The Sonnets LXXXV - My tongue-tied Muse in manners holds her still

My tongue-tied Muse in manners holds her still,
While comments of your praise richly compild,
Reserve their character with golden quill,
And precious phrase by all the Muses fild.
I think good thoughts, whilst others write good words,
And like unlettered clerk still cry Amen
To every hymn that able spirit affords,
In polishd form of well-refined pen.
Hearing you praised, I say tis so, tis true,
And to the most of praise add something more;
But that is in my thought, whose love to you,
Though words come hindmost, holds his rank before.
Then others, for the breath of words respect,
Me for my dumb thoughts, speaking in effect.

William Shakespeare

William Shakespeare was an English playwright, poet, and actor, regarded as the greatest writer in the English language and the world's greatest dramatist. Known as the 'Bard of Avon,' his extant works include approximately 39 plays, 154 sonnets, two long narrative poems, and a few other verses. His plays have been translated into every major living language and are performed more often than those of any other playwright.

William Shakespeare

The Sonnets C - Where art thou Muse that thou forgetst so long

William Shakespeare, Simple Poetry

The Sonnets CXLIII - Lo, as a careful housewife runs to catch

William Shakespeare, Simple Poetry

The Sonnets LXXXIX - Say that thou didst forsake me for some fault

William Shakespeare, Simple Poetry

The Sonnets CXLI - In faith I do not love thee with mine eyes

William Shakespeare, Simple Poetry

English

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The Sonnets LXXXIV - Who is it that says most, which can say more

Who is it that says most, which can say more,
Than this rich praise, that you alone, are you?
In whose confine immured is the store
Which should example where your equal grew.
Lean penury within that pen doth dwell
That to his subject lends not some small glory;
But he that writes of you, if he can tell
That you are you, so dignifies his story,
Let him but copy what in you is writ,
Not making worse what nature made so clear,
And such a counterpart shall fame his wit,
Making his style admired every where.
You to your beauteous blessings add a curse,
Being fond on praise, which makes your praises worse.

William Shakespeare

The Sonnets XXI - So is it not with me as with that Muse

So is it not with me as with that Muse,
Stirrd by a painted beauty to his verse,
Who heaven itself for ornament doth use
And every fair with his fair doth rehearse,
Making a couplement of proud compare,
With sun and moon, with earth and seas rich gems,
With Aprils first-born flowers, and all things rare,
That heavens air in this huge rondure hems.
O! let me, true in love, but truly write,
And then believe me, my love is as fair
As any mothers child, though not so bright
As those gold candles fixd in heavens air:
Let them say more that like of hearsay well;
I will not praise that purpose not to sell.

William Shakespeare

The Sonnets XXXIX - O! how thy worth with manners may I sing

O! how thy worth with manners may I sing,
When thou art all the better part of me?
What can mine own praise to mine own self bring?
And what ist but mine own when I praise thee?
Even for this, let us divided live,
And our dear love lose name of single one,
That by this separation I may give
That due to thee which thou deservst alone.
O absence! what a torment wouldst thou prove,
Were it not thy sour leisure gave sweet leave,
To entertain the time with thoughts of love,
Which time and thoughts so sweetly doth deceive,
And that thou teachest how to make one twain,
By praising him here who doth hence remain.

William Shakespeare

The Sonnets LXXX - O! how I faint when I of you do write

O! how I faint when I of you do write,
Knowing a better spirit doth use your name,
And in the praise thereof spends all his might,
To make me tongue-tied speaking of your fame!
But since your worth, wide as the ocean is,
The humble as the proudest sail doth bear,
My saucy bark, inferior far to his,
On your broad main doth wilfully appear.
Your shallowest help will hold me up afloat,
Whilst he upon your soundless deep doth ride;
Or, being wrackd, I am a worthless boat,
He of tall building, and of goodly pride:
Then if he thrive and I be cast away,
The worst was this, my love was my decay.

William Shakespeare

The Sonnets XXXVIII - How can my muse want subject to invent

How can my muse want subject to invent,
While thou dost breathe, that pourst into my verse
Thine own sweet argument, too excellent
For every vulgar paper to rehearse?
O! give thy self the thanks, if aught in me
Worthy perusal stand against thy sight;
For whos so dumb that cannot write to thee,
When thou thy self dost give invention light?
Be thou the tenth Muse, ten times more in worth
Than those old nine which rhymers invocate;
And he that calls on thee, let him bring forth
Eternal numbers to outlive long date.
If my slight muse do please these curious days,
The pain be mine, but thine shall be the praise.

William Shakespeare

To The Memory Of My Beloved Author, Mr. William Shakespeare

To draw no envy, Shakespeare, on thy name,
Am I thus ample to thy book and fame;
While I confess thy writings to be such
As neither man nor muse can praise too much;
'Tis true, and all men's suffrage. But these ways
Were not the paths I meant unto thy praise;
For seeliest ignorance on these may light,
Which, when it sounds at best, but echoes right;
Or blind affection, which doth ne'er advance
The truth, but gropes, and urgeth all by chance;
Or crafty malice might pretend this praise,
And think to ruin, where it seem'd to raise.
These are, as some infamous bawd or whore
Should praise a matron; what could hurt her more?
But thou art proof against them, and indeed,
Above th' ill fortune of them, or the need.
I therefore will begin. Soul of the age!
The appl...

Ben Jonson