Internet Shakespeare Editions

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  • Title: The Sonnets (Modern)
  • Editor: Michael Best

  • Copyright Internet Shakespeare Editions. This text may be freely used for educational, non-proift purposes; for all other uses contact the Coordinating Editor.
    Author: William Shakespeare
    Editor: Michael Best
    Not Peer Reviewed

    The Sonnets (Modern)

    1From fairest creatures we desire increase,
    That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
    But as the riper should by time decease
    His tender heir might bear his memory:
    5But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
    Feed'st thy light's flame with self-substantial fuel,
    Making a famine where abundance lies,
    Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
    Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament,
    10And only herald to the gaudy spring,
    Within thine own bud buriest thy content,
    And, tender churl, mak'st waste in niggarding.
    Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
    To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
    152
    When forty winters shall besiege thy brow,
    And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
    Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
    Will be a tattered weed of small worth held:
    20Then being asked, where all thy beauty lies,
    Where all the treasure of thy lusty days,
    To say, within thine own deep-sunken eyes,
    Were an all-eating shame, and thriftless praise.
    How much more praise deserved thy beauty's use
    25If thou couldst answer, "This fair child of mine
    Shall sum my count, and make my old excuse,"
    Proving his beauty by succession thine.
    This were to be new made when thou art old,
    And see thy blood warm when thou feel'st it cold.
    303
    Look in thy glass, and tell the face thou viewest,
    Now is the time that face should form another,
    Whose fresh repair, if now thou not renewest,
    Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother.
    35For where is she so fair whose uneared womb
    Disdains the tillage of thy husbandry?
    Or who is he so fond will be the tomb
    Of his self-love, to stop posterity?
    Thou art thy mother's glass, and she in thee
    40Calls back the lovely April of her prime;
    So thou through windows of thine age shalt see,
    Despite of wrinkles, this thy golden time.
    But if thou live remembered not to be,
    Die single, and thine image dies with thee.