To break one’s word is pleasure–fraught,
To do one’s duty gives a smart;
While man, alas! will promise nought,
That is repugnant to his heart.
Using some magic strains of yore,
Thou lurest him, when scarcely calm,
On to sweet folly’s fragile bark once more,
Renewing, doubling chance of harm.
Why seek to hide thyself from me?
Fly not my sight—be open then!
Known late or early it must be,
And here thou hast thy word again.
My duty is fulfill’d to–day,
No longer will I guard thee from surprise;
But, oh, forgive the friend who from thee turns away,
And to himself for refuge flies!
Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer’s lease hath all too short a date:
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm’d;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance or nature’s changing course untrimm’d;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade
Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest;
Nor shall Death brag thou wander’st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou growest:
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this and this gives life to thee.