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    Not Peer Reviewed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)

    When in the chronicle of wasted time
    I see descriptions of the fairest wights,
    And beauty making beautiful old rhyme,
    1580In praise of ladies dead, and lovely knights;
    Then in the blazon of sweet beauty's best,
    Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow,
    I see their antique pen would have expressed
    Even such a beauty as you master now.
    1585So all their praises are but prophecies
    Of this our time, all you prefiguring;
    And for they looked but with divining eyes
    They had not skill enough your worth to sing.
    For we which now behold these present days
    1590 Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise.
    Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul
    Of the wide world, dreaming on things to come,
    Can yet the lease of my true love control,
    1595Supposed as forfeit to a confinèd doom.
    The mortal moon hath her eclipse endured,
    And the sad augurs mock their own presage;
    Incertainties now crown themselves assured,
    And peace proclaims olives of endless age.
    1600Now with the drops of this most balmy time
    My love looks fresh, and death to me subscribes,
    Since, spite of him, I'll live in this poor rhyme,
    While he insults o'er dull and speechless tribes;
    And thou in this shalt find thy monument,
    1605 When tyrants' crests and tombs of brass are spent.
    What's in the brain that ink may character
    Which hath not figured to thee my true spirit?
    What's new to speak, what now to register,
    1610That may express my love, or thy dear merit?
    Nothing, sweet boy; but yet, like prayers divine,
    I must each day say o'er the very same,
    Counting no old thing old; thou mine, I thine,
    Even as when first I hallowed thy fair name.
    1615So that eternal love, in love's fresh case,
    Weighs not the dust and injury of age,
    Nor gives to necessary wrinkles place
    But makes antiquity for aye his page,
    Finding the first conceit of love there bred,
    1620 Where time and outward form would show it dead.