The Sonnets (Modern)

Author: William Shakespeare

Editor: Michael Best

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The Sonnets (Modern)
- Work
- Poem
  1. Dedication
  2. 1 — 3
  3. 4 — 6
  4. 7 — 9
  5. 10 — 12
  6. 13 — 15
  7. 16 — 18
  8. 19 — 21
  9. 22 — 24
  10. 25 — 27
  11. 28 — 30
  12. 31 — 33
  13. 34 — 36
  14. 37 — 39
  15. 40 — 42
  16. 43 — 45
  17. 46 — 48
  18. 49 — 51
  19. 52 — 54
  20. 55 — 57
  21. 58 — 60
  22. 61 — 63
  23. 64 — 66
  24. 67 — 69
  25. 70 — 72
  26. 73 — 75
  27. 76 — 78
  28. 79 — 81
  29. 82 — 84
  30. 85 — 87
  31. 88 — 90
  32. 91 — 93
  33. 94 — 96
  34. 97 — 99
  35. 100 — 102
  36. 103 — 105
  37. 106 — 108
  38. 109 — 111
  39. 112 — 114
  40. 115 — 117
  41. 118 — 120
  42. 121 — 123
  43. 124 — 126
  44. 127 — 129
  45. 130 — 132
  46. 133 — 135
  47. 136 — 138
  48. 139 — 141
  49. 142 — 144
  50. 145 — 147
  51. 148 — 150
  52. 151 — 153
  53. 154
Shake-speares Sonnets (Quarto 1, 1609)
- Work
- Poem
  1. Titlepage
  2. Dedication
  3. 1 — 3
  4. 4 — 6
  5. 7 — 9
  6. 10 — 12
  7. 13 — 15
  8. 16 — 18
  9. 19 — 21
  10. 22 — 24
  11. 25 — 27
  12. 28 — 30
  13. 31 — 33
  14. 34 — 36
  15. 37 — 39
  16. 40 — 42
  17. 43 — 45
  18. 46 — 48
  19. 49 — 51
  20. 52 — 54
  21. 55 — 57
  22. 58 — 60
  23. 61 — 63
  24. 64 — 66
  25. 67 — 69
  26. 70 — 72
  27. 73 — 75
  28. 76 — 78
  29. 79 — 81
  30. 82 — 84
  31. 85 — 87
  32. 88 — 90
  33. 91 — 93
  34. 94 — 96
  35. 97 — 99
  36. 100 — 102
  37. 103 — 105
  38. 106 — 108
  39. 109 — 111
  40. 112 — 114
  41. 115 — 117
  42. 118 — 120
  43. 121 — 123
  44. 124 — 126
  45. 127 — 129
  46. 130 — 132
  47. 133 — 135
  48. 136 — 138
  49. 139 — 141
  50. 142 — 144
  51. 145 — 147
  52. 148 — 150
  53. 151 — 153
  54. 154
- Page
  1. 1
  2. 2
  3. 3
  4. 4
  5. 5
  6. 6
  7. 7
  8. 8
  9. 9
  10. 10
  11. 11
  12. 12
  13. 13
  14. 14
  15. 15
  16. 16
  17. 17
  18. 18
  19. 19
  20. 20
  21. 21
  22. 22
  23. 23
  24. 24
  25. 25
  26. 26
  27. 27
  28. 28
  29. 29
  30. 30
  31. 31
  32. 32
  33. 33
  34. 34
  35. 35
  36. 36
  37. 37
  38. 38
  39. 39
  40. 40
  41. 41
  42. 42
  43. 43
  44. 44
  45. 45
  46. 46
  47. 47
  48. 48
  49. 49
  50. 50
  51. 51
  52. 52
  53. 53
  54. 54
  55. 55
  56. 56
  57. 57
  58. 58
  59. 59
  60. 60
  61. 61
  62. 62
  63. 63
  64. 64
  65. 65
  66. 66
  67. 67
  68. 68
  69. 69

¶118
¶Like as to make our appetite more keen
¶With eager compounds we our palate urge;
¶As, to prevent our maladies unseen,
1760We sicken to shun sickness when we purge;
¶Even so, being full of your ne'er-cloying sweetness,
¶To bitter sauces did I frame my feeding,
¶And sick of welfare found a kind of meetness
¶To be diseased ere that there was true needing.
1765Thus policy in love, t'anticipate
¶The ills that were not, grew to faults assured,
¶And brought to medicine a healthful state
¶Which, rank of goodness, would by ill be cured.
¶_But thence I learn, and find the lesson true,
1770_Drugs poison him that so fell sick of you.

¶119
¶What potions have I drunk of siren tears
¶Distilled from limbecks foul as hell within,
¶Applying fears to hopes, and hopes to fears,
1775Still losing when I saw myself to win!
¶What wretched errors hath my heart committed,
¶Whilst it hath thought itself so blessèd never!
¶How have mine eyes out of their spheres been fitted
¶In the distraction of this madding fever!
1780O benefit of ill: now I find true
¶That better is by evil still made better,
¶And ruined love when it is built anew
¶Grows fairer than at first, more strong, far greater.
¶_So I return rebuked to my content,
1785_And gain by ills thrice more than I have spent.

¶120
¶That you were once unkind befriends me now,
¶And for that sorrow, which I then did feel,
¶Needs must I under my transgression bow,
1790Unless my nerves were brass or hammered steel.
¶For if you were by my unkindness shaken,
¶As I by yours, you've passed a hell of time,
¶And I, a tyrant, have no leisure taken
¶To weigh how once I suffered in your crime.
1795O that our night of woe might have remembered
¶My deepest sense how hard true sorrow hits,
¶And soon to you, as you to me then, tendered
¶The humble salve which wounded bosoms fits!
¶_But that your trespass now becomes a fee;
1800_Mine ransoms yours, and yours must ransom me.

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The Sonnets (Modern)

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Textual Analysis

The Sonnets (Modern)

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