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Much Pleasure Then From Thee Much More Must Flow
Much Pleasure Then From Thee Much More Must Flow
Much Pleasure Then From Thee Much More Must Flow
When my love swears that she is made of truth, Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
I do believe her, though I know she lies, Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;
That she might think me some untutored youth, For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow
Unlearnèd in the world’s false subtleties. Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me young, From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,
Although she knows my days are past the best, Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow,
Simply I credit her false-speaking tongue: And soonest our best men with thee do go,
On both sides thus is simple truth suppressed. Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.
But wherefore says she not she is unjust? Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate
Oh, love’s best habit is in seeming trust, And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,
And age in love loves not to have years told. And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well
Therefore I lie with her and she with me, And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then?
And in our faults by lies we flattered be. One short sleep past, we wake eternally
And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.
Time does not bring relief; you all have lied Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Who told me time would ease me of my pain! Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
I miss him in the weeping of the rain; Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
I want him at the shrinking of the tide; And summer’s lease hath all too short a date;
The old snows melt from every mountain-side, Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And last year’s leaves are smoke in every lane; And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;
But last year’s bitter loving must remain And every fair from fair sometime declines,
Heaped on my heart, and my old thoughts abide. By chance or nature’s changing course untrimm'd;
There are a hundred places where I fear But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
To go,—so with his memory they brim. Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st;
And entering with relief some quiet place Nor shall death brag thou wander’st in his shade,
Where never fell his foot or shone his face When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st:
I say, “There is no memory of him here!” So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
And so stand stricken, so remembering him. So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.