Of the Sonnets we do not well know what to say.  The subject of them seems to be somewhat equivocal; but many of them are highly beautiful in themselves, and interesting as they relate to the state of the personal feelings of the author.  The following are some of the most striking: 

          Constancy

   Let those who are in favour with their stars
     Of public honour and proud titles boast,
     Whilst I, whom fortune of such triumph bars,
     Unlook’d for joy in that I honour most. 
     Great princes’ favourites their fair leaves spread,
     But as the marigold in the sun’s eye;
     And in themselves their pride lies buried,
     For at a frown they in their glory die. 
     The painful warrior famous’d for fight,
     After a thousand victories once foil’d,
     Is from the book of honour razed quite,
     And all the rest forgot for which he toil’d: 
       Then happy I, that love and am belov’d,
       Where I may not remove, nor be removed.

       Love’sconsolation

  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.

Novelty

My love is strengthen’d, though more weak in seeming;
I love not less, though less the show appear: 
That love is merchandiz’d, whose rich esteeming
The owner’s tongue doth publish every where. 
Our love was new, and then but in the spring,
When I was wont to greet it with my lays;
As Philomel in summer’s front doth sing,
And stops his pipe in growth of riper days: 
Not that the summer is less pleasant now
Than when her mournful hymns did hush the night,
But that wild music burthens every bough,
And sweets grown common lose their dear delight. 
Therefore, like her, I sometime hold my tongue,
Because I would not dull you with my song.

         Life’sdecay

That time of year thou mayst in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruin’d choirs, where late the sweet birds sang. 
In me thou see’st the twilight of such day
As after sunset fadeth in the west;
Which by and by black night doth take away,
Death’s second self, that seals up all in