Sonnet 23
As an unperfect actor on the stageWho with his fear is put besides his part,Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage,Whose strength's abundance weakens his own heart.So I, for fear of trust, forget to sayThe perfect ceremony of love's rite,And in mine own love's strength seem to decay,O'ercharged with burden of mine own love's might.O, let my books be then the eloquenceAnd dumb presagers of my speaking breast,Who plead for love and look for recompenseMore than that tongue that more hath more express'd. O, learn to read what silent love hath writ: To hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit.
I know, when my loving tongue losesits words to mercurial musesthat I could succumb.They've rendered me dumb,but a silent tongue still has some uses.