Taking my pen, with words to cast my woe,
    Duly to count the sum of all my cares,
    I find my griefs innumerable grow,
    The reck’nings rise to millions of despairs. 
      And thus dividing of my fatal hours,
    The payments of my love I read and cross;
    Subtracting, set my sweets unto my sours,
    My joys’ arrearage leads me to my loss. 
      And thus mine eyes a debtor to thine eye,
    Which by extortion gaineth all their looks,
    My heart hath paid such grievous usury,
    That all their wealth lies in thy beauty’s books. 
      And all is thine which hath been due to me,
      And I a bankrupt, quite undone by thee.

    IV

    Bright star of beauty, on whose eyelids sit
    A thousand nymph-like and enamoured graces,
    The goddesses of memory and wit,
    Which there in order take their several places;
      In whose dear bosom, sweet delicious love
    Lays down his quiver which he once did bear,
    Since he that blessed paradise did prove,
    And leaves his mother’s lap to sport him there
      Let others strive to entertain with words
    My soul is of a braver mettle made;
    I hold that vile which vulgar wit affords;
    In me’s that faith which time cannot invade. 
      Let what I praise be still made good by you;
      Be you most worthy whilst I am most true!

    V

    Nothing but “No!” and “I!"[A] and “I!” and “No!”
    “How falls it out so strangely?” you reply. 
    I tell ye, Fair, I’ll not be answered so,
    With this affirming “No!” denying “I!”
    I say “I love!” You slightly answer “I!”
    I say “You love!” You pule me out a “No!”
    I say “I die!” You echo me with “I!”
    “Save me!” I cry; you sigh me out a “No!”
    Must woe and I have naught but “No!” and “I!”? 
    No “I!” am I, if I no more can have. 
    Answer no more; with silence make reply,
    And let me take myself what I do crave;
      Let “No!” and “I!” with I and you be so,
      Then answer “No!” and “I!” and “I!” and “No!”

    [Footnote A:  The “I” of course equals “aye.”]

    VI

    How many paltry, foolish, painted things,
    That now in coaches trouble every street,
    Shall be forgotten, whom no poet sings,
    Ere they be well wrapped in their winding sheet! 
      Where I to thee eternity shall give,
    When nothing else remaineth of these days,
    And queens hereafter shall be glad to live
    Upon the alms of thy superfluous praise;
      Virgins and matrons reading these my rhymes,
    Shall be so much delighted with thy story,
    That they shall grieve they lived not in these times,
    To have seen thee, their sex’s only glory. 
      So shalt thou fly above the vulgar throng,
      Still to survive in my immortal song.