It’s messy. It’s complicated. It’s life.

From fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty’s Rose might never die,

When I do count the clock that tells the time,
And see the brave day sunk in hideous night;

Shall I compare thee to a Summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:

My glass shall not persuade me I am old,
So long as youth and thou are of one date,

As an unperfect actor on the stage,
Who with his fear is put besides his part,

Mine eye hath played the painter and hath stelled,
Thy beauty’s form in table of my heart,

NEW ESSAY
Let those who are in favor with their stars,
Of public honor and proud titles boast,

Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed,
The dear repose for limbs with travail tired,

When in disgrace with Fortune and men’s eyes,
I all alone beweep my outcast state,

NEW ESSAY
When to the Sessions of sweet silent thought,
I summon up remembrance of things past,

Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day,
And make me travel forth without my cloak,

No more be grieved at that which thou hast done,
Roses have thorns, and silver fountains mud,

Let me confess that we two must be twain,
Although our undivided loves are one:

Take all my loves, my love, yea take them all,
What hast thou then more than thou hadst before?

ESSAY
Against that time (If ever that time come)
When I shall see thee frown on my defects,

How heavy do I journey on the way,
When what I seek (my weary travels end)

What is your substance, whereof are you made,
That millions of strange shadows on you tend?

O how much more doth beauty beauteous seem,
By that sweet ornament which truth doth give,

Is it thy will thy Image should keep open
My heavy eyelids to the weary night?

ESSAY
Sin of self-love possesseth all mine eye,
And all my soul, and all my every part;

Against my love shall be as I am now,
With time’s injurious hand crushed and o’erworn,

No Longer mourn for me when I am dead,
Than you should hear the surly sullen bell

That time of year thou mayst in me behold,
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang

But be contented when that fell arrest,
Without all bail shall carry me away,

Why is my verse so barren of new pride?
So far from variation or quick change?

Thy glass will show thee how thy beauties wear,
Thy dial how thy precious minutes waste,

I never saw that you did painting need,
And therefore to your fair no painting set,

Farewell thou art too dear for my possessing,
And like enough thou know’st thy estimate,

Say that thou didst forsake me for some fault,
And I will comment upon that offense,

Then hate me when thou wilt, if ever, now,
Now, while the world is bent my deeds to cross,

So shall I live, supposing thou art true,
Like a deceived husband so love’s face,

They that have power to hurt, and will do none,
That do not do the thing they most do show,

How like a Winter hath my absence been
From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year?

ESSAY
Let not my love be call’d Idolatry,
Nor my beloved as an Idol show,

O never say that I was false of heart,
Though absence seem’d my flame to qualify,

Since I left you, mine eye is in my mind,
And that which governs me to go about,

ESSAY
Those lines that I before have writ do lie,
Even those that said I could not love you dearer,

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments, love is not love

Accuse me thus, that I have scanted all,
Wherein I should your great deserts repay,

That you were once unkind befriends me now,
And for that sorrow, which I then did feel,

‘Tis better to be vile than vile esteemed,
When not to be, receives reproach of being,

No! Time, thou shalt not boast that I do change,
Thy pyramids built up with newer might

How oft when thou my music music playst,
Upon that blessed wood whose motion sounds

Th’expense of spirit in a waste of shame
Is lust in action, and til action, lust

Thou blind fool love, what dost thou to mine eyes,
That they behold and see not what they see:

In faith I do not love thee with mine eyes,
For they in thee a thousand errors note,

Love is my sin, and thy dear virtue hate,
Hate of my sin, grounded on sinful loving:

My love is as a fever longing still,
For that which longer nurseth the disease,

In loving thee thou know’st I am foresworn,
But thou are twice foresworn to me love swearing,