth, you will have to say only within your own eyes, now sunk deep in their sockets, where there is only a shameful confession of greed and self-obsession. How much more praise you would have deserved if you could have answered, ‘This beautiful child of mine shall give an account of my life and show that I made no misuse of my time on earth,’ proving that his beauty, because he is your son, was once yours! This child would be new-made when you are old and you would see your own blood warm when you are cold.
Sonnet 3: Look In Thy Glass, And Tell The Face Thou Veiwest
Look in thy glass, and tell the face thou viewest
Now is the time that face should form another;
Whose fresh repair if now thou not renewest,
Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother.
For where is she so fair whose unear’d womb
Disdains the tillage of thy husbandry?
Or who is he so fond will be the tomb
Of his self-love, to stop posterity?
Thou art thy mother’s glass, and she in thee
Calls back the lovely April of her prime:
So thou through windows of thine age shall see
Despite of wrinkles this thy golden time.
But if thou live, remember’d not to be,
Die single, and thine image dies with thee.
Look in your mirror and tell the face you see that it’s time it should create another If you do not renew yourself you would be depriving the world, and stop some woman from becoming a mother. For where is the lovely woman whose unploughed womb would not appreciate the way you plow your field? Or who is he foolish enough to love himself so much as to neglect reproducing? You are the mirror of your mother, and she is the mirror of you, and in you, she recalls the lovely April of her youth. In the same way, you will see your youth in your own children, in spite of the wrinkles caused by age. But if you live your life avoiding being remembered you will die single and your image will die with you.
Sonnet 4: Unthrifty Loveliness, Why Dost Thou Spend
Unthrifty loveliness, why dost thou spend
Upon thyself thy beauty’s legacy?
Nature’s bequest gives nothing but doth lend,
And being frank she lends to those are free.
Then, beauteous niggard, why dost thou abuse
The bounteous largess given thee to give?
Profitless usurer, why dost thou use
So great a sum of sums, yet canst not live?
For having traffic with thyself alone,
Thou of thyself thy sweet self dost deceive.
Then how, when nature calls thee to be gone,
What acceptable audit canst thou leave?
Thy unused beauty must be tomb’d with thee,
Which, used, lives th’ executor to be.
Wasteful youth, why do you squander on yourself the riches that you should leave to the world? Nature gives nothing but only makes a loan and, being generous, she lends only to those who are open-hearted. Then, beautiful miser, why do you abuse the generous inheritance given to you to leave to someone else? Unsuccessful money-lender, why do you spend such great sums when you can’t live forever, by thinking of yourself only? You are only cheating yourself, so, when nature calls you away what reasonable account will you be able to give of yourself? Your unused seed will have to be buried with you, which, if used, would live as the administrator of your beauty.
Sonnet 5: Those Hours, That With Gentle Work Did Frame
Those hours, that with gentle work did frame
The lovely gaze where every eye doth dwell,
Will play the tyrants to the very same
And that unfair which fairly doth excel;
For never-resting time leads summer on
To hideous winter, and confounds him there;
Sap checked with frost, and lusty leaves quite gone,
Beauty o’er-snowed and bareness every where:
Then were not summer’s distillation left,
A liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass,
Beauty’s effect with beauty were bereft,
Nor it, nor no remembrance what it was:
But flowers distill’d, though they with winter meet,
Leese but their show; their substance still lives sweet.
Time, that so carefully made those beautiful eyes that every other eye gazes at, will become a tyrant to those same lovely eyes and make them ugly; because never-resting time leads summer into hideous winter and destroys it there. Sap is stopped from rising by the frost and the leaves disappear; beauty is covered with snow and all the trees are bare. Then, if summer’s distillation hadn’t been preserved as a prisoner in a glass vial, that summer’s legacy would be lost with that summer’s death. Neither it nor the memory of what it was would remain. But flowers that have been distilled, even though they’ve been destroyed by winter, lose only their outward appearance: their substance lives on sweetly.
Sonnet 6: Then Let Not Winter’s Ragged Hand Deface
Then let not winter’s ragged hand deface,
In thee thy summer, ere thou be distilled:
Make sweet some vial; treasure thou some place
With beauty’s treasure ere it be self-killed.
That use is not forbidden usury,
Which happies those that pay the willing loan;
That’s for thy self to breed another thee,
Or ten times happier, be it ten for one;
Ten times thy self were happier than thou art,
If ten of thine ten times refigured thee:
Then what could death do if thou shouldst depart,
Leaving thee living in posterity?
Be not self-willed, for thou art much too fair
To be death’s conquest and make worms thine heir.
So don’t let winter’s ragged hand disfigure that summer in you before your essence is distilled. Fill some vial; enrich some woman’s womb with the treasure of your beauty before it dies. The interest from that would not be illegal lending if it made the willing borrower happy, which would happen if the loan was to breed another of yourself. Or ten times better if the interest were ten for one. Ten of yourself would be better than just one of you, with ten of your children existing, making ten images of you. Then what effect could death have if you should die, leaving you alive after your death? Don’t be obstinate because you are far too beautiful to be the victim of death and have only worms as your heirs.
Sonnet 7: Lo! In The Orient When The Gracious Light
Lo! in the orient when the gracious light
Lifts up his burning head, each under eye
Doth homage to his new-appearing sight,
Serving with looks his sacred majesty;
And having climb’d the steep-up heavenly hill,
Resembling strong youth in his middle age,
yet mortal looks adore his beauty still,
Attending on his golden pilgrimage;
But when from highmost pitch, with weary car,
Like feeble age, he reeleth from the day,
The eyes, ‘fore duteous, now converted are
From his low tract and look another way:
So thou, thyself out-going in thy noon,
Unlook’d on diest, unless thou get a son.
Look! In the east when the glorious sun raises his burning head, all men’s eyes pay tribute to his new, fresh appearance, serving his majesty with looks of awe. And having climbed that steep hill to heaven like a strong youth in the prime of life, mortals still worship his beauty as they watch his golden climb into the sky. But when he staggers away, old and feeble, from his highest point with weary horses, the eyes that were dutiful before, now turn away from him and look elsewhere. So you, yourself, declining from your noonday glory, will die disregarded, unless you beget a son.
Sonnet 8: Music To Hear, Why Hear’st Thou Music Sadly?
Music to hear, why hear’st thou music sadly?
Sweets with sweets war not, joy delights in joy:
Why lov’st thou that which thou receiv’st not gladly,
Or else receiv’st with pleasure thine annoy?
If the true concord of well-tuned sounds,
By unions married, do offend thine ear,
They do but sweetly chide thee, who confounds
In singleness the parts that thou shouldst bear.
Mark how one string, sweet husband to another,
Strikes each in each by mutual ordering;
Resembling sire and child and happy mother,
Who, all in one, one pleasing note do sing:
Whose speechless song being many, seeming one,
Sings this to thee: ‘Thou single wilt prove none.’
Why do you, who are music to listen to, listen to music sadly? Sweet things don’t quarrel with sweet things, and joyful things delight in joyful things. Why do you love something that you don’t enjoy, or get pleasure from something that causes you pain? If the true harmony of well-tuned sounds, married to each other in counterpoint, offends your ear, it is gently reprimanding you because by staying single you are denying the part you should play. Remember that one string reverberates with the others to produce rich music, like father and child and happy mother in a family, who all sing together in pleasing harmony. Their instrumental performance is a unity, although made up of many parts, and make this point, in music, to you: ‘Being single you will be nothing.’
Sonnet 9: Is It For Fear To Wet A Widow’s Eye
Is it for fear to wet a widow’s eye,
That thou consum’st thy self in single life?
Ah! if thou issueless shalt hap to die,
The world will wail thee like a makeless wife;
The world will be thy widow and still weep
That thou no form of thee hast left behind,
When every private widow well may keep
By children’s eyes, her husband’s shape in mind:
Look what an unthrift in the world doth spend
Shifts but his place, for still the world enjoys it;
But beauty’s waste hath in the world an end,
And kept unused the user so destroys it.
No love toward others in that bosom sits
That on himself such murd’rous shame commits.
Is it because you fear to make a widow grieve, that you waste yourself in bachelorhood? Ah, if you should happen to die childless the world will mourn for you like a bereaved widow. The world will be your widow and weep profusely because you have left no copy of yourself behind, while an ordinary widow is able to keep her husband’s memory fresh by looking at her children. Whatever a money-waster spends just moves from one pocket to another and the world continues to enjoy it, but squandered beauty is lost to the world, and by not using it the user destroys it. There is no love for others in the heart of one who murders himself so shamelessly.
Sonnet 10: For Shame Deny That Thou Bear’st Love To Any
For shame deny that thou bear’st love to any,
Who for thy self art so unprovident.
Grant, if thou wilt, thou art beloved of many,
But that thou none lov’st is most evident:
For thou art so possessed with murderous hate,
That ‘gainst thy self thou stick’st not to conspire,
Seeking that beauteous roof to ruinate
Which to repair should be thy chief desire.
O! change thy thought, that I may change my mind:
Shall hate be fairer lodged than gentle love?
Be, as thy presence is, gracious and kind,
Or to thyself at least kind-hearted prove:
Make thee another self for love of me,
That beauty still may live in thine or thee.
Out of a sense of shame you, who are so unwilling to provide for the future, should admit that you don’t love anyone. I grant you, if you like, that you are loved by many, but it’s very clear that you don’t love anyone; because, being someone who doesn’t hesitate to conspire against himself, you are determined to murder your potential progeny. You are prepared to end your noble line, which it should be your main concern to maintain. Oh! Change your mind, so that I can change my opinion of you. Do you, the most beautiful creature, want to be the house where hate lives? Be as gracious and generous to your relatives as you are to everyone else, or at least be generous to yourself. Change your mind for my sake so that you will be a noble person and that your beauty will live on in your descendants.
Sonnet 11: As Fast As Thou Shalt Wane, So Fast Thou Grow
As fast as thou shalt wane, so fast thou grow’st
In one of thine, from that which thou departest;
And that fresh blood which youngly thou bestow’st,
Thou mayst call thine when thou from youth convertest.
Herein lives wisdom, beauty, and increase;
Without this folly, age, and cold decay:
If all were minded so, the times should cease
And threescore year would make the world away.
Let those whom nature hath not made for store,
Harsh, featureless, and rude, barrenly perish:
Look whom she best endow’d, she gave the more;
Which bounteous gift thou shouldst in bounty cherish:
She carv’d thee for her seal, and meant thereby,
Thou shouldst print more, not let that copy die.
Your beauty would grow in a child of yours as rapidly as it fades in you, and when you are leaving your youth you could call that fresh blood that you give in your youth your own. Accepting this would be wise and it would ensure the preservation of your beauty; not doing so would be foolish and age would decay it. If everyone were to think like you it would result in the end of time and a sixty-year lifespan would bring the end of the world. Let those coarse, unremarkable, and crude people whom nature has not intended for breeding perish without issue. Whatever she gave to the best, she gave you more, and you should fully cherish those generous gifts. She printed her seal on you and by that meant that you should print more, not let that original die.
Sonnet 12: When I Do Count The Clock That Tells Time
When I do count the clock that tells the time,
And see the brave day sunk in hideous night;
When I behold the violet past prime,
And sable curls, all silvered o’er with white;
When lofty trees I see barren of leaves,
Which erst from heat did canopy the herd,
And summer’s green all girded up in sheaves,
Borne on the bier with white and bristly beard,
Then of thy beauty do I question make,
That thou among the wastes of time must go,
Since sweets and beauties do themselves forsake
And die as fast as they see others grow;
And nothing ‘gainst Time’s scythe can make defence
Save breed, to brave him when he takes thee hence.
When I count the chimes of the clock and watch the bright day sunken into terrifying night; when I see violets fading, and black curls all silvered over with white; when I see tall trees which previously offered shade to sheep and cattle but now with no leaves; and the green crops of summer tied up in harvested sheaves covered with scratchy dried out leaves, carried away on a wagon; then I begin to think about the endurance of your beauty and that you will have to decline and decay like everything else because sweet and beautiful things lose their sweetness and beauty and die while watching new sweet and beautiful things taking their place. The only defense against Time’s scythe is to defy him when he takes you away, by having children.
Sonnet 13: O! That You Were Your Self! But, Love,You Are
O, that you were yourself! but, love, you are
No longer yours than you yourself here live:
Against this coming end you should prepare,
And your sweet semblance to some other give.
So should that beauty which you hold in lease
Find no determination: then you were
Yourself again after yourself’s decease,
When your sweet issue your sweet form should bear.
Who lets so fair a house fall to decay,
Which husbandry in honour might uphold
Against the stormy gusts of winter’s day
And barren rage of death’s eternal cold?
O, none but unthrifts! Dear my love, you know
You had a father: let your son say so.
Oh, how I long for you to be yourself forever, unchanged, but, my love, you don’t have any identity for any longer than your time on earth. You should prepare yourself for this approaching end and pass your sweet likeness on to someone else. In that way, the lease that you hold for that beauty would not expire and you would survive after your self’s death, when your beautiful children would carry your beautiful form. Who allows such a lovely house to fall into decay when it could, with good management, be properly protected from the stormy winds of winter and the frustration of the eternal coldness of death? Oh, no-one except the irresponsible. My dear love, you once had a father: let your son be able to say the same thing.
Sonnet 14: Not From The Stars Do I My Judgement Pluck
Not from the stars do I my judgement pluck;
And yet methinks I have Astronomy,
But not to tell of good or evil luck,
Of plagues, of dearths, or seasons’ quality;
Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell,
Pointing to each his thunder, rain and wind,
Or say with princes if it shall go well
By oft predict that I in heaven find:
But from thine eyes my knowledge I derive,
And, constant stars, in them I read such art
As truth and beauty shall together thrive,
If from thyself, to store thou wouldst convert;
Or else of thee this I prognosticate:
Thy end is truth’s and beauty’s doom and date.
I don’t pick my wisdom from the stars, but I think I understand astronomy, although not to predict good or bad luck, or plagues and famines or what the seasons will be like. Nor can I tell fortunes, showing individuals their own moods and their ups and downs, nor tell rulers whether things will go well by frequent predictions from what I see in the heavens. But I get my knowledge from your eyes, and as they are constant stars, I’m able to predict that truth and beauty will thrive together if you would turn your attention from yourself to the reproduction of yourself; otherwise, this is my prediction for you: your death will be the final end of truth and beauty.
Sonnet 15: When I Consider Everything That Grows
When I consider every thing that grows
Holds in perfection but a little moment,
That this huge stage presenteth nought but shows
Whereon the stars in secret influence comment;
When I perceive that men as plants increase,
Cheered and checked even by the self-same sky,
Vaunt in their youthful sap, at height decrease,
And wear their brave state out of memory;
Then the conceit of this inconstant stay
Sets you most rich in youth before my sight,
Where wasteful Time debateth with decay
To change your day of youth to sullied night,
And all in war with Time for love of you,
As he takes from you, I engraft you new.
When I consider that every living thing holds its state of perfection for only a brief moment; that this huge stage, the world, presents only sham performances, which the stars secretly influence; when I realise that men grow like plants, encouraged and inhibited by the same weather, show off when flushed with youthful sap, then declining when full-grown, wearing away until their youth has been forgotten; then the consideration of this short, unpredictable life makes me see you as rich in youth in the face of the plans of Time and Decay to change your day of youth to dingy night. And, at war with Time because of my love for you, as he’s taking from you I’m renewing you in my poetry.
