Ninth Quarto

(1)
“Is it for fear to meet my greedy eye
That thou would cloak thyself with modest haste?
The perfect rose, if seen or not, will die,
So thrift of beauty cannot be but waste.
All nature doth revolt ’gainst such offence,
And, like a nation long by tyrants ruled,
Cries out for freedom from thy chaste pretense,
That by an open hand thou might be schooled.
And yet with thee I must a statesman be;
Ambassador to beauty, seldom heard,
Resigned to court for all eternity
In hopes thy stubborn heart might still be stirred.
I ask thee only this, as we draw near:
If not thy heart, surrender me thine ear.

(2)
“If not thy heart, surrender me thine ear,
That I may train it in the ways of truth.
This Puritan code of self-denial and fear
Ill suits the world of beauty and of youth
And constitutes a crime against thy soul.
Excess of temperance makes of virtue vice;
When little parts of life become the whole,
The body must remit a hefty price.
Turn instead, kind ear, to natural urges,
To inner lights that guide with softer tones,
The secret voice that with the body merges
And echoes in the marrow of the bones.
When clashing counsels tell’st thou what to do,
Remember this: to thine own self be true.

(3)
“Remember this? ‘To thine own self be true.’
A famous turn of phrase that now I turn
From Danish setting into context new,
That thou might from the musty sermon learn,
And listen to the preaching from within
Instead of shouted ‘shalt nots’ from outside
That label any self-delight a sin
And take in refutation deviant pride.
Careful study of thy heart’s true leanings
Will offer firmest proof of nature’s course,
So make a subject of those cordial meanings;
A science with the self its only source.
Only the soul that knows its shape can say
'I desire,' and will have it no other way.

(4)
“I desire, and will have it no other way,
That here and now my labours should be eased;
No more will I be pushed and pulled astray
Until some unseen force is wholly pleased.
None need be told the world is filled with toil,
Yet equally all things must meet their end;
So let this grueling knotty strand recoil
And grant me all the succour thou can lend.
Exhausted is my stock of lofty language
And still thou seem’st no closer than the sun,
While I remain below in blinding anguish
With failing lips and feet on which to run.
Wherefore flee’st thou, as X comes after Y?
Is it for fear to meet my greedy eye?”

[14:00 / wooing / corona of Shxprean sonnets / lips / era XIV / Samuel Sculpture Garden]