EP&M Online Reprint

Expansive Poetry & Music Online Classic Reprint

These are most of the "Dark Lady" sonnets, as they have been called for some time, written by Shakespeare. The descriptive phrase came from readers and critics, not from the author. Literal interpretation has led to a case made for the subject to be Aemelia Lanyer, who almost certainly knew Shakespeare, but it's not a very convincing case. According to the Oxford edition editor of her poems, the originator of this idea misread his source materials. Another possibility, culled by G.B. Harrison from his research, is Mary Sitton, a Chambermaid notorious for affairs with and children by a variety of men at court, including some of the Lord Chamberlain's Players. (In answer to several complaints the poems have been edited with a closer eye).

It is also worth noting that the order of this "sequence" was in part contrived by the first publisher of the sonnets (Thomas Thorpe in 1609). As such the poems may be from a variety of times and built from diverse experiences. They may also be exercises in wit disguised as explorations of love -- a common enough approach to sonnets then as now.

As a depiction of an obsession, they are remarkable; as in case obsession, you would be hard-pressed to find anything recognizable of any subject but the narrator himself. However, there are delightful exceptions, as 128 and 138, which seem to be about something else altogether.

The use of black and white might seem to be racial. Is it? Sometimes it seems so; other times it seems more the traditional color signature for figures of good and evil, or good and bad, or sweet and sour. Too literal a reading of sonnets is a fool's errand, particularly of Elizabethan sonnets.

133 and 134 are humorously suggestive, yet could be read quite differently. 151 is more boldly so. 143 suggests the Elizabethans knew a long time before Freud about Oedipus, and that such could also be an amusing game.

These sonnets seem often to be a range of questions of "why did this go wrong, and what exactly was it" with the usual accusations, self-pity, excuses and some disturbing possibilities, particularly that distortion of the senses that so marks obsession. In that light, the first four lines of #147 might be framed and presented as a gift to obsessives by their therapists.

As early explorations of what the author later examined in plays about distorted passions and senses, they are fascinating and rich. And they are, whatever else, terrific sonnets.

Interpretations of Sonnets 146 are welcome.

135, 136 (the silly "will" poems), and 144 and 145 have been left out, but pleas will be heard to put them back.

Though most know this, the use of " 'd" for "ed" is an editorial convention which may or may not date to Shakespeare's time, when punctuation and spelling were somewhat erratic. When it's used, "learn'd" is pronounced lurnd, and "learned" lurn-ed. Exceptions are "kled" and" ied," as in tickled, and tied.

Enough notes!

the "Dark Lady" sequence from The Sonnets

William Shakespeare

127

In the old age, black was not counted fair,

Or if it were it bore no beauty's name.

But now is black beauty's successive heir,

And beauty slander'd with a bastard shame.

For since each hand hath put on nature's power,

Fairing the foul with art's false borrowed face,

Sweet beauty hath no name, no holy bower,

and is profan'd, if not, lives in disgrace.

Therefore my mistress's eyes are raven black,

her eyes so suited, and they mourners seem,

for such, who not born fair, no beauty lack,

slandering creation with a false esteem.

For so they mourn, becoming of their woe

that every tongue says beauty should look so.

128

How oft when thou, my music, music play'st

Upon that blessed wood whose motion sounds

With thy sweet fingers, while thou gently sway'st,

The wiry concorde that mine ear confounds,

Do I envy those jacks that nimble leap

To kiss the tender inward of thy hand

Whilst my poor lips, which should that harvest reap,

By the wood's boldness by thee blushing stand.

To be so tickled, they would change their state

And situation with those dancing chips

O'er whom thy fingers walk with gentle gait,

Making dead wood more blest than living lips

Since saucy jacks so happy are in this

Give them thy fingers and me thy lips to kiss.

129

Th'expense of spirit in a waste of shame

Is lust in action, and till action lust

Is perjur'd, murderous, bloody, full of blame,

Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust;

Enjoyed no sooner but despised straight,

Past reason hunted and no sooner had

Past reason hated as a swallowed bait

On purpose laid to make the taker mad:

Mad in pursuit, and in possessions so,

Had, having, and in quest to have, extreme,

A bliss in proof, and prov'd, a very woe,

Before a joy propos'd, behind a dream.

All this the world well knows, but none knows well

To shun the heaven which leads men to this hell.

130

My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun.

Coral is far more red than her lips' red.

If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun.

If hair be wires, black wires grow on her head.

I have seen roses damask'd, red and white,

But no such roses see I in her cheeks,

And in some perfumes is there more delight

Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.

I love to hear her speak, yet well I know

That music hath a far more pleasing sound.

I grant I never saw a goddess go.

My mistress when she walks treads on the ground.

And yet, by heaven, I think my love more rare

Than any she belied with false compare.

131

Thou art as tyrannous, so as thou art,

As those whose beauties proudly make them cruel;

For well thou know'st, to my dear doting heart,

Thou art my fairest and most precious jewel.

Yet, in good faith, some say that thee behold

Thy face hath not the power to make love groan.

To say they err I may not be so bold

Although I swear it to myself alone.

And, to be sure that is not false I swear,

A thousand groans, but thinking on thy face,

One neck on another's neck, do witness bear

Thy black is fairest in my judgment's place.

In nothing art thou black save in thy deeds

And thence this slander, as I think, proceeds.

132

Thine eyes I love, and they, as pitying me,

Knowing thy heart torments with me disdain,

Have put on black, and loving mourners be,

Looking with pretty ruth* upon my pain.

And truly not the morning sun of heaven

Better becomes the gray cheeks of the east

Nor that full star that ushers in the even

Doth half that glory to the sober east

Than those two mourning eyes become thy face.

O let it then as well beseem thy heart

To mourn for me, as mourning doth thee grace

And suit thy pity like in every part.

Then will I swear beauty herself is black

And all they foul that thy complexion lack.

* compassion

133

Beshrew* that heart that makes my heart to groan

For that deep wound it gives my friend and me.

It's not enough to torture me alone,

But slave to slavery my sweet'st friend must be?

Me from myself thy cruel eye hath taken,

And my next self thou harder hath engrossed.

Of him, myself and thee am I forsaken,

A torment thrice threefold thus to be crossed.

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.

That canst not then use rigour in my gaol.

And yet thou wilt, for I being pent in thee

Perforce am thine, and all that is in me.

* curse

134

So now I have confess'd that he is thine,

And I myself am mortgag'd to thy will,

Myself I'll forfeit that 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 blind.

He learned but surety-like to write for me

Under the bond that him as fast doth bind.

The statute of thy beauty thou wilt take,

Thou usurer, that puts forth all to use,

And sue a friend came debtor for my sake;

And him I lose through my unkind abuse.

Him have I lost, thou hast both him and me.

He pays the whole, and yet I am not free.

137

Thou blind fool, Love, what dost thou to mine eyes

That they behold, and see not what they see?

They know what love is, see where it lies,

But what the best is take the worst to be.

If eyes, corrupt by over-partial looks

Be anchor'd in the bay where all men ride,

Why of eyes' falsehoods hast thou forged books

Whereto the judgment of my heart is tied?

Why should my heart think that a several plot

Which my heart knows the wide world commonplace,

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.

(The last rhyme works best in a Warwickshire or
Gaelic accent, as Nicol Williamson demonstrated
of Hamlet a decade or so back. The stresses
fall appropriately then.)

                        138

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 untutor'd youth
Unlearned in the world's false subtleties.
Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me young
Although she knows my years are past the best,
Simply I credit her false-speaking tongue.
On both sides thus is simple truth suppress'd.
But wherefore says she not she is unjust
And wherefore say not I that I am old?
O love's best habit lies in seeming trust
And age in love loves not to have years told.
Therefore I lie with her, and she with me,
And in our faults by lies we flatter'd be.

                        139

O call not me to justify the wrong
That thy unkindness lays upon my heart.
Wound me not with thine eye, but with thy tongue.
Use power with power, and slay me not by art.
Tell me thou lov'st elsewhere, but in my sight,
Dear heart, forebear to glance thine eye aside.
What need'st thou wound with cunning when thy might
Is more than my o'erpress'd defense can bide?
Let me excuse thee; ah, my love well knows
Her pretty looks have been mine enemies,
And therefore from my face she turns my foes,
That elsewhere might they dart their injuries.
Yet do not so. But since I am near slain,
Kill me outright with looks, and rid my pain.

                        140

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 go mad
And in my madness might speak ill of thee.
Now this ill-wresting world is gone 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.

                        141

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 pleas'd to dote.
Nor is mine ear with thy tongue's tune delighted,
Nor tender senses to base touches prone,
Nor taste nor smell desire to be invited
To any sensual feast with thee alone.
But my five wits and my five senses can
Dissuade no foolish heart of serving thee
Who leaves unsway'd 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.

                        142

Love is my sin, and thy best virtue hate,
Hate of my sin, grounded in sinful loving.
O, but with mine compare thou thine own state
And thou shalt find it merits no reproving,
Or if it do, not from those lips of thine
Which have profan'd their scarlet ornaments,
And seal'd false bonds of love as oft as mine,
Robb'd others' beds' revenues of their rents.
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 may'st thou be denied!

                        143

Lo as a careful housewife runs to catch
One of her feathery 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 ways are bent
To follow the thing that cries before her face,
Not prizing her poor infant's discontent,
So run'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 but turn, and my loud crying still.

                        146

Poor soul, the center of my sinful earth,
Fooled by the rebel powers that thee array,
Why dost thou pine within and suffer dearth,
Painting thy outward walls so costly gay?
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 by selling hours of dross;
Within be fed, without be rich no more.
So shalt thou feed on Death, that feeds on men,
And Death once dead, there's no more dying then.

                        147

My love is as a fever, longing still
For that which longer nurseth the disease,
Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill,
Th'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 madman's, are
At random from the truth, vainly express'd.
For I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright,
Who art as black as hell, as dark as night.

                        148

O me, what eyes hath love put in my head
Which have no correspondence with true sight!
Or, if they have, where is my judgment fled
That censures falsely what they see aright?
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? Oh, how can love' s eye be true
That is so vex'd with watching and with tears?
No wonder then, though I mistake my view,
The sun itself sees not till heaven clears.
Thou cunning love, with tears thou keep'st me blind
Lest eyes well-seeing thy foul faults should find.

                        150

O from what power hast thou this powerful might,
With insufficiency my heart to sway?
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 for hate?
O, though I love what others do abhor,
With others thou shouldst not abhor my state:
If thy unworthiness rais'd love in me,
More worthy I to be belov'd of thee.

                        151

Love is too young to know what conscience is,
Yet who knows not conscience is born of love?
Then, gentle cheater, stir 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.

                        152

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,
Vowing new hate after new love bearing.
But why of two oaths' breach do I accuse thee
When I break twenty? I am perjur'd most
And all my vows are oaths but to misuse thee
And all my honest faith in thee is lost:
For I have sworn deep oaths to thy deep kindness,
Oaths of thy truth, thy love, 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 perjur'd I,
To swear against the truth so foul a lie.

(Critics don't consider this last poem in the collection a part of the Dark Lady sequence, but it offers a conventional excuse for an obsession, calling it blind love instead.)

154

The little love god, lying once asleep,
Laid by his side his heart-inflaming brand
Whils't many nymphs who vow'd 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 warm'd,
And so the general of hot desire
Was sleeping by a virgin hand disarm'd.
That brand she quenched in a cool well by
Which from love's fire drew heat perpetual
To make a bath and healthful remedy
For men diseas'd. But I, my mistress's thrall,
Came there for cure, and this by that I prove,
Love's fire heats water; water cools not love.

William Shakespeare
1609

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