Autogenerated Poetry by Shakespeare
We make thee some profit,
To make thee some more rich,
And to make thee some poorer;
Let us call thee rich, thou wilt say;
And not, thou wilt rob me of my love.
Or else, let us rob thee of my love;
For thou wilt find this sweet place,
And the poor, rich, and poor to thee,
And they that rob thee,
Who have stolen this beauty to themselves,
Hath dishonoured you, with thine own soul,
And are thy shame’s ransom,
To rob me of my love, or thou wilt steal my treasure.
If thou wilt rob me, thou wilt steal from my sight,
And this poor beggar that lies there,
To rob my heart, my conscience, my soul,
As thou art wont to do.
O thou wilt not know what a foul tongue
To the sweet smell of thy self I call,
Hath lent me thy sweet face, thy cheek, thy lips,
And my soul that was so dear unto thee,
Had I done, you would have seen,
My self that you call,
Hath taught me the use of my tongue.
My body is my treasure and you must treasure it.
How then have you begun to weep and groan?
To be gone on your way with the wind,
To sing with the deep-jawing bird,
The song of a child, with the heavy heart,
Playing the old-betrayal tune;
I know you can feel what a heart must do,
To weep, and I cry out,
And what a heart to say,
That you do to be gone, I to weep,
And yet I do not weep.
“O, thou wast so kind to me,” quoth she,
And then I see you as I was.
What a woman had I seen,
Which when I first saw thee I was so enlaced with amaz’d.
Oh, for how it seemed,
That you, though I was with thee I did not see.
“Ay, dear me, that which is so dear
Must I look upon the day,
Or else it is for pity’s sake?
Ay, dear me, that which is so dear,
Must I read the morning to you,
The old hours of my life,
Or else for pity’s sake,
For I am but a fool and thou dost be,
And yet now is not the day which I should be,
Or else I must write your self,
For I know what lies behind thee,
If thou wilt write this, it shall be as good a story.
“O, gentle and modest me,
Where thou art not afraid to steal;
You see, I love you, thou art the self-same;
For I would not steal from you,
But if thou didst steal, thou art the self-same.
‘For mine eyes I will never see,
But mine eyes, my heart still hears you say,
To whom I plead for thy self.
‘For my eyes thou art, thou art thy self:
Thy eyes, mine heart still hears your pleading.
Look, thy eyes I will never see,
For my eyes thou art, thou art mine.
Love I, thou art mine, thou art mine.
“No, if thou wilt break the chain,
By which thou art but a fool,
Thou shalt know no bounds, nor see men’s deeds.
‘Twas not that this I say,
O ‘fac’d man! not the smallest thing
Is guilty of this,
But in this case thou wilt be guilty.’
This hand with thine is all-powerful,
And the breast with thine is every wound;
As each blow is warmed in mine eye,
With my heart’s burning heat, I cry, “O, what a thing!
Mine eye, my heart’s burning heat,
Will burn in mine heart’s eyes, the blood which I eat!”
“What a thing!” quoth she, “this is the world,
What’s mine is mine now, that mine eyes are,
But mine eyes still are mine eyes.”
This she says; and then she kneels before her horse,
And he runs as fast as he can,
To stop her so as not to tire her.
“‘O thou dost not believe, and do not believe!”
O thou poor soul, that art not believing
In me, my true self!
Therefore, let no more false boast,
Against my will do me wrong;
For love hath no love of mine,
Which in my heart doth prove;
That love is made love, not love of thine;
And love was made me by him;
When love made him, he did so,
For love made him so, and it is love,
That is love, not love.”
Thus concludes the story, as if she were an angel;
Her lips being pale and wet,
And she barefoot, and being barefoot,
Began to tremble in all her beauty.
A fair night’s fair day’s fair night
For the sun in heaven’s night
Shows a fair morning, and a fair night’s fair night
That all fair and pretty days must,
That are fair to all fair and pretty.
But all men are dumb and pretty,
And yet men are men, like women,
And men are men, like women,
And they like them, and they like them not.
O thou what a sinful slave didst give
To do this shameful thing, for she didst not give,
Or that which thou shouldst give.
And for all such a shameful deed:
Who dost not like to know,
Whose fault may be it, what else?
Whose fault is it to hear, what else?
Whose fault is it to make, what else?
And so forth from her, she runs:
And forth from her she runs again:
As far from her, as she runs she runs again
Where she is; hence forth she runs again,
But as far as she runs she runs again.
And now that her name was sung in her head,
She began, like a weary bird,
To fly, to run, and there she began,
To fly, and to run, to run, and there she did begin.
“But there is a law to defend it:
That where thy honour lies,
Let every thing stand aside:
The heart, the heart, the brain,
Each eye, each eye, each bone.
Whose love doth the world, to see them so doth dwell?
Who’s right, who’s wrong,
The self, the self, the self?
Whose eye is thy compass, thy scope,
How many are thy compass’ compass’s compass?
Who the self to whom the self depends,
Is the self the self? The self whom the self doth depend?
The self, that the self doth depend,
Is the self the self, which it doth depend?
What’s in thy breast, what’s in thy breast
Is thy self the self? The self which, so far out of me,
To bear me in thy bosom doth give,
When I have the pleasure of thy body in thy heart,
Let the self which I have not self controll’d in thee,
Let me, in thee in thine,
Be thy own self, and the self of thy self,
For I have self in thee, and thou self in thy self,
And thou thyself to me thou self,
That I might be yourself in my self,
And in thyself, in my self,
Being thy self, not in my self,
Is your self self yours, and mine self,
For I am yours, but your self in me,
Therefore thou in me, and I am yours,
Then in me I is your self,
For my self I am your self, and mine self,
For mine I am your self,
And mine self your self, that is your own.
This is a song, that can no other sound, but is sung by a man,
In the midst of the riot of battle,
Like a proud dove on the water,
Like a roaring turtle, and sings, “If thyself hath sworn to thee,
If I, thou shalt lie, I swear my oath.”
This hand of my heart hath drawn my hope in thee
And hath shown my will; this hand of mine is mine,
That is my heart to hear thee,
With my voice to hear the word that thou wilt write;
And the way to thy bed thou wilt not seek,
In thy bed thy heart didst tell me,
To whom I didst entreat thee to lend me thy help.
O! where the proud lord thy dear love doth troth,
But where the lovely maiden who sits on his side looks,
Her fair beauty doth show her true hue;
But where the gentle one sits,
And doth all that beauty with beauty show,
The one from whom thou dost give thy life.
‘Now that I saw the thing that thou shalt see,
I did say this unto the angel that saith it;
“This is my will: I will make this my tomb,
I will lay it beside the gate,
And on the steep bed where the dead lie,
To be thy doom, shall never dwell.
‘So that he, that I have sworn that this oath,
To lie still, to die, to be free;
To be my prisoner, I will ransom him for this.
O, that thou wast so gracious,
I will not be thy captive,
Thou the best debtor, for thou hast no love to bear;
Nor I to thee, thou wilt bear my debt;
To me, thou wilt bear my doom.
When he comes for some other treasure
Of precious gems, I will bring unto thee this;
For this will it bear his name,
Or his honour,
For all his wealth, my dear lord,
To bear my name, which thou shalt possess.
“O, my beloved sweet love! my dear lord!
The sun-boughing crow, whom thou lov’st,
Sends the sun through the deep valley of the dead,
And thence on to the east, where the spring
Gives fresh air to the deep valley.
“And lo, my love,
Which thou art wont to know of my crime,
That she toil in prison with me still;
My love, my dear, thy hand, my duty!
But in this I say,
That she did it in the same time;
That it is thy hand, thy fault, my fault!
“So then, gentle morn,
But with more pride of heart
Thou art true to the eyes of all,
And not guilty to the eyes of my love.
The poor, poor, orphan, and illiterate beggar I did write,
To whom I so much owe so much.
Then now, thou art my love’s slave,
And yet will I say
In my life what I can, and yet never to know;
Therefore why in thy self am I to die?
Yet I live, and yet in thee I die
But this my self cannot hold.
“How will I be freed
From my servile prison,
Thy self that would abide my torture,
Who so strongly bonds me with thee,
That in my soul I may be free?
Then I must be free of your tyranny,
Who in thy self alone I may be free:
So shall I be free of your bondage.
“For, as thou art, I’ll love thee,
And if I do it again, I’ll be my dear friend,
And love with thee will be thy sweet heart.”
So it would seem, and yet thou art mine,
That so great a shame should thy face stand,
As mine eyes to his sad face,
To stain his sorrows and his deeds.
“Therefore then, do not woe to the poor,
That in my love and in thee doth thy face lie;
And in mine love I must be thy self,
And in thee to remain true to all is.
“Then be it lawful to say
O, my dear, thy tears are no longer sore,
For they are done with gentle tenderness,
As if those tears could still bear my sorrow.
The poor man that beareth the night,
The poor man that beareth the night,
The widow that beareth the night,
The widow that beareth the night,
The widow that beareth the night,
The widow that beareth the night,
The nurse that beareth the night,
The nurse that be the night
O, how can I persuade thee that the night is fair?
If thou wilt say, I will slay thee;
Thou shalt not slay me, for thou art weak;
For why do I slay thee?
To know thee I shall tell thee,
For I know thee well, but thou wilt kill me:
And yet thou hast not the strength to slay me;
Nor am I a weak man, nor an impudent boar,
Nor canst thou see how strong a boar I am,
Even though thou art strong enough,
To know me no more than thou wilt show me,
And yet thou wilt not know me,
So why do I slay thee?
Because I know thee well, but thou wilt kill me;
Thou wilt kill me, for I know thee well,
But thou hast not the strength to kill me;
Nor am for a boar than to know me well;
Yet shall I have no strength for a boar than to know me well;
And then thou willst kill me,
And thus shalt thou do my duty:
Thou willst die, and I will live,
And thus shalt thou be,
Though the night be cold and sweet and cold,
The day sweet and cold will kill me,
And so shall not the day be bitter,
Nor the time bitter nor cold nor heat nor moisture,
Or the night nor cold nor night nor deep night,
Which shall be bitter and bitter, and yet sweet and fresh,
Yet shall my heart be cold and strong and light,
And my heart be rich and not poor,
Which is in me, and not in thee,
And therefore is not the light my sweet desire,
And why shouldst thou not be my lord,
Of whom I will not say, ‘The light is not enough for thee;
Thou art poor, and do not have it.
Therefore do thou make me my love,
And do not I desire thy looks,
And then do not my love hate thee;
For thou art in my eyes, so my love is not in thee,
For in me love, thou art not,
Yet thy looks are love, my love being,
And in thee are not, thou art the beauty of me;
But thou art my true love, my true love being,
Thou art my true love, mine true love being;
Thus am I thy friend, and my love my friend,
Where I am, and thou art thy true love, my love being:
O my love! why shouldst thou not love my love?
O my love! why shouldst thou not love mine love?
(And then she said to him)
I know thou art dead; my love’s death is my love’s death.
“The fool that beareth the night,” she said, “and hath no fear,
Suffering no evil; he hath seen his self in many
Of things he could not perceive;
But behold, in one of his eyes he sees that he hath
A view, a sense, a soul, a heart,
That he hath not seen yet, but he thinks he knows;
And behold, in one of his eyes he sees what he sees,
He thinks he sees his self,
And behold, in one of his eyes he see,
He hath seen not the self, but what he sees;
Yet if thou saw the self, I would kill thee.
But if a thief steal thy head, thou wilt not die,
He must be thine own master, and thy ransom be
A ransom for thy life’s sake.
For thou art thine own thief,
Which in the heart of mine I do swear.
Then with thy right hand hast I sworn to keep
And to thy right- hand shall this day be
I swear to kill,
And yet thou wilt die.
And yet this will not do me injury,
Since my eyes shall not see thee in my sight.
But if this be done in such a way
That my soul should be corrupted with sin,
It is not in thee that I sin,
And thy sin still I will never see.
And therefore it shall be thy self that I will live,
And in thy self there shall be no sin,
Nor thine, nor thine eye that I will not see.
But if thou wilt live, then live, and for it,
The hour of my self-defining love will not be.
This is a pretty painting, but it appears on thy bed.
Then it is hard to bear
To read it, and so much of mine eye
Is lost; but I have not yet seen it till now.
The painter had not given a clear thought to her thoughts;
He had drawn a sad picture,
Which he supposed had drawn some tragic, and he thought it did belong.
He did not, and it hath been done with his name:
The painter, whose painter she knows,
Begins with the same painter she herself knows,
And that he will be his painter, if he find her;
For having done this, I shall be his friend and mistress,
And in my self will his self live.
She with her head set on a high bed,
She with her face still on a heavy bed;
Her cheek and eyes whereon they are;
Her face is cold, and yet gentle,
With gentle look which doth in some part express
And so in this, and such is she,
And such, and so she is,
Her beauty is so great that she is so large,
That it appears but a plain image.
So, when thou art gone,
My hand that doth scratch thee, and I thee,
Whose love to thee is so high that thou lookest at
To see it in thy breast alone,
As a plain image; but as a naked picture,
My heart doth kiss thee, and my cheek doth weep.
And now it is with great joy she begins;
Thy beauty doth seem to me so sweet,
Like that which I once saw before thee,
That she, as much in love, but as still doth not love,
Is now so sweet, that it must die:
But why should this be so?
She that doth not love, and I am to live,
Must die with her, and I will die with her.
‘But why should I live?
Why should I die?
Because the thing that I hate to say
May die with thee so?
Why shouldst thou kill that I love to say,
Thou art the sweetest thing I have ever seen?
Thou art the least worth living, the most worthless thing,
And thou art all the world’s best, the richest being,
But I am in thy debt, thy gift, and thy gift I live,
And I shall ever be.
I have no grievance, no grievance of thee,
For now I am dead, I am gone,
And I must die; and then shalt thou live,
Thou art the first of thy kind,
The last of thine, and thou hast my life,
Thy life is the end and thine is the end of thine,
So for I am the life of thy kind,
That for thee must I live, thy life to be,
If thou art dead and be gone, for I am dead,
For if thou art dead and be gone,
Thy self is my self, thy self my self’s,
For thy self I have thy self, my self thy self’s,
Thy self is thy self’s self, thy self my self’s,
My self thy self’s, my self thy self’s,
My self thy self’s, thy self’s self’s’
Myself thy self’s, my self’s thy self’s,
Your self mine, your self’s me, my self’s yours,
Your self mine, mine thy self’s, thy self’s thee,
The world shall not be harmed that it may,
For all such harms belong to mine,
My self alone, my self’s, thyself’s mine.
‘Ah! what a cruel life you have lived!
Hath thou lived and died,
Till at last, in thine own grief,
A better life still lives,
Thou living’s death would be better.
“Who,” quoth he, “have I done so ill?”
‘Who are these poor, dumb women,
Grown-up, rich-nurtured, or bred-up?
I have seen them but a little while.
They love to talk, to talk, to talk,
To annoy; to complain, complain, complain, complain,
But the voice that doth complain is that of a maid,
With her voice he hears, and she hears,
And he that says she hears her moan sobs.
How, how she cries: How she cries sobs!
‘Poor fools,’ quoth she, ‘how have you not seen
My tears being blown by a boar?
No, let it not go, and I shall not let it go!
And yet the boar did take it;
And then he ran, his rider on horseback
And on he ran he took,
He ran again, and on he again he ran;
Then he came, and there stood the poor maid
At the threshold, her head in one hand,
Like a slave, in his other he held fast.
‘Hands down,’ quoth she, ‘as I hold thee;
And in one hand she looks in disdain;
And in the other he holds fast, and on he held fast.
The sound of the bells,
And as they did, the wind that blow’d them
Did make them seem like drops from a mountain.
The sun, which through his shining armour
Is seen in their visage,
Grows in the morning with his pale complexion,
And doth his cheeks appear as if they were red in the sun,
Which in their place stands the true sun.
The wind of summer is green, the hot day,
The sun, like a spring, is cold.
‘Tis winter, and yet he is in a dream,
And wakes every morning with a dream,
And every morning with a thoughtless night:
He wakes every night with a feeling of the worst;
His dreamy thoughts all night,
Like those of a child he bears,
Will think to himself how he slept,
When he was dreaming to himself.
This life hath a beginning, and a ending, and a end:
And therefore, to that end I have begun,
My soul my life, my time my love’s time;
O, why have you deceived me? for thou art so true!
My life, my life, my time’s time, I will live,
And live in thy love’s state, not to rob thee,
In vain I vow my death in thee:
But thou hast lost thy love, my life, thy soul’s,
The life which had mine in thy life’s end,
Gives thy life as thy life, as it were to my life.
Love is, I have every one, though one die.
This may be so, and yet the mind
Is not so pure as it appears, but as you are.
Thou art not a son of mine, nor of mine,
But I am no one, for all that I am am,
My life is to you as your life is to me;
And therefore your honour may be mine, your honour my,
Your praise my name, your praise my shame;
And to this end I have spent my life,
The living, the dead, all alone together,
Which was thy name’s.
And in this all I have lived,
With nothing but my love’s self, and you, and your love’s body,
For my sake, for your sake, I have gone.
O, what a strange time it would be!
What an idle morn it be!
What a silly life it would be!
When, in youth, I grew fond of your sight,
Th’ beauty that my youth doth imitate,
What an aged youth doth imitate,
That it doth not imitate, and yet doth boast,
My beauty doth imitate, but not my heart’s,
Nor my heart’s heart’s art, nor my heart’s art’s art;
No more than this I do crave:
Then I love you, I love thy name,
And my love’s love is not thy love’s,
Nor mine to you is thy name’s;
Thou art not mine, my love’s love’s love’s love,
Nor mine to you is thy name’s;
Thou art not mine, mine is thy name’s:
Yet by thy love’s love’s love, so thou shalt love;
What I shall say will prove thy worth, and all thine will say.’
“You shall see,” quoth he, “my poor friend,
With thy ugly face, the fair face,
The sad face with her dark cheek,
Which thou canst not see, but it must be,
When thou art to be, thou shalt look it in.
The woe-wounding angel, as she takes one eye,
Whose pale face she throws at her lips,
And whereupon he shakes her chin, and sighs,
Shall I cry aloud, ‘O, oh, if thou art dead,
Thou art alive! thou art dead! dead! dead! dead! dead!’
Thy hand is, Collatine, thy head is Collatin.
And for this Collatin she throws her chin again,
And he sighs in it again,
And on Collatin’s cheek Collatin takes her face,
And again Collatin’s face Collatin takes his face,
And Collatin’s head Collatin takes Collatin’s face,
And Coll Collatin, Collatin the Collatin.”
“What a sad time it would be,” quoth Collatin.
“My dear heart, I swear,
With a thousand woes I’ll not give thee;
Thou art my love; my dear heart, thou art my love;
O my dear heart, why shouldst thou say,
Thy love be that which thou dost say,
Thy love is to me but love;
Thy love doth not be that I love you,
And if I have made love to you, then I will not make thee love.
O love, thou art my love’s best friend:
If thou art my love, thou wilt not be,
But I love thee to such a time;
And yet thou art so dear as thou wast born,
To be loved, but as thou wast born to be so.
A stranger at home to me
Than his wife at his bed,
Shook his heart with trembling kisses;
Yet in that he seemed as if he had seen it all in her face
And, like a child, had no memory of seeing her.
But he smiled upon her, and kissed her hand,
And told her, “Dear angel,
May my love’s tender love cherish your heart,
And your precious life shall live!”
‘Yet all those words that the babe had to say did,
Did not seem to be heard, as the child did by him
To breathe, yet did so to speak:
“May I have him my love to kiss,
For you are my love to love him,
The best of all you, the one I love.
The one true love that I hold,
The one true love that is in my heart,
The one true love to my self,
The one true love that makes me happy,
And that makes me sad.”
For her husband, who by his own side
He’d seen grow up into his true love,
He had married so many his first love’s friends,
His friends that his love had lost.
Yet now he was sad, in his state of feeling,
Though not sad to look upon him;
His sad state felt cold, and deep,
As if his heart had been filled with sorrow.
“But now,” quoth he, “you ask pardon,
That so I may not do wrong!
Mine is thy sweet smell, mine is your poor taste;
Mine is my weak, thy strong,
What is yours to borrow, yours to take?
Then I shall not sell thee, nor shall I sell thee;
Thy smell shall be my love’s.
‘And in thy breath, I’ll bear thee to death;
And thou shalt see that I shall be free,
Since I am thy sweet beauty,
The one that gives thee strength to resist,
If thou prove a fool and die,
Thy love is my death and thy sweet love’s grave.
‘And if my dear love, if it were so,
Would I not use that precious jewel to kill?
‘O that my dear love would live,
As if in thee should live so,
As in thee should live thy sweet death.”
For the sake of my soul,
All my parts are red, my heart white,
But my body full of sorrow.
‘O! let him now be so kind,
As he can tell me the true name.
When he says ‘I,’
He can say, “I was born again.”
‘This is how he says ‘O, why did you stay?
Why did you stay at home?
O, why did you stay with me?
O, why did you stay here now?
Why did I stay here,
In the grave of your love?
Why did you stay here,
When all the world would be mute to you?
‘For so long as I live, you did live;
As long as I live, you did die.
‘For yet so long, I live,
So long a time, I die.
‘But what a poor mother she must have,
To spend all her time in tormenting me;
In spite of her, and all the time she doles out,
She still doles out endless duds.
So long a time he lives, but a little while he dies.
‘But now I know
What a sad state my father is in;
I know what a dreadful loss he is in.
For now he thinks that no,
His eyes must be gone; no matter what.
So now he sleeps, and, being gone,
He goes again, and I stay.
Himself, by whose power the wind blows;
So hath he the power of th’ earth;
Whose strength the wind hath not yet touched,
His wind, in his strength
Which through him they both must ride.
‘The strong hand shall make thee his captive,
And shall not hold thee captive,
Whose arms the world cannot prevent,
If thou hast the strength of his strength.
“Ah! how can thy power be so strong?
Thou hast such strength; but where didst thou find it?
The weak eye, being weary with that,
Gives thee a dull and barren eye,
As is the wind, the strong sun,
Which makes the wind so strong,
That his fair visage falls ill.
His fair face, when he seems tired,
Boldly shepherds him out of the way;
Like a dove that is set on fire,
Her wings, as strong as they are,
Will catch her at the bottom of a steep ravine.
“Ah, my dear sister! what’s wrong with me?
Thou art a slave unto my eye,
And I’ll keep my tongue from my lips,
If thou lov’st that which is false.
O, how strong a hand is this,
Who can stop the blow?
My love is weak in a thousand respects;
Not in my lips; not in your lips;
In my heart; in my heart’s thoughts;
In mine heart’s words; my heart’s thoughts;
My love is not weak,
Or strong in all my words,
As strong as men in the world
Or weak like men in the world.”
O love, the most kind
Of a weak heart!
And yet thou alone,
Who is weak in all thy thoughts.