SONNET #1
by: William Shakespeare
FROM fairest creatures we desire increa,
That thereby beauty's ro might never die,
But as the riper should by time decea,
His tender heir might bear his memory;
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light's flame with lf-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thylf thy foe, to thy sweet lf too cruel.
Thout that are now the world's fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, mak'st waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or el this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
SONNET #2
by: William Shakespeare
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 tottered weed of small worth held:
Then being asked 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 prai.
How much more prasie derved thy beauty's u
If thou couldst answer, 'This fair child of mine
Shall sum my count and make my old excu,'
Proving his beauty by succession thine.
This were to be new made when thou art old
And e thy blood warm when thou feel'st cold.
SONNET #3
by: William Shakespeare
LOOK in thy glass, and tell the face thou viewest
Now is the time that face should form another,
Who fresh repair if now thou renewest,
Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother.
For where is she so fair who uneared womb
Disdains the tillage of thy husbandry?
Or who is he so fond will be the tomb
Of his lf-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 shalt e,
Despite of wrinkles, this thy golden time.
But if thou live rememb'red not to be,
Die single, and thine image dies with thee.
SONNET #4
by: William Shakespeare
UNTHRIFTY loveliness, why dost thou spend
Upon thylf they beauty's legacy?
Nature's bequest gives nothing but doth lend,
And, being frank, she lends to tho are free.
Then, beateous niggard, why dost thou abu
The bounteous largess given thee to give?
Profitless urer, why dost thou u
So great a sum of sums, yet canst not live?
For, having traffic with thylf alone,
Thou of thylf thy sweet lf dost deceive:
Then how, when Nature calls thee to be gone,
What acceptable audit canst thou leave?
Thy unud beauty must be tombed with thee,
Which, usèd, lives th' executor to be.
SONNET #5
by: William Shakespeare
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'ersnowed and bareness everywhere.
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 distilled, though they with winter meet,
Lee but there snow; their substance still lives sweet.
SONNET #6
by: William Shakespeare
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 lf-killed.
That u is not forbidden usury
Which happies tho that pay the willing loan;
That's for thylf to breed another thee,
Or ten times happier be it ten for one.
Ten times thylf 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 lf-willed, for thou art much too fair
To be death's conquest and make worms thine heir.
SONNET #7
by: William Shakespeare
LO, in the orient when the gracious light
Lifts up his burning head, each under eye
Doth homage to his new-appearing sight,
