The Sonnets
Sonnet 154
by William Shakespeare
The little Love-god lying once asleep
The little Love-god lying once asleep
Beshrew that heart that makes my heart to groan
If thy soul check thee that I come so near
YOUR subjects hope, dread Sire––
Those hours that with gentle work did frame
Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed
How can my muse want subject to invent
My tongue-tied muse in manners holds her still
I grant thou wert not married to my muse
On Mrs. W–––––'s Voyage to England.
Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul
In faith I do not love thee with mine eyes
As an unperfect actor on the stage
From fairest creatures we desire increase
That time of year thou mayst in me behold
I cannot live with you
Your riches taught me poverty.
The wind begun to rock the grass
That thou art blamed shall not be thy defect
Thou blind fool Love, what dost thou to mine eyes
O how thy worth with manners may I sing
If my dear love were but the child of state
Arcturus is his other name, —
Th’ expense of spirit in a waste of shame
A precious, mouldering pleasure 't is