Sonnet 67: Ah, Wherefore With Infection Should He Live
William Shakespeare
Ah, wherefore with infection should he live, And with his presence grace impiety, That sin by him advantage should achieve, And lace it self with his society? Why should false painting imitate his cheek, And steal dead seeming of his living hue? Why should poor beauty indirectly seek Roses of shadow, since his rose is true? Why should he live, now Nature bankrupt is, Beggared of blood to blush through lively veins, For she hath no exchequer now but his, And proud of many, lives upon his gains? O, him she stores, to show what wealth she had In days long since, before these last so bad.
Next 10 Poems
- William Shakespeare : Sonnet 68: Thus Is His Cheek The Map Of Days Outworn
- William Shakespeare : Sonnet 69: Those Parts Of Thee That The World's Eye Doth View
- William Shakespeare : Sonnet 7: Lo, In The Orient When The Gracious Light
- William Shakespeare : Sonnet 70: That Thou Art Blamed Shall Not Be Thy Defect
- William Shakespeare : Sonnet 71: No Longer Mourn For Me When I Am Dead
- William Shakespeare : Sonnet 72: O, Lest The World Should Task You To Recite
- William Shakespeare : Sonnet 73: That Time Of Year Thou Mayst In Me Behold
- William Shakespeare : Sonnet 74: But Be Contented When That Fell Arrest
- William Shakespeare : Sonnet 75: So Are You To My Thoughts As Food To Life
- William Shakespeare : Sonnet 76: Why Is My Verse So Barren Of New Pride?
Previous 10 Poems
- William Shakespeare : Sonnet 66: Tired With All These, For Restful Death I Cry
- William Shakespeare : Sonnet 65: Since Brass, Nor Stone, Nor Earth, Nor Boundless Sea
- William Shakespeare : Sonnet 64: When I Have Seen By Time's Fell Hand Defaced
- William Shakespeare : Sonnet 63: Against My Love Shall Be, As I Am Now
- William Shakespeare : Sonnet 62: Sin Of Self-love Possesseth All Mine Eye
- William Shakespeare : Sonnet 61: Is It Thy Will Thy Image Should Keep Open
- William Shakespeare : Sonnet 60: Like As The Waves Make Towards The Pebbled Shore
- William Shakespeare : Sonnet 6: Then Let Not Winter's Ragged Hand Deface
- William Shakespeare : Sonnet 59: If There Be Nothing New, But That Which Is
- William Shakespeare : Sonnet 58: That God Forbid, That Made Me First Your Slave