Sonnets from the Manuscript Edition, Not Found in That of 1594

Delight in your bright eyes my death did breed,As light and glittering weapons babes allureTo play with fire and sword, and so procureThen to be burnt and hurt ere they take heed,Thy beauty so hath made me burn and bleed;Yet shall my ashes and my blood assureThy beauty's fame forever to endure;For thy fame's life from my death doth proceed;Because my heart to ashes burned givethLife to thy fame, thou right a phoenix art,And like a pelican thy beauty livethBy sucking blood out of my breast and heart.Lo why with wonder we may thee compareUnto the pelican and phoenix rare!

Eyes curious to behold what nature can create,Come see, come see, and write what wonder you do see,Causing by true report our next posterityCurse fortune for that they were born too late!Come then and come ye all, come soon lest thatThe time should be too short and men too few should be;For all be few to write her least part's history,Though they should ever write and never write but that.Millions look on her eyes, millions think on her wit,Millions speak of her, millions write of her hand.The whole eye on the lip I do not understand;Millions too few to praise but some one part of it,As either of her eye or lip or hand to write,The light or black, the taste or red, the soft or white.

Lady of ladies, the delight aloneFor which to heaven earth doth no envy bear;Seeing and hearing thee, we see and hearSuch voice, such light, as never sung nor shone.The want of heaven I grant yet we may moan,Not for the pleasure of the angels there,As though in face or voice they like thee were,But that they many be, and thou but one.The basest notes which from thy voice proceed,The treble of the angels do exceed,So that I fear their choir to beautify,Lest thou to some in heaven shall sing and shine.Lo, when I hear thee sing, the reason whySighs of my breast keep time with notes of thine!

Not that thy hand is soft, is sweet, is white,Thy lips sweet roses, breast sweet lily is,That love esteems these three the chiefest blissWhich nature ever made for lips' delight;But when these three to show their heavenly mightSuch wonders do, devotion then for thisCommandeth us with humble zeal to kissSuch things as work miracles in our sight.A lute of senseless wood, by nature dumb,Touched by thy hand doth speak divinely well;And from thy lips and breast sweet tunes do comeTo my dead heart, the which new life do give.Of greater wonders heard we never tellThan for the dumb to speak, the dead to live.

When beauty to the world vouchsafes this bliss,To show the one whose other there is not,The whitest skins red blushing shame doth blot,And in the reddest cheeks pale envy is.The fair and foul come thus alike by this;For when the sun hath our horizon got,Venus herself doth shine no more, God wot,Than the least star that takes the light from his.The poor in beauty thus content remainTo see their jealous cause revenged in thee,And their fair foes afflicted with like pain.Lo, the clear proof of thy divinity;For unto God is only due this praiseThe highest to pluck down, the low to raise!

Miracle of the world! I never will denyThat former poets praise the beauty of their days;But all those beauties were but figures of thy praise,And all those poets did of thee but prophesy.Thy coming to the world hath taught us to descryWhat Petrarch's Laura meant, for truth the lip bewrays.Lo, why th' Italians, yet which never saw thy rays,To find out Petrarch's sense such forged glosses try!The beauties which he in a veil enclosed beheldBut revelations were within his surest heartBy which in parables thy coming he foretold;His songs were hymns of thee, which only now beforeThy image should be sung; for thou that goddess artWhich only we without idolatry adore.

Now, now I love indeed, and suffer moreIn one day now then I did in a year;Great flames they be which but small sparkles were,And wounded now, I was but pricked before.No marvel then, though more than heretoforeI weep and sigh; how can great wounds be thereWhere moisture runs not out? and ever, whereThe fire is great, of smoke there must be store.My heart was hitherto but like green wood,Which must be dried before it will burn bright;My former love served but my heart to dry;Now Cupid for his fire doth find it good:For now it burneth clear, and shall give lightFor all the world your beauty to espy.

If that one care had our two hearts possessed,Or you once (felt) what I long suffered,Then should thy heart accuse in my heart's steadThe rigour of itself for mine unrest.Then should thine arm upon my shoulder rest,And weight of grief sway down thy troubled head;Then should thy tears upon my sheet be shed,And then thy heart should pant upon my breast.But when that other cares thy heart do seize,Alas, what succour gain I then by this,But double grief for thine and mine unease?Yet when thou see'st thy hurts to wound my heart,And so art taught by me what pity is,Perhaps thy heart will learn to feel my smart.

Dear, though from me your gratious looks depart,And of that comfort do myself bereave,Which both I did deserve and did receive,Triumph not over much in this my smart.Nay, rather they which now enjoy thy heartFor fear just cause of mourning should conceive,Lest thou inconstant shouldst their trust deceiveWhich like unto the weather changing art.For in foul weather birds sing often willIn hope of fair, and in fair time will cease,For fear fair time should not continue still;So they may mourn which have thy heart possessedFor fear of change, and hope of change may easeTheir hearts whom grief of change doth now molest.

If ever any justly might complainOf unrequited service, it is I;Change is the thanks I have for loyalty,And only her reward is her disdain;So as just spite did almost me constrain,Through torment her due praises to deny,For he which vexed is with injuryBy speaking ill doth ease his heart of pain.But what, shall torture make me wrong her name?No, no, a pris'ner constant thinks it shame,Though he (were) racked his first truth to gainsay.Her true given praise my first confession is;Though her disdain do rack me night and day,This I confessed, and will deny in this.