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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    Not Peer Reviewed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)

    54037
    As a decrepit father takes delight
    To see his active child do deeds of youth,
    So I, made lame by Fortune's dearest spite,
    Take all my comfort of thy worth and truth.
    545For whether beauty, birth, or wealth, or wit,
    Or any of these all, or all, or more,
    Entitled in thy parts, do crowned sit,
    I make my love engrafted to this store:
    So then I am not lame, poor, nor despised,
    550Whilst that this shadow doth such substance give
    That I in thy abundance am sufficed,
    And by a part of all thy glory live:
    Look what is best, that best I wish in thee;
    This wish I have, then ten times happy me.
    55538
    How can my Muse want subject to invent
    While thou dost breathe, that pour'st into my verse
    Thine own sweet argument, too excellent
    For every vulgar paper to rehearse?
    560Oh, give thyself the thanks, if aught in me
    Worthy perusal stand against thy sight;
    For who's so dumb that cannot write to thee,
    When thou thyself dost give invention light?
    Be thou the tenth Muse, ten times more in worth
    565Than those old nine which rhymers invocate;
    And he that calls on thee, let him bring forth
    Eternal numbers to outlive long date.
    If my slight Muse do please these curious days,
    The pain be mine, but thine shall be the praise.
    57039
    Oh, how thy worth with manners may I sing,
    When thou art all the better part of me?
    What can mine own praise to mine own self bring,
    And what is't but mine own, when I praise thee?
    575Even for this, let us divided live,
    And our dear love lose name of single one,
    That by this separation I may give
    That due to thee which thou deserv'st alone.
    O absence, what a torment wouldst thou prove,
    580Were it not thy sour leisure gave sweet leave
    To entertain the time with thoughts of love,
    Which time and thoughts so sweetly dost deceive.
    And that thou teachest how to make one twain,
    By praising him here who doth hence remain.
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