Shakespeare's Sonnets

As simple as the name: this blog will have every shakespearean sonnets and, in the future, his other poems. Also, I will post the modern English version and, sometimes, an explanation to help beginners.

[theshakespearesonnets]

Sonnet 90: Then Hate Me When Thou Wilt; If Ever, Now

Then hate me when thou wilt; if ever, now; Now, while the world is bent my deeds to cross, Join with the spite of fortune, make me bow, And do not drop in for an after-loss: Ah! do not, when my heart hath ‘scaped this sorrow, Come in the rearward of a conquered woe; Give not a windy night a rainy morrow, To linger out a purposed overthrow. If thou wilt leave me, do not leave me last, When other petty griefs have done their spite, But in the onset come: so shall I taste At first the very worst of fortune’s might; And other strains of woe, which now seem woe, Compared with loss of thee, will not seem so.

Translation to modern English

So hate me whenever it pleases you, but if you are going to, do it now – now while the world is determined to frustrate all my actions. Join with the spitefulness of Fortune, make me bow under the burden, but don’t come and bite me from behind just when I’ve got over this particular blow. Don’t be a rainy morning after a stormy night, drawing out the defeat that you’re determined to impose on me. If you’re going to go, don’t leave it to the end, when other small sorrows have done their worst but do it at the beginning so that I’ll experience the very worst misfortune first. Then other painful things that are hurting now won’t seem so bad compared with the loss of you.

[theshakespearesonnets]

Sonnet 89: Say That Thou Didst Forsake Me For Some Fault

Say that thou didst forsake me for some fault, And I will comment upon that offence: Speak of my lameness, and I straight will halt, Against thy reasons making no defence. Thou canst not, love, disgrace me half so ill, To set a form upon desired change, As I’ll myself disgrace; knowing thy will, I will acquaintance strangle, and look strange; Be absent from thy walks; and in my tongue Thy sweet beloved name no more shall dwell, Lest I, too much profane, should do it wrong, And haply of our old acquaintance tell. For thee, against my self I’ll vow debate, For I must ne’er love him whom thou dost hate.

Translation to modern English

Just say that you left me because of some fault of mine and I’ll accept that fault. If you say I’m lame I’ll immediately begin limping and make no arguments in my own defence. My love, you could not disgrace me half as much in an effort to improve me, as I would disgrace myself if I knew what you wanted. I’ll suppress our acquaintanceship and become a stranger, stay away from the places you go, and not mention your dear, beloved name again in case I, being so unworthy, should reveal the fact that we once knew each other. I’ll swear to be my own enemy for your sake, because I must not love the person who you hate.

[theshakespearesonnets]

Sonnet 88: When Thou Shalt Be Dispos’d To Set Me Light

When thou shalt be dispos’d to set me light, And place my merit in the eye of scorn, Upon thy side, against myself I’ll fight, And prove thee virtuous, though thou art forsworn. With mine own weakness being best acquainted, Upon thy part I can set down a story Of faults concealed, wherein I am attainted; That thou in losing me shalt win much glory: And I by this will be a gainer too; For bending all my loving thoughts on thee, The injuries that to myself I do, Doing thee vantage, double-vantage me. Such is my love, to thee I so belong, That for thy right, myself will bear all wrong.

Translation to modern English

Whenever you feel inclined to put me down and make me the object of scorn I’ll take your side and argue against myself, proving that you’re virtuous, even though you’re lying. Knowing my own failings best I can describe, on your behalf, the hidden faults with which I am afflicted so well that you will be admired for having disposed of me. And I will gain, too, by focusing all my loving thoughts on you. The injuries that I’ll do to myself will be to your advantage, thus benefiting me doubly. I love you so much – belong to you so completely – that ensuring that you receive your rights I will take all the blame.

[theshakespearesonnets]

Sonnet 87: Farewell! Thou Art Too Dear For My Possessing

Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing, And like enough thou know’st thy estimate, The charter of thy worth gives thee releasing; My bonds in thee are all determinate. For how do I hold thee but by thy granting? And for that riches where is my deserving? The cause of this fair gift in me is wanting, And so my patent back again is swerving. Thy self thou gavest, thy own worth then not knowing, Or me to whom thou gav’st it else mistaking; So thy great gift, upon misprision growing, Comes home again, on better judgement making. Thus have I had thee, as a dream doth flatter, In sleep a king, but waking no such matter.

Translation to modern English

Farewell, you’re too valuable for me to own. I’m sure you know your worth. The extent of that allows you to be released from me: you have broken the bonds between us. For how can I hold on to you without your consent, and how have I come to deserve such riches? Reasons for receiving such a beautiful gift are lacking so my right to own you is reverting back to you. You gave yourself to me without knowing your value, or else you mistook me. So your great gift, based on misunderstanding, is returned now that you’re capable of making better judgments. I have had you as in a flattering dream, thinking of myself as a king while I slept, but on waking, finding I was no such thing.

[theshakespearesonnets]

Sonnet 86: Was It The Proud Full Sail Of His Great Verse

Was it the proud full sail of his great verse, Bound for the prize of all too precious you, That did my ripe thoughts in my brain inhearse, Making their tomb the womb wherein they grew? Was it his spirit, by spirits taught to write Above a mortal pitch, that struck me dead? No, neither he, nor his compeers by night Giving him aid, my verse astonished. He, nor that affable familiar ghost Which nightly gulls him with intelligence As victors of my silence cannot boast; I was not sick of any fear from thence: But when your countenance fill’d up his line, Then lack’d I matter; that enfeebled mine.

Translation to modern English

Was it the power of his poetry, intended to win you, that prevented me from putting my thoughts into words? Was it his creativity, influenced by writers now dead, that makes him write better than anyone else that beat me into silence? No, it wasn’t he, nor the great dead writers from whom he learns by reading them during the night, that inhibited my verse. Neither he nor that friendly ghost that tricks him with false information every night can boast of victory in this question of my silence. I wasn’t impaired because of any fear of them, but when you paid his verse attention, thereby making it more significant than it is, I found I had nothing to say. So it was you that made my verse feeble.

[theshakespearesonnets]

Sonnet 85: My Tongue-Tied Muse In Manners Holds Her Still

My tongue-tied Muse in manners holds her still, While comments of your praise richly compiled, Reserve thy character with golden quill, And precious phrase by all the Muses filed. I think good thoughts, whilst others write good words, And like unlettered clerk still cry ‘Amen’ To every hymn that able spirit affords, In polished form of well-refined pen. Hearing you praised, I say ”tis so, ’tis true,’ And to the most of praise add something more; But that is in my thought, whose love to you, Though words come hindmost, holds his rank before. Then others, for the breath of words respect, Me for my dumb thoughts, speaking in effect.

Translation to modern English

My tongue-tied muse politely remains silent while accounts in praise of you mount up, expressing themselves with golden words and precious phrases inspired by all the muses. I think good thoughts about you while others write good words, and like an illiterate church clerk, I keep crying ‘amen’ to every hymn that competent poets devise in praise of you in polished and refined verse. Hearing you praised I say ‘that’s right, it’s true,’ and add something to their already high praise. But that’s only in my mind, which loves you most, even though I say the least. Therefore, respect others for their spoken words and me for my unspoken thoughts, that speak only through their actions.

[theshakespearesonnets]

Sonnet 84: Who Is It That Says Most, Which Can Say More

Who is it that says most, which can say more, Than this rich praise, that you alone, are you, In whose confine immured is the store Which should example where your equal grew? Lean penury within that pen doth dwell That to his subject lends not some small glory; But he that writes of you, if he can tell That you are you, so dignifies his story. Let him but copy what in you is writ, Not making worse what nature made so clear, And such a counterpart shall fame his wit, Making his style admired every where. You to your beauteous blessings add a curse, Being fond on praise, which makes your praises worse.

Translation to modern English

Which poet says the most? Which one can say more in praise of you than this: that you are unique? All beauty is packed into you, so what is there to compare you with anything other than yourself? It’s a very poor poet who can’t enhance his subject even a little. But whoever writes about you will dignify his writing by plain simple reporting. All he has to do is copy what is already written in you, not damaging what nature has made so perfectly, and he will have such an image that he will become famous, his style universally admired. In spite of all the beauty you’re blessed with you make the mistake of being too fond of praise, because that makes them write even worse praise in their efforts to flatter you.

[theshakespearesonnets]

Sonnet 83: I Never Saw That You Did Painting Need

I never saw that you did painting need, And therefore to your fair no painting set; I found, or thought I found, you did exceed The barren tender of a poet’s debt: And therefore have I slept in your report, That you yourself, being extant, well might show How far a modern quill doth come too short, Speaking of worth, what worth in you doth grow. This silence for my sin you did impute, Which shall be most my glory being dumb; For I impair not beauty being mute, When others would give life, and bring a tomb. There lives more life in one of your fair eyes Than both your poets can in praise devise.

Translation to modern English

I’ve never thought that representations of you need elaboration, so I haven’t described your beauty in elaborate verse. I could see – or thought I could see – that you were above the skills of any poet. Therefore, I’ve made no effort to represent you so that you yourself, by virtue of your very existence, would be able to demonstrate how far short modern verse would come in representing quality – the real quality that you possess. You regarded my silence as a fault, but I’m proud of it because my silence doesn’t detract from your beauty, whereas others destroy it by trying to bring it to life. There’s more life in one of your beautiful eyes than all of your poets can invent in their praise of you.

[theshakespearesonnets]

Sonnet 82: I Grant Thou Wert Not Married To My Muse

I grant thou wert not married to my Muse, And therefore mayst without attaint o’erlook The dedicated words which writers use Of their fair subject, blessing every book. Thou art as fair in knowledge as in hue, Finding thy worth a limit past my praise; And therefore art enforced to seek anew Some fresher stamp of the time-bettering days. And do so, love; yet when they have devis’d, What strained touches rhetoric can lend, Thou truly fair, wert truly sympathiz’d In true plain words, by thy true-telling friend; And their gross painting might be better usd Where cheeks need blood; in thee it is abusd.

Translation to modern English

I admit that you’ve had no commitment to my poetry and can therefore survey, without guilt, the words of dedication other writers use about the beautiful subjects who grace their books. You are as knowledgeable as you are beautiful, and your qualities are beyond any skills I have to praise them. Therefore you’re forced to look again for a fresher representative of these modern literary times. So do that, Love. And yet, when that new poet has invented whatever elaborate devices he can borrow from rhetoric, you would – because you are truly beautiful – have been accurately represented by the true plain words of your honest friend. His exaggerated painting might be better employed on subjects who need colour: in you it’s a misuse.

[theshakespearesonnets]

Sonnet 81: Or I Shall Live Your Epitaph To Make

Or I shall live your epitaph to make, Or you survive when I in earth am rotten, From hence your memory death cannot take, Although in me each part will be forgotten. Your name from hence immortal life shall have, Though I, once gone, to all the world must die: The earth can yield me but a common grave, When you entombed in men’s eyes shall lie. Your monument shall be my gentle verse, Which eyes not yet created shall o’er-read; And tongues to be, your being shall rehearse, When all the breathers of this world are dead; You still shall live, such virtue hath my pen, Where breath most breathes, even in the mouths of men.

Translation to modern English:

Either I will live to write your epitaph or you will survive my rotting in the grave. Death can’t obliterate memory of you, although everything about me will be forgotten. Your name will live forever, whereas I, once I’m gone, will be dead to the world. All I will be able to get will be a simple grave but you will be in tombed in everyone’s eyes. Your monument will be my loving poems, which will be read by eyes not yet born, and tongues not yet born will will recite them when everyone now breathing in this world will be dead. You’ll live on – my pen has that power – where life is most evident: in the very mouths of men.

[theshakespearesonnets]

Sonnet 80: O! How I Faint When I Do Write Of You

O! how I faint when I of you do write, Knowing a better spirit doth use your name, And in the praise thereof spends all his might, To make me tongue-tied speaking of your fame. But since your worth, wide as the ocean is, The humble as the proudest sail doth bear, My saucy bark, inferior far to his, On your broad main doth wilfully appear. Your shallowest help will hold me up afloat, Whilst he upon your soundless deep doth ride; Or, being wrack’d, I am a worthless boat, He of tall building, and of goodly pride: Then if he thrive and I be cast away, The worst was this, my love was my decay.

Translation to modern English

Oh, how faint I feel when I write about you, knowing that a better poet can claim you as his patron. And in singing your praises he uses all his energy to make me tongue-tied. But since your worth is as wide as the ocean, and the humblest can sail on it as well as the proudest, my insolent boat, far inferior to his, insists on sailing on your vast open sea. Your most shallow favour will keep me afloat while he sails on your deepest favour. But, if I am wrecked it’s because I’m a worthless boat, while he is stately and proud. Then if he prospers and I be cast ashore, the worst aspect of it was this: my love for you was my ruin.

[theshakespearesonnets]

Sonnet 79: Whilst I Alone Did Call Upon Thy Aid

Whilst I alone did call upon thy aid, My verse alone had all thy gentle grace; But now my gracious numbers are decay’d, And my sick Muse doth give an other place. I grant, sweet love, thy lovely argument Deserves the travail of a worthier pen; Yet what of thee thy poet doth invent He robs thee of, and pays it thee again. He lends thee virtue, and he stole that word From thy behaviour; beauty doth he give, And found it in thy cheek: he can afford No praise to thee, but what in thee doth live. Then thank him not for that which he doth say, Since what he owes thee, thou thyself dost pay.

Translation to modern English

When I was the only one who sought inspiration from you it was only my verse that contained the effects of your noble grace, but now my inspired verses have declined as my muse makes room for another. I admit, sweet love, that such a lovely subject deserves the labour of a better writer. But whatever praise of your qualities your new poet makes, all he’s doing is stealing them then giving them back to you. He attributes virtue to you but he only got that word from observing you. He gives you beauty but only discovered beauty by looking at your face. He’s unable to offer any praise other than those things that he’s already found in you. So don’t be grateful for the things he says about you: because you’re paying for everything that he owes you.

[theshakespearesonnets]

Sonnet 78: So Oft Have I Invoked Thee For My Muse

So oft have I invoked thee for my Muse, And found such fair assistance in my verse As every alien pen hath got my use And under thee their poesy disperse. Thine eyes, that taught the dumb on high to sing And heavy ignorance aloft to fly, Have added feathers to the learned’s wing And given grace a double majesty. Yet be most proud of that which I compile, Whose influence is thine, and born of thee: In others’ works thou dost but mend the style, And arts with thy sweet graces graced be; But thou art all my art, and dost advance As high as learning my rude ignorance.

Translation to modern English

I’ve invoked you as my muse so many times, and found my poetry to be so inspired by you that every other author imitates my style and publishes his poetry in your name. Your eyes, that inspire the dumb to sing, reaching the highest notes, raise the ignorant to soar in intelligence, inspire the educated to fly even higher, have enhanced the graceful’s grace. Even so, you should be most proud of my my poetry because it’s done directly under your influence and inspired by you. With the poetry of the others you merely improve their style, adding lustre to already lustrous verse. But your inspiration is everything to me and raises my great ignorance to high learning.

[theshakespearesonnets]

Sonnet 77: Thy Glass Will Show Thee How Thy Beauties Weare

Thy glass will show thee how thy beauties wear, Thy dial how thy precious minutes waste; The vacant leaves thy mind’s imprint will bear, And of this book, this learning mayst thou taste. The wrinkles which thy glass will truly show Of mouthed graves will give thee memory; Thou by thy dial’s shady stealth mayst know Time’s thievish progress to eternity. Look what thy memory cannot contain, Commit to these waste blanks, and thou shalt find Those children nursed, deliver’d from thy brain, To take a new acquaintance of thy mind. These offices, so oft as thou wilt look, Shall profit thee and much enrich thy book.

Translation to modern English

Your mirror will show you how your beauty is wearing out; your sundial how your precious minutes are wasting away. Blank pages will record your thoughts and you may learn this from your notebook: The wrinkles that your mirror will honestly reveal will remind you of gaping graves: from the stealthy movement of the shade on your dial you will learn about time’s thievish progress to eternity. Write down the thoughts you won’t be able to remember on these blank pages and you will see that those children, nursed and grown up, will strike you as new acquaintances in time to come. If you do all that it will be of benefit to you and greatly enrich your book.

[theshakespearesonnets]

Sonnet 76: Why Is My Verse So Barren Of New Pride

Why is my verse so barren of new pride, So far from variation or quick change? Why with the time do I not glance aside To new-found methods, and to compounds strange? Why write I still all one, ever the same, And keep invention in a noted weed, That every word doth almost tell my name, Showing their birth, and where they did proceed? O! know sweet love I always write of you, And you and love are still my argument; So all my best is dressing old words new, Spending again what is already spent: For as the sun is daily new and old, So is my love still telling what is told.

Translation to modern English

Why is my verse so devoid of new devices – so resistant to variation and novelty? Why don’t I go along with the times and look around at newly adopted techniques and unfamiliar juxtapositions? Why do I write everything the same – always the same, confining all my ideas to their well-known clothes so that every word almost proclaims my name, where it was born and where it’s going to? Oh, you know, sweet love, I always write about you, and you, and love, are always my subject. So all I can do is clothe what I’ve already said in new words, spending again what I’ve already spent. In the same way that the sun is old and new every day, my love is always saying what has already been said.

[theshakespearesonnets]

Sonnet 75: So Are You To My Thoughts As Food To Life

So are you to my thoughts as food to life, Or as sweet-season’d showers are to the ground; And for the peace of you I hold such strife As ‘twixt a miser and his wealth is found. Now proud as an enjoyer, and anon Doubting the filching age will steal his treasure; Now counting best to be with you alone, Then better’d that the world may see my pleasure: Sometime all full with feasting on your sight, And by and by clean starved for a look; Possessing or pursuing no delight Save what is had, or must from you be took. Thus do I pine and surfeit day by day, Or gluttoning on all, or all away.

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Translation to modern English

You are to me what food is to life, or what spring showers are to the earth, and to achieve peace of mind about you I struggle with myself as a miser struggles with his wealth. One moment he proudly enjoys it and the next he’s worried that the thieving age we live in will steal his treasure – now counting it best to keep you to myself, then reckoning it better if the world could see my pleasure. At times I feel full from feasting on your looks but eventually absolutely starving for a glimpse of you, having or looking for no pleasure except what you give me and what I can take from you. That’s why I either waste away with hunger day after day, or either stuff myself with you or go without.

[theshakespearesonnets]

Sonnet 74: But Be Contented When That Fell Arrest

But be contented when that fell arrest Without all bail shall carry me away, My life hath in this line some interest, Which for memorial still with thee shall stay. When thou reviewest this, thou dost review The very part was consecrate to thee: The earth can have but earth, which is his due; My spirit is thine, the better part of me: So then thou hast but lost the dregs of life, The prey of worms, my body being dead; The coward conquest of a wretch’s knife, Too base of thee to be remembered. The worth of that is that which it contains, And that is this, and this with thee remains.

__________________________

Translation to modern English

But be contented when that dreadful arrest takes me away to where there is no bail. My life will continue to some extent in this verse, which will stay with you as a memorial. When you read it again you will be reading again the very thing about me that was dedicated to you. The earth can have only the earth in me, which is what I owe it. My spirit, the better part of me, is yours, which means that you will only have lost the dregs of my life, the food of worms, preying on my dead body, the conquest of the cowardly knife of that wretch, Death, too dire to be remembered by you. The value of that body is only what it contains, and that is this poem, and it will stay with you.