I think if you put her stories to another author to write, harsh as it may seem, you would really have something. Sometimes they need a little editing, as they are pretty wordy in places. However, something brings me back to them each time as the basic stories are pretty good. Just a litt I find Mary Wood's books both compelling yet frustrating. Just a little annoyance at the basic writing of them. But don't take my word for it, give them a read. I may be being too harsh. This review has been hidden because it contains spoilers.
To view it, click here. I loved the book but I just felt some of it felt a bit rushed and left me with more questions than it answered. I felt this section could easily have been expanded to create a fourth and final novel. What happened to Rita? Did she make it abroad or end up back in prison? And what about Patsy? It all happened so fast and without real explanation.
How did she fit into the family and did she ever meet her biological mother? Lots of questions without any answers. Apr 09, Amy rated it really liked it. I've an overwhelming desire to add "aye" to all my sentences now. Penelope Bridgwater rated it liked it Nov 04, Susan Taylor rated it really liked it Jun 11, Sandra rated it it was amazing Jan 26, Stacey Bennett rated it it was amazing Jan 13, Ann Dwelly rated it really liked it Jul 19, Rita Jones rated it did not like it Feb 05, Margaret rated it really liked it Jan 14, Carole Litster rated it really liked it Feb 22, Viv rated it it was ok Dec 19, Debra rated it it was amazing Jun 27, Jean rated it it was amazing Nov 05, Jane Taylor rated it it was amazing Nov 01, Lynda Day rated it it was amazing Jul 09, Allyson Gahan rated it really liked it Jun 24, Prison my heart in thy steel bosom's ward, But then my friend's heart let my poor heart bail; Whoe'er keeps me, let my heart be his guard; Thou canst not then use rigour in my jail: And yet thou wilt; for I, being pent in thee, Perforce am thine, and all that is in me.
So now I have confessed that he is thine, And I my self am mortgaged to thy will, Myself I'll forfeit, so that other mine Thou wilt restore to be my comfort still: But thou wilt not, nor he will not be free, For thou art covetous, and he is kind; He learned but surety-like to write for me, Under that bond that him as fast doth bind. The statute of thy beauty thou wilt take, Thou usurer, that put'st forth all to use, And sue a friend came debtor for my sake; So him I lose through my unkind abuse.
Him have I lost; thou hast both him and me: He pays the whole, and yet am I not free. Whoever hath her wish, thou hast thy Will, And Will to boot, and Will in over-plus; More than enough am I that vexed thee still, To thy sweet will making addition thus.
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Wilt thou, whose will is large and spacious, Not once vouchsafe to hide my will in thine? Shall will in others seem right gracious, And in my will no fair acceptance shine? The sea, all water, yet receives rain still, And in abundance addeth to his store; So thou, being rich in Will, add to thy Will One will of mine, to make thy large will more.
Let no unkind, no fair beseechers kill; Think all but one, and me in that one Will. If thy soul check thee that I come so near, Swear to thy blind soul that I was thy Will, And will, thy soul knows, is admitted there; Thus far for love, my love-suit, sweet, fulfil.
Will, will fulfil the treasure of thy love, Ay, fill it full with wills, and my will one. In things of great receipt with ease we prove Among a number one is reckoned none: Then in the number let me pass untold, Though in thy store's account I one must be; For nothing hold me, so it please thee hold That nothing me, a something sweet to thee: Make but my name thy love, and love that still, And then thou lovest me for my name is 'Will. They know what beauty is, see where it lies, Yet what the best is take the worst to be.
If eyes, corrupt by over-partial looks, Be anchored in the bay where all men ride, Why of eyes' falsehood hast thou forged hooks, Whereto the judgment of my heart is tied? Why should my heart think that a several plot, Which my heart knows the wide world's common place? Or mine eyes, seeing this, say this is not, To put fair truth upon so foul a face? In things right true my heart and eyes have erred, And to this false plague are they now transferred.
When my love swears that she is made of truth, I do believe her though I know she lies, That she might think me some untutored youth, Unlearned in the world's false subtleties. Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me young, Although she knows my days are past the best, Simply I credit her false-speaking tongue: On both sides thus is simple truth suppressed: But wherefore says she not she is unjust? And wherefore say not I that I am old? Let me excuse thee: ah! Be wise as thou art cruel; do not press My tongue-tied patience with too much disdain; Lest sorrow lend me words, and words express The manner of my pity-wanting pain.
If I might teach thee wit, better it were, Though not to love, yet, love to tell me so; As testy sick men, when their deaths be near, No news but health from their physicians know; For, if I should despair, I should grow mad, And in my madness might speak ill of thee; Now this ill-wresting world is grown so bad, Mad slanderers by mad ears believed be. That I may not be so, nor thou belied, Bear thine eyes straight, though thy proud heart go wide.
In faith I do not love thee with mine eyes, For they in thee a thousand errors note; But 'tis my heart that loves what they despise, Who, in despite of view, is pleased to dote. Nor are mine ears with thy tongue's tune delighted; Nor tender feeling, to base touches prone, Nor taste, nor smell, desire to be invited To any sensual feast with thee alone: But my five wits nor my five senses can Dissuade one foolish heart from serving thee, Who leaves unswayed the likeness of a man, Thy proud heart's slave and vassal wretch to be: Only my plague thus far I count my gain, That she that makes me sin awards me pain.
Love is my sin, and thy dear virtue hate, Hate of my sin, grounded on sinful loving: O! Be it lawful I love thee, as thou lov'st those Whom thine eyes woo as mine importune thee: Root pity in thy heart, that, when it grows, Thy pity may deserve to pitied be. If thou dost seek to have what thou dost hide, By self-example mayst thou be denied! Lo, as a careful housewife runs to catch One of her feathered creatures broke away, Sets down her babe, and makes all swift dispatch In pursuit of the thing she would have stay; Whilst her neglected child holds her in chase, Cries to catch her whose busy care is bent To follow that which flies before her face, Not prizing her poor infant's discontent; So runn'st thou after that which flies from thee, Whilst I thy babe chase thee afar behind; But if thou catch thy hope, turn back to me, And play the mother's part, kiss me, be kind; So will I pray that thou mayst have thy 'Will,' If thou turn back and my loud crying still.
Two loves I have of comfort and despair, Which like two spirits do suggest me still: The better angel is a man right fair, The worser spirit a woman coloured ill. To win me soon to hell, my female evil, Tempteth my better angel from my side, And would corrupt my saint to be a devil, Wooing his purity with her foul pride. And whether that my angel be turned fiend, Suspect I may, yet not directly tell; But being both from me, both to each friend, I guess one angel in another's hell: Yet this shall I ne'er know, but live in doubt, Till my bad angel fire my good one out.
Those lips that Love's own hand did make, Breathed forth the sound that said 'I hate', To me that languished for her sake: But when she saw my woeful state, Straight in her heart did mercy come, Chiding that tongue that ever sweet Was used in giving gentle doom; And taught it thus anew to greet; 'I hate' she altered with an end, That followed it as gentle day, Doth follow night, who like a fiend From heaven to hell is flown away. Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth, Why so large cost, having so short a lease, Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend?
Shall worms, inheritors of this excess, Eat up thy charge? Is this thy body's end? Then soul, live thou upon thy servant's loss, And let that pine to aggravate thy store; Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross; Within be fed, without be rich no more: So shall thou feed on Death, that feeds on men, And Death once dead, there's no more dying then.
My love is as a fever longing still, For that which longer nurseth the disease; Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill, The uncertain sickly appetite to please. My reason, the physician to my love, Angry that his prescriptions are not kept, Hath left me, and I desperate now approve Desire is death, which physic did except.
Past cure I am, now Reason is past care, And frantic-mad with evermore unrest; My thoughts and my discourse as madmen's are, At random from the truth vainly expressed; For I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright, Who art as black as hell, as dark as night. If that be fair whereon my false eyes dote, What means the world to say it is not so? If it be not, then love doth well denote Love's eye is not so true as all men's: no, How can it? No marvel then, though I mistake my view; The sun itself sees not, till heaven clears. O cunning Love! Canst thou, O cruel! Do I not think on thee, when I forgot Am of my self, all tyrant, for thy sake?
Who hateth thee that I do call my friend, On whom frown'st thou that I do fawn upon, Nay, if thou lour'st on me, do I not spend Revenge upon myself with present moan? What merit do I in my self respect, That is so proud thy service to despise, When all my best doth worship thy defect, Commanded by the motion of thine eyes?
But, love, hate on, for now I know thy mind, Those that can see thou lov'st, and I am blind. To make me give the lie to my true sight, And swear that brightness doth not grace the day? Whence hast thou this becoming of things ill, That in the very refuse of thy deeds There is such strength and warrantise of skill, That, in my mind, thy worst all best exceeds? Who taught thee how to make me love thee more, The more I hear and see just cause of hate? Love is too young to know what conscience is, Yet who knows not conscience is born of love? Then, gentle cheater, urge not my amiss, Lest guilty of my faults thy sweet self prove: For, thou betraying me, I do betray My nobler part to my gross body's treason; My soul doth tell my body that he may Triumph in love; flesh stays no farther reason, But rising at thy name doth point out thee, As his triumphant prize.
Proud of this pride, He is contented thy poor drudge to be, To stand in thy affairs, fall by thy side. No want of conscience hold it that I call Her love, for whose dear love I rise and fall. In loving thee thou know'st I am forsworn, But thou art twice forsworn, to me love swearing; In act thy bed-vow broke, and new faith torn, In vowing new hate after new love bearing: But why of two oaths' breach do I accuse thee, When I break twenty?
I am perjured most; For all my vows are oaths but to misuse thee, And all my honest faith in thee is lost: For I have sworn deep oaths of thy deep kindness, Oaths of thy love, thy truth, thy constancy; And, to enlighten thee, gave eyes to blindness, Or made them swear against the thing they see; For I have sworn thee fair; more perjured eye, To swear against the truth so foul a lie!
Cupid laid by his brand and fell asleep: A maid of Dian's this advantage found, And his love-kindling fire did quickly steep In a cold valley-fountain of that ground; Which borrowed from this holy fire of Love, A dateless lively heat, still to endure, And grew a seething bath, which yet men prove Against strange maladies a sovereign cure. But at my mistress' eye Love's brand new-fired, The boy for trial needs would touch my breast; I, sick withal, the help of bath desired, And thither hied, a sad distempered guest, But found no cure, the bath for my help lies Where Cupid got new fire; my mistress' eyes.
The little Love-god lying once asleep, Laid by his side his heart-inflaming brand, Whilst many nymphs that vowed chaste life to keep Came tripping by; but in her maiden hand The fairest votary took up that fire Which many legions of true hearts had warmed; And so the General of hot desire Was, sleeping, by a virgin hand disarmed. This brand she quenched in a cool well by, Which from Love's fire took heat perpetual, Growing a bath and healthful remedy, For men diseased; but I, my mistress' thrall, Came there for cure and this by that I prove, Love's fire heats water, water cools not love.
Devouring Time, blunt thou the lion's paws, And make the earth devour her own sweet brood; Pluck the keen teeth from the fierce tiger's jaws, And burn the long-lived phoenix in her blood; Make glad and sorry seasons as thou fleet'st, And do whate'er thou wilt, swift-footed Time, To the wide world and all her fading sweets; But I forbid thee one most heinous crime: O!
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Yet, do thy worst old Time: despite thy wrong, My love shall in my verse ever live young. A woman's face with nature's own hand painted, Hast thou, the master mistress of my passion; A woman's gentle heart, but not acquainted With shifting change, as is false women's fashion: An eye more bright than theirs, less false in rolling, Gilding the object whereupon it gazeth; A man in hue all hues in his controlling, Which steals men's eyes and women's souls amazeth.
And for a woman wert thou first created; Till Nature, as she wrought thee, fell a-doting, And by addition me of thee defeated, By adding one thing to my purpose nothing. But since she prick'd thee out for women's pleasure, Mine be thy love and thy love's use their treasure. My glass shall not persuade me I am old, So long as youth and thou are of one date; But when in thee time's furrows I behold, Then look I death my days should expiate.
For all that beauty that doth cover thee, Is but the seemly raiment of my heart, Which in thy breast doth live, as thine in me: How can I then be elder than thou art? Presume not on thy heart when mine is slain, Thou gav'st me thine not to give back again. As an unperfect actor on the stage, Who with his fear is put beside 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'ercharged with burthen of mine own love's might.
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 at the sun's eye, And in themselves their pride lies buried, For at a frown they in their glory die. 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, Featured like him, like him with friends possessed, Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope, With what I most enjoy contented least; Yet in these thoughts my self 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 remembered such wealth brings That then I scorn to change my state with kings.
Thy bosom is endeared with all hearts, Which I by lacking have supposed dead; And there reigns Love, and all Love's loving parts, And all those friends which I thought buried. How many a holy and obsequious tear Hath dear religious love stol'n from mine eye, As interest of the dead, which now appear But things removed that hidden in thee lie! Thou art the grave where buried love doth live, Hung with the trophies of my lovers gone, Who all their parts of me to thee did give, That due of many now is thine alone: Their images I loved, I view in thee, And thou all they hast all the all of me.
If thou survive my well-contented day, When that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover And shalt by fortune once more re-survey These poor rude lines of thy deceased lover, Compare them with the bett'ring of the time, And though they be outstripped by every pen, Reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme, Exceeded by the height of happier men. How can my muse want subject to invent, While thou dost breathe, that pour'st into my verse Thine own sweet argument, too excellent For every vulgar paper to rehearse?
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. When most I wink, then do mine eyes best see, For all the day they view things unrespected; But when I sleep, in dreams they look on thee, And darkly bright, are bright in dark directed.
Then thou, whose shadow shadows doth make bright, How would thy shadow's form form happy show To the clear day with thy much clearer light, When to unseeing eyes thy shade shines so! How would, I say, mine eyes be blessed made By looking on thee in the living day, When in dead night thy fair imperfect shade Through heavy sleep on sightless eyes doth stay! All days are nights to see till I see thee, And nights bright days when dreams do show thee me. If the dull substance of my flesh were thought, Injurious distance should not stop my way; For then despite of space I would be brought, From limits far remote, where thou dost stay.
No matter then although my foot did stand Upon the farthest earth removed from thee; For nimble thought can jump both sea and land As soon as think the place where he would be. But ah! The other two, slight air and purging fire, Are both with thee, wherever I abide; The first my thought, the other my desire, These present-absent with swift motion slide.
For when these quicker elements are gone In tender embassy of love to thee, My life, being made of four, with two alone Sinks down to death, oppressed with melancholy; Until life's composition be recured By those swift messengers return'd from thee, Who even but now come back again, assured Of thy fair health, recounting it to me: This told, I joy; but then no longer glad, I send them back again and straight grow sad.
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 pierced with crystal eyes, But the defendant doth that plea deny, And says in him thy fair appearance lies. Betwixt mine eye and heart a league is took, And each doth good turns now unto the other: When that mine eye is famish'd for a look, Or heart in love with sighs himself doth smother, With my love's picture then my eye doth feast, And to the painted banquet bids my heart; Another time mine eye is my heart's guest, And in his thoughts of love doth share a part: So, either by thy picture or my love, Thy self away, art present still with me; For thou not farther than my thoughts canst move, And I am still with them, and they with thee; Or, if they sleep, thy picture in my sight Awakes my heart, to heart's and eyes' delight.
Against that time, if ever that time come, When I shall see thee frown on my defects, When as thy love hath cast his utmost sum, Called to that audit by advis'd respects; Against that time when thou shalt strangely pass, And scarcely greet me with that sun, thine eye, When love, converted from the thing it was, Shall reasons find of settled gravity; Against that time do I ensconce me here, Within the knowledge of mine own desert, And this my hand, against my self uprear, To guard the lawful reasons on thy part: To leave poor me thou hast the strength of laws, Since why to love I can allege no cause.
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 measured from thy friend! 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. Thus can my love excuse the slow offence Of my dull bearer when from thee I speed: From where thou art why should I haste me thence?
Till I return, of posting is no need. Then should I spur, though mounted on the wind, In winged speed no motion shall I know, Then can no horse with my desire keep pace. Therefore desire, of perfect'st love being made Shall neigh, no dull flesh, in his fiery race; But love, for love, thus shall excuse my jade- Since from thee going, he went wilful-slow, Towards thee I'll run, and give him leave to go. But sweet, or colour it had stol'n from thee. As the opening sonnet of the sequence, this one obviously has especial importance. It appears to look both before and after, into the future and the past.
It sets the tone for the following group of so called 'procreation' sonnets In addition, many of the compelling ideas of the later sonnets are first sketched out here - the youth's beauty, his vulnerability in the face of time's cruel processes, his potential for harm, to the world, and to himself, perhaps also to his lovers , nature's beauty, which is dull in comparison to his, the threat of disease and cankers, the folly of being miserly, the need to see the world in a larger sense than through one's own restricted vision.
Because of your beauty you owe the world a recompense, which now you are devouring as if you were an enemy to yourself. Take pity on the world, and do not, in utter selfish miserliness, allow yourself to become a perverted and self destructive object who eats up his own posterity'. See also the further commentary on Sonnet 1. A reference also to the increase of the harvest, by which one seed of corn becomes many. There is a general presumption in husbandry that the best stock must always be used in breeding, otherwise there is an overall decline and failure in productivity.
The fairest creatures are therefore the fairest cattle, the best plants, the most excellent poultry, and so on. Whatever in fact is as good as, or an improvement on the previous generation. Basically this is a farming or agricultarist metaphor. There is the famous passage in Winter's Tale, which is probably relevant here, in which Polixenes instructs Perdita on the science of breeding flowers. See the end of this page. By reproducing itself it could, in a sense, become immortal.
Presumably, a duty owed to the world because the grave is all devouring, and therefore to be fought; and a duty owed also to yourself, because it is in the nature of things that beauty should procreate, otherwise 'three score years will bear the world away', and so on. You purpose to be such a glutton as to consume both what the world and you yourself should have as a right. The construction is not noticeably opaque until one starts to analyse it. A term from warfare. Forty winters forty years when added to the young man's present age, would make him about At such an age he would have many wrinkles, although it is generally reckoned that in Elizabethan times, owing to dietary inadequacies and disease, people aged much more rapidly, and even a forty year old could be deemed to have reached old age.
So the poet could be referring to the youth as he might be when he reaches forty. But the reference may also be to furrows dug in a field when ploughing. It could be quite sumptuous, if the nobleman wished to make a show of wealth. Tottered is an old spelling of tattered. Note that treasure contains a sexual innuendo, implying sexual parts, or semen, depending on context.
Possibly also a hinted reference to the supposed effect of sexual excess too much masturbation? A praise of yourself which is clearly misplaced and damaging to you. Undoubtedly a sexual meaning to these lines, especially in treasure of thy lusty days, thy beauty's use. See notes above The youth is accused of expending his sexual energy upon himself, with the concomitant result of shame, exhaustion, sunken eyes and failure to point to any lasting result.
See extended discussion of SonnetI. Hence, 'give a reckoning for all the cunts I have enjoyed'. Shakespeare uses old in this sense in Macbeth: If a man were a porter of hell-gate, he should have old turning the key. Proving, by his beauty, that he succeeds you as an heir to your beauty. Cold and freezing blood was thought to be the traditional accompaniment of old age. The message of the couplet is that a child made in his image would invigorate and effectively renew him when he reached old age.
His blood would flow warm in his veins again. If you do not undertake now the repair and renewal of your face, since it is fast decaying. To ear is the old term for 'to plough', and often it is used meatphorically. Ploughing the womb, as the plough enters into the soil so does the man enter into the woman , and sowing it with seed semen leads to children, as ploughing and sowing the land leads to crops.
According to the physiology of the time, the male seed was the substance which created a child, and the woman was simply a carrier of the developing embryo. The biological details of reproduction were not understood. For the ploughing imagery compare: He ploughed her and she cropped A. The sentence has an additional sexual meaning, relating to masturbation. Onan was the biblical figure who was destroyed by God for spilling the seed 'that he might not have children'.
See further commentary on SonnetI. April was the beginning of Spring, and was thought to be the most colourful of the months.
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With April's first-born flowers, and all things rare That heaven's air in this huge rondure hems. It ties in with the theme that the consequence of dying childless is to be erased from the book of memory. If you die, as a single man, with no children, there will be no image to carry on your memory. The line could be read as a sort of tetchy imperative - 'Die as a single person then, if you must be so stubbornly inclined! The implication is that all his pleasure is wasted upon himself. The legacy of beauteous children should be created by his semen which he is wasting instead in frivolous self pleasure.
So great a sum of sums - Usurers had large sums of money at their disposal. They performed financial services which are nowadays done by banks. Then how - the question is taken over by What acceptable audit in the next line. The compound question may be read as 'How will you give an account of yourself and your behaviour to Nature when she calls when you die and what audited record of yourself will you provide? Which refers to 'thy beauty'. If it is used, it creates children, who would interpret and present you as you were to the world.
We may paraphrase, 'If beauty were to die, the beneficial effects of beauty would die with it if we did not save them by distillation '. Neo-Platonic philosophy made much of the distinction between shadow and substance. Also, being destructive, it would make the things it touched look ragged. A return to the money lending imagery of Sonnet 4. Usury was considered sinful, but a ten percent return on money was legally permitted. The usurers performed the function of modern day banks. See GBE, p. Having ten children would make you ten times happier than if you only had one child, or certainly happier than you are in your present childless situation.
If ten children of yours existed, making ten images of you. But with a suggestion that the ten children could also breed, thus 'refiguring' him still further with grandchildren. The repetition of ten, five times in three lines, seems to hammer the point home. He would be at least a hundred thousand times happier than he is in his present state. Hence ' do not devote yourself to self-pleasure, masturbation'.
One who dies or who has an orgasm. Also apparently there is a legal meaning of conquest : OED. Only worms would profit from his death. But from what follows it is clear that the reference is also to inferior beings in the social scale, those who gaze in awe on kings. The eyes of mortals do not all at once abandon the sacred majesty of the sun, but wait for surer signs of his decline.
To die also meant to experience orgasm, so the implication is that he is wasting his life in solitary unlooked on masturbation.
He should be directing his energies towards begetting a son. From the Latin confundere 'to pour together'. Being single you will be effectively nothing. The number one was considered proverbially to be equivalent to nothing perhaps in the context of very large numbers. As in Sonn In things of great receipt with ease we prove Among a number one is reckon'd none: There is also the meaning 'You will turn out to be neither song, nor note, nor harmony, nor happy family'.
60 years of illuminating poetry
That you waste away in bachelorhood. There is also a sexual meaning in consum'st. See notes to 3. The argument therefore is that, if the man does not marry, although he will not leave a widow behind him in the conventional sense, should he die, yet the world will be his widow instead, an even greater tragedy than if he were in fact married and with children. The world will mourn him as a makeless wife mourns her husband.
By J.W. von Goethe
The idea is expanded in the following lines. His beauty will be carried on in his children. As rapidly as you decline, your descendants would grow accordingly. Q reads ' or siluer'd ore' and suggested emendations are discussed in numerous editions. I have used the most commonly accepted emendation. A bier was also used for carrying the coffin at a funeral. Nowadays it has almost exclusively that meaning. Q's beare is an old spelling of bier. Then I begin to contemplate what might happen to your beauty. Then I begin to question the permanence and reality of your beauty.
Swiftly the seasons sweep past, and the years which are taken from you, are given to her. The passage of the seasons, winter changing to spring, autumn yielding to winter, is also very much a Horatian theme, and probably Horace's odes would have been known to Shakespeare from his schooldays. Opposite: A depiction of death wielding a scythe, from the back of an old playing card. Probably 16th Century. Otherwise, 'shape, appearance'. Dear my love - for the implications of this dramatically intimate phrase, see further commentary SonnetXIII.
Punctuation can alter the reference point of you know back to none but unthrifts , or forwards to You had a father. Thus 'you know that only unthrifts do not look to the future' or 'you know you had a father whose image you mirrored, as your children would mirror you '. Both meanings are probably intended. If you would devote some attention to the question of procreation. Also with the implication of turning away from thy self, being less self-centred.
And that fresh blood which youngly thou bestowest Thou mayst call thine when thou from youth convertest. When I consider that everything that grows. The phrase seems to be specific, in that it relates only to growing things, and not objects that merely exist, such as ' brass, stone, earth, boundless sea ' Sonn. The poet sees the youth as part of Nature's grand creation, but sharing the deficiencies of decay and death which all such created growing things have.
When you feel a few raindrops fall on your face, it's me placing soft kisses. At night look up in the sky and see the stars shining so brightly. I'm one of those stars and I'm winking at you and smiling with delight. For never forget, you're the apple of my eye.
But this is also the good news. They live forever in your broken heart that doesn't seal back up. And you come through. It's like having a broken leg that never heals perfectly - that still hurts when the weather gets cold, but you learn to dance with the limp. It can be the most wonderful experience of your life. It all depends on how you've lived. Elisabeth Kubler-Ross "The most beautiful people we have known are those who have known defeat, known suffering, known struggle, known loss, and have found their way out of the depths. These persons have an appreciation, a sensitivity, and an understanding of life that fills them with compassion, gentleness, and a deep loving concern.
Beautiful people do not just happen. Elisabeth Kubler-Ross "Don't cry because it's over.
The Five Minds of a Manager
Smile because it happened. Seuss "Although it's difficult today to see beyond the sorrow, may looking back in memory help comfort you tomorrow. You've held my hand; you've held my heart. So many blessings, so few tears - yet for a moment, we must part. When you cry I cry and when you hurt I hurt. And together we will try to hold back the floods of tears and despair and make it through the potholed street of life.
I find myself searching the crowds for your face - I know it's an impossibility, but I cannot help myself.