^"^S&^m 
 
 
 ^' •«» 
 
 T ^u Far d Sonnet f \ 
 
 ^cS 
 
 7; K 
 
 Wfl.lJcAoM SlJcA K(iS'r(o 
 
PR 
 
 CORNELL 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 THIS BOOK IS ONE OF 
 A COLLECTION MADE BY 
 
 BENNO LOEWY 
 
 1854-1919 
 
 AND BEQUEATHED TO 
 CORNELL UNIVERSITY 
 
PR 2848.A2E47 ""'""'"" '""'"'^ 
 
 iiEmL'llII',?"'" "Sugard sonnets" 
 
 3 1924 013 143 528 
 
Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of tiiis book is in 
 the Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/cletails/cu31924013143528 
 
p^.6>,ih6^^ 
 
SHoAKSSTQcATig, 'S 
 
'DSa/lli cMIl W. H. 
 
 rHREE hundred years since, or more, the 
 sonnets of which you were the "only 
 begetter " astonished the other " private friends " 
 of their author. We are not altogether sure 
 who you were, and even your initials are 
 suppressed in some of the collected editions of 
 Shakespere's Works, which is hard on you, I 
 confess. But just now there is something else to 
 apologise for. Messrs. Field &" Tuer have selected 
 a few of the celebrated " Sugar'd Sonnets " and re- 
 sugared them with some little etched borders, where 
 
 dramatis 
 
dramatis personce in an age of innocence are represented 
 playing at the actions which the poems so seriously 
 and beautifully describe. I do not suppose Mr. William 
 Shakespeare would have deigned to give more than a 
 smile to this frolic, could he have known of it, but you 
 may well demand an explanation of the lines having 
 been treated as though they had been addressed to 
 a lady, and a little baby-lady is represented in the 
 illustrations as the praised person who receives the 
 compliments paid to you three centuries ago. 
 
 There is one excuse which you would not refuse 
 to admit if you revisited the glimpses of the sun 
 in our modern London atmosphere. The fact is that 
 the taste of the day refuses to endure such violently 
 pretty adoration, coming from one man-friend to 
 another, as Mr. W. S. addressed to you. I know 
 that the whole set of poems are a moral exhorta- 
 tion to you to be good and get married, and have 
 as many lovely children like yourself as you can ; 
 
 and 
 
and when you went astray a little you were most 
 tenderly prayed to remember how valuable to those 
 who loved you was your "good report." 
 
 Yet it will not do now. This is not the only endow- 
 ment which has been diverted after many generations 
 from the original intention of its founder, and I trust 
 you will bow as we all do to the necessities^ of the 
 times. 
 
 Yours faithfully, 
 
 And gratefully, 
 
THE first of our chosen ten is a preface in itself. 
 As a piece of writing it is in alternate rhyme 
 like the rest, yet the sense of it is in couplets, 
 the lines falling by their meaning into pairs all the 
 way through, the second of each pair repeating and 
 completing the first after the manner of "parallelisms" 
 which form the rhyme of Biblical poetry. The fifth 
 and sixth lines are exceptions, but the rest shew this 
 accidental quality so strikingly that they suggest how 
 Hebrew poetry might be translated into English 
 without losing its own intention, and yet be made to 
 belong to the songship of another language. In the 
 pictorial border to this, as in most of the others, the 
 lover and the lady are repeated several times over. 
 But all through they are meant for the same lover and 
 same lady in diiferent positions, nor is anything hinted 
 of their love more especially mature than our youngest 
 children, who "play at being married" almost before 
 they can walk and talk, might take on themselves to 
 personate. 
 
 SONNET XXIII. 
 
SONNET. 
 
 As an unperfect actor on the stage, 
 Who with his fear is put besides his part, 
 Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage, 
 Whose strength's abundance weakens his own heart ; 
 So I, for fear of trust, forget to say 
 The perfect ceremony of love's rite, 
 And in mine own love's strength seem to decay, 
 O'ercharg'd with burthen of mine own love's might. 
 O let my books be then the eloquence 
 And dumb presages of my speaking breast ; 
 Who plead for love, and look for recoinpence 
 More than that tongue that more hath more express'd. 
 O learn to read what silent love hath writ : 
 To hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit. 
 
 xxiu. 
 
IT seems an absurd jump to go straight from 
 Sonnet XXIII. to Sonnet XCI, but the series 
 is not progressive, and except that the selection 
 here has aimed chiefly at choosing such as could 
 bear the border-treatment to which they have been 
 subjected, the only quality of arrangement in the set 
 of ten consists in placing five of praise in presence 
 first, and five that have reference to praise in absence 
 after. 
 
 Here the personages of the border are not all re- 
 petitions of the lover and dame, who only occur once, 
 walking together. The rest are those who have other 
 things to glory in, and are represented glorying away 
 as hard as they can. 
 
 SONNET XCI. 
 
SONNET. 
 
 Some glory in their birth, some in their skill, 
 
 Some in their wealth, some in their body's force ; 
 
 Some in their garments, though new-fangled ill ; 
 
 Some in their hawks and hounds, some in their horse ; 
 
 And every humour hath his adjunct pleasure. 
 
 Wherein it finds a joy above the rest ; 
 
 But these particulars are not my measure, 
 
 All these I better in one general best. 
 
 Thy love is better than high birth to me. 
 
 Richer than wealth, prouder than garments' cost. 
 
 Of more delight than hawks and horses be ; 
 
 And, having thee, of all men's pride I boast. 
 Wretched in this alone, that thou may'st take 
 All this away, and me most wretched make. 
 
 xci. 
 
THE blessed key speaks for itself here. It is 
 a common key enough personally, and only 
 belongs to a cellar door by rights, but imagi- 
 nation of the gold it locks up sheds an amount of 
 glory about it which a good average saint in an old 
 master might be glad of. Down below we have 
 "The Rich" — (evidently but one person, as he has 
 but one blessed key) about to enter the cellar. At the 
 other side of the door are seemingly robbers or the 
 like. But it must be remembered that these decorative 
 borders are not all one picture with only a blank space 
 in the middle, even though the edges are but vaguely 
 divided into compartments, and it is therefore open 
 to commentators to find in the figures with the 
 treasure " The Rich " over again, enjoying the sight 
 of it with a friend. The two figures above, walking 
 and embracing, are evidently the poet himself reciting 
 the sonnet to the lady who has so unscrupulously 
 supplanted poor Mr. W. H. in our minds' eyes. 
 Pendant to them opposite she stands alone, showing 
 by a gesture what " the captain jewels in the carcanet " 
 are, and so saving a reference to the glossary. The 
 " Sunday-best " bping got out of the wardrobe at the 
 top needs no explanation to any respectable person. 
 
 SONNET LU. 
 
SONNET. 
 
 So am I as the rich, whose blessed key 
 Can bring him to his sweet up-locked treasure, 
 The which he will not every hour survey, 
 For blunting the fine point of seldom pleasure. 
 Therefore are feasts so solemn and so rare, 
 Since seldom coming, in the long year set, 
 Like stones of worth they thinly placed are, 
 Or captain jewels in the carcanet. 
 So is the time that keeps you, as my chest, 
 Or as the wardrobe which the robe doth hide, 
 To make some special instant special-blest. 
 By new unfolding his imprison'd pride. 
 Blessed are you, whose worthiness gives scope, 
 Being had, to triumph, being lack'd, to hope. 
 
 LH. 
 
^O ami as the rich, whose blessed key 
 Can bring him to his sweet up-locked treasure, 
 The which he will not every hour survey, 
 For blunting the fine paint of seldom pleasure. 
 Therefore are feasts so solemn and so rare. 
 Since seldom coming, in the long year set. 
 Like stones of worth they thinly placed are. 
 Or captain jewels m the carcanet. 
 So is the time that keeps you, as my chest. 
 Or as the wardrobe which the robe doth hide. 
 To make some special instant special-blest. 
 By new unfolding his imprison'd pride. 
 Blessed are you, whose worthiness gives scope. 
 Being had, to triumph, being lack'd, to hope. 
 
PRAISE, and the poetic sweetness of it, cer- 
 tainly go one step higher in this Sonnet 
 than in the last. No one need be told that 
 the figure at the bottom is the childish equivalent 
 for the poet, aU alone, weeping his outcast state, or 
 that above where he is reading, he is envying the art 
 and scope of other writers, as he lingers over their 
 volumes, pen in hand. But as the sun rises he looks 
 into the lark's nest and out flies the bird, and in a 
 moment a sunny thought of the loved one almost 
 gives him wings. As he dances for joy, his state, if 
 not himself, sings songs at heaven's gate, while a little 
 leaping on the earth is not too much for a bodily 
 accompaniment. As for the beam that goes diagonally 
 across the whole page, it is manifestly only a device 
 to divide the thing into compartments like a heraldic 
 shield. It is not meant to represent part of a house, 
 any more than the clouds that divide other borders are 
 to be counted as part of the sky. 
 
 SONNET XXIX. 
 
SONNET. 
 
 When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes, 
 I all alone beweep my outcast state, 
 And trouble deaf Heaven with my bootless cries. 
 And look upon myself, and curse my fate. 
 Wishing me like to one more rich in hope, 
 Featur'd like him^ like him with friends possess'd, 
 Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope. 
 With what I most enjoy contented least ; 
 Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising, 
 Haply I think on thee, — and then my state 
 (Like to the lark at break of day arising 
 From sullen earth) sings hymns at heaven's gate ; 
 For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings. 
 That then I scorn to change my state with kings. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
OF course the eye and heart send forth their 
 portraits with their legions by way of ban- 
 ners. The legions themselves meet in rows 
 with halberds, and holding them out in an uncomfort- 
 able way wobble them slowly up and down in each 
 other's faces. If any one doubts that this is the proper 
 way to carry on a " mortal war " in Shakesperian 
 style, let him go to see Macbeth next time it is played, 
 and stay to the last act. Or rather let him go back in 
 memory to the good old traditionary Drury Lane 
 days. What the future will be it would be rash to try 
 to imagine. Perhaps an enterprising manager will buy 
 a sufficiency of .cheap Turks and Armenians, and get 
 them to go on a little with their "Question" on 
 the boards. The Trial below has no prisoner, no 
 visible plaintiff or defendant, and only one counsel 
 speaking. But he is understood to be the poet, 
 speaking for both sides. There are two reporters at 
 any rate, which is satisfactory. This time Mr. (or 
 Miss) W. H. being absent altogether, it is hard to say 
 how otherwise the poetic proceedings could have been 
 preserved for us. 
 
 SONNET XLVI. 
 
SONNET. 
 
 Mine eye and heart are at a mortal war, 
 How to divide the conquest of thy sight ; 
 Mine eye my heart thy picture's sight would bar, 
 My heart mine eye the freedom of that right. 
 My heart doth plead that thou in him dost lie, 
 (A closet never pierc'd with crystal eyes,) 
 But the defendant doth that plea deny, 
 And says in him thy feir appearance lies. 
 To 'cide this title is impanelled 
 A quest of thoughts, all tenants to the heart ; 
 And by their verdict is determined 
 The clear eye's moiety, and the dear heart's part : 
 As thus : mine eye's due is thine outward part, 
 And my heart's right thine inward love of heart. 
 
 XLVI. 
 
1''^ ALF the small selection has been passed in 
 I f review, and the remaining five change the 
 [^ subject and include ideas of absence and 
 yearning with those of pure love and admiration. 
 The heavy journey must be the first of them, from its 
 moment of parting — already quite small and far back 
 in the mists of memory — to the fiftieth milestone, by 
 which it becomes almost unendurable. Care sits be- 
 hind the slow horseman sometimes as well as the fast 
 one. The grief of our poor poet is made of pretty 
 suggestions. He might be at this moment (as the 
 etching hints that his imagination is telling him) 
 sitting beside the loved one, pouring out more com- 
 plicated and charming little bits of adoration. But 
 the journey has to go on still, and the worst is that 
 there has been no illusion about it. From the very 
 first a spectral sign-post has pointed out which way lay 
 grief, and which way joy. There was no necessity to 
 use much aquafortis in this etching. Tears would 
 have done. 
 
 SONNET L. 
 
SONNET. 
 
 How heavy do I journey on the way, 
 When what I seek — my weary travel's end — 
 Doth teach that ease and that repose to say, 
 'Thus far the miles are measur'd from thy friend ! ' 
 The beast that bears me, tired with my woe, 
 Plods duUy on, to bear that weight in me, 
 As if by some instinct the wretch did know 
 His rider lov'd not speed, being made from thee : 
 The bloody spur cannot provoke him on 
 That sometimes anger thrusts into his hide, 
 Which heavily he answers with a groan, 
 More sharp to me than spurring to his side ; 
 For that ^me groan doth put this in my mind, 
 My grief lies onward, and my joy behind. 
 
XjLO T^ heavy do Ijowmey on the way. 
 When what I seek — my weary travel's end-^ 
 Doth teach that ease and that repose to say, 
 ' Thus far the miles are measui^d from thy friend I 
 The beast that bears me, tired with my woe, 
 Plods dully on, to bear that weight in me, 
 As if by some instinct the wretch did know 
 His rider lov'd not speed, being, made from thee : 
 The bloody spur cannot provoke him on 
 That sometimes anger thrusts into his hide, 
 Which heavily he answers with a groan, 
 More sharp to me than spurring to his side ; 
 For that same groan doth put this in my mind, 
 My grief lies onward, and my joy behind. 
 
V'~\ O one supposes that this Sonnet necessarily 
 I f refers to life after the journey mentioned in 
 ^ No. L. But it gives a general picture of a 
 night during absence, and may as well be at this as at 
 another time. The Poet appears here frequently. We 
 see him " weary with toil" — a reaper's toil in the fields 
 of imagination — " hasting to his bed." We see him 
 on the bed — (it is manifestly summer time) — very wide 
 awake though tired, and above we meet with indefinite 
 numbers of him over and over again flying, as in imagi- 
 nation he now flies, to the place where he would be. 
 One more favoured figure has already arrived, but all 
 are the same seen in different points of the journey, 
 and seemingly multiplied as the corners of a room are 
 to a giddy person who sees it going round and round. 
 Gentles ! May we all be saved from such nights, and 
 that anon. 
 
 SONNET XXVII. 
 
SONNET. 
 
 Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed, 
 The'dear repose for limbs with travel tir'd ; 
 But then begins a journey in my head. 
 To work my mind, when my body's work's expir'd ; 
 For then my thoughts (from far where T abide) 
 Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee, 
 And keep my drooping eyelids open wide, 
 Looking on darkness which the blind do see : 
 Save that my sotil's imaginary sight 
 Presents thy shadow to my sightless view, 
 Which, like a jewel hung in ghastly night. 
 Makes black night beauteous, and her old face new. 
 Lo, thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind 
 For thee, and for myself, no quiet find. 
 
 xxvn. 
 
no doubt can hang over this, either as to who 
 the figures are at the banquet — for they are 
 manifestly the "Those" made happy while 
 the " Slave " is away ; nor who the courtiers are 
 before whom he sees himself in chains, for they are 
 the same ; nor who the figure with the stone is, for it 
 is clearly the poet bearing his burden like Bunyan's 
 " Pilgrim " ; nor who the youth eyeing sadly the hour- 
 glass, for it is the same ; or reading the time by a tall 
 clock — probably his grandfather's — which tells him 
 nothing, as its works did not outlast its owner's time, 
 for it is himself once more. 
 
 Of all the Sonnets perhaps this is the politest, and 
 no one will dare to say it is the least poetic. To many 
 it will be the most so, in spite of the lovely fancifulness 
 of the two that can never be separated, forming one 
 poem, and ending our small volume. 
 
 SONNET Lvn. 
 
SONNET. 
 
 Being your slave, what should I do but tend 
 Upon the hours and times of your desire ? 
 I have no precious time at all to spend, 
 Nor services to do, till you require. 
 Nor dare I chide the world-without-end hour, 
 Whilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for you, 
 Nor think the bitterness of absence sour. 
 When you have bid your servant once adieu ; 
 Nor dare I question with my jealous thought 
 Where you may be, or your affairs suppose. 
 But, like a sad slave, stay and think of nought, 
 Save, where you are how happy you make those : 
 So true a fool is love, that in your will 
 (Though you do anything) he thinks no ill. 
 
 LVII. 
 
505\;5\:S7'. 
 
 JjgIU\IG your.slave, what should I do but tend 
 Upon the hours and times of your desire ? 
 I have no precious time at all to spend, 
 Nor services to do, till you require. 
 Nor dare I chide the world-without-end hour. 
 Whilst I, my. sovereign, watch the clock for you, 
 Nor think the bitterness of absence sour. 
 When you have bid your servant once adieii ; 
 Nor dare I question with my jealous thought 
 Where you may be, or your affairs suppose. 
 But, like a sad slave, stay and think of nought, 
 Save, where you are how happy you make those : 
 So true a fool is love, that in your will 
 (Though you do anything) he thinks no ill. 
 
FROM this one we have taken our motto, that 
 we may have something better behind, lest 
 anyone should accuse us of having been wan- 
 tonly trivial, though we would not willingly have 
 passed the bounds of quaintness — that sober playfulness 
 admitted even to serious places in all Anglo-Saxon 
 art. 
 
 Here, in the border, we have the Poet three times. 
 To the right he is refusing to wonder at the lily's 
 white ; to the left he sees but does not praise the deep 
 vermilion of the rose. Below he stands moodily in a 
 hedge and sees "proud-pied April dressed in all his 
 trim " doing what we have tried to do in these etchings. 
 Heavy Saturn is trying as well as he can to laugh and 
 leap with him, but is aware with whimsical conster- 
 nation that this is quite out of his line. The last line 
 of the Sonnet is not illustrated, as it really belongs 
 to the next one. The Poet's notions of playing with 
 flowers are sufficiently pleasant. He seems chiefly to 
 have played with their feelings, as he proceeds to scold 
 them roundly after refusing to admire them in the 
 slightest degree. 
 
 SONNET xcvni. 
 
SONNET. 
 
 From you have I been absent in the spring, 
 When proud-pied April, dress'd in all his trim, 
 Hath put a spirit of youth in everything. 
 That heavy Saturn laugh'd and leap'd with him. 
 Yet not the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell 
 Of different flowers in odour and in hue. 
 Could make me any summer's story tell. 
 Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew ; 
 Nor did I wonder at the lily's white. 
 Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose ; 
 They were but sweet, but figures of delight, 
 Drawn after you, you pattern of all those. 
 Yet seem'd it winter still, and, you away, 
 As with your shadow I with these did play : 
 
 xcvin. 
 
wf^X ERE the Poet is seen seven times over, the 
 I f lady once. Above he has got together whole 
 "^ t garlands of flowers of all sorts, and is swag- 
 gering about among them in a melancholy way, 
 heaping goodnatured but unsparing contempt on the 
 whole company. Below, to the right, he has caught a 
 defenceless violet out alone, and is abusing it in the 
 words of the poem. Further down, again, he is 
 making whole bushes of standard roses inexpressibly 
 uncomfortable in a most personal manner, while with 
 the lilies he goes to the extreme of actually summoning 
 up in imagination the very hand for which their 
 whiteness is to be condemned — though, in reality, it 
 was far enough away at the time — and introducing 
 the most odious comparisons while the lilies writhe on 
 their stalks, or bow to their mistress. 
 
 And so ends our little handful. There are plenty 
 more of the Sonnets that would have borne this treat- 
 ment, though not all are suited to it. But these are 
 surely enough, and as everyone can draw a little at the 
 present day, those who like them will no doubt find 
 amusement in continuing the set at home, finishing 
 the collection with their own pens. 
 
 SONNET xcix. 
 
SONNET. 
 
 The forward violet thus did I chide ; — 
 Sweet thief, whence didst thou steal thy sweet that smells, 
 If not from my love's breath ? The purple pride 
 Which on thy soft cheek for complexion dwells, 
 In my love's veins thou hast too grossly dy'd. 
 The lily I condemned for thy hand, 
 And buds of marjoram had stolen thy hair : 
 The roses fearfully on thorns did stand. 
 One blushing shame, another white despair ; 
 A third, nor red nor white, had stolen of both. 
 And to his robbery had annex'd thy breath ; 
 But for his theft, in pride of all his growth 
 A vengeful canker eat him up to death. 
 More flowers I noted, yet I none could see, 
 But sweet or colour it had stolen from thee. 
 
 xcix.