I never saw that you did painting need,
And therefore to your fair no painting set;
I found, or thought I found, you did exceed
That barren tender of a poet's debt;
And therefore have I slept in your report,
That you yourself being extant well might show
How far a modern quill doth come too short,
Speaking of worth, what worth in you doth grow.
This silence for my sin you did impute,
Which shall be most my glory, being dumb,
For I impair not beauty, being mute,
When others would give life and bring a tomb.
There lives more life in one of your fair eyes,
Than both your poets can in praise devise.
More verses by William Shakespeare
- Sonnet 45: The Other Two, Slight Air And Purging Fire
- Sonnet Cxlvii
- Sonnet 48: How Careful Was I, When I Took My Way
- Sonnet 52: So Am I As The Rich Whose BlessÈD Key
- Sonnet 15: