Synonym Puzzle:

And even thence thou wilt be stol'n, I fear,
For truth proves thievish for a prize so dear.

And nothing 'gainst Time's scythe can make defense
Save breed, to brave him when he takes thee hence.

And so of you, beauteous and lovely youth,
When that shall vade, by verse distills your truth.

And that thou teachest how to make one twain,
By praising him here who doth hence remain!

As call it winter, which being full of care
Makes summer's welcome thrice more wish'd, more rare.


Be not self-will'd, for thou art much too fair
To be death's conquest and make worms thine heir.

Blessed are you, whose worthiness gives scope,
Being had, to triumph, being lack'd, to hope.

But day doth daily draw my sorrow stronger,
And night doth nightly make grief's strength seem longer.

But do not so; I love thee in such sort
As, thou being mine, mine is thy good report.

But flowers distill'd, though they with winter meet,
Leese but their show; their substance still lives sweet.

But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,
All losses are restor'd, and sorrows end.

But since he died and poets better prove,
Theirs for their style I'll read, his for his love.

But were some child of yours alive that time,
You should live twice, in it and in my rhyme.

For that same groan doth put this in my mind:
My grief lies onward and my joy behind.

For thy sweet love rememb'red such wealth brings
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.

His beauty shall in these black lines be seen,
And they shall live, and he in them still green.

I am to wait, though waiting so be hell,
Not blame your pleasure, be it ill or well.

If my slight Muse do please these curious days,
The pain be mine, but thine shall be the praise.

In all external grace you have some part,
But you like none, none you, for constant heart.


Lascivious grace, in whom all ill well shows,
Kill me with spites; yet we must not be foes.


Let them say more that like of hearsay well;
I will not praise that purpose not to sell.

Lo, thus by day my limbs, by night my mind,
For thee and for myself no quiet find.

No love toward others in that bosom sits
That on himself such murd'rous shame commits.


O, him she stores, to show what wealth she had
In days long since, before these last so bad.



O, learn to read what silent love hath writ.
To hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit.

O, none but unthrifts! Dear my love, you know
You had a father; let your son say so.

O, none, unless this miracle have might,
That in black ink my love may still shine bright.

Or else of thee this I prognosticate:
Thy end is truth's and beauty's doom and date.


Or, if they sleep, they picture in my sight
Awakes my heart to heart's and eye's delight.

Presume not on thy heart when mine is slain;
Thou gav'st me thine, not to give back again.

Receiving nought by elements so slow
But heavy tears, badges of either's woe.



Since from thee going he went willful-slow,
Towards thee I'll run, and give him leave to go.

So true a fool is love that in your will,
Though you do anything, he thinks no ill.


The worth of that is that which it contains,
And that is this, and this with thee remains.


Then happy I, that love and am beloved
Where I may not remove nor be removed.

Then others for the breath of words respect,
Me for my dumb thoughts, speaking in effect.

Then thank him not for that which he doth say,
Since what he owes thee thou thyself dost pay.


These offices, so oft as thou wilt look,
Shall profit thee and much enrich thy book.

This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong,
To love that well which thou must leave ere long.

This thought is a death, which cannot choose
But weep to have that which it fears to lose.

This told, I joy; but then no longer glad,
I send them back again and straight grow sad.

This were to be new made when thou art old,
And see thy blood warm when thou fell'st it cold.

Thus have I had thee as a dream doth flatter,
In sleep a king, but waking no such matter.

To give away yourself keeps yourself still,
And you must live, drawn by your own sweet skill.

To leave poor me though hast the strength of laws,
Since why to love I can allege no cause.



Yet, do thy worst, old Time. Despite thy wrong,
My love shall in my verse ever live young.

Yet eyes this cunning want to grace their art:
They draw but what they see, know not the heart.

You to your beauteous blessings add a curse,
Being fond on praise, which makes your praises worse.