The speaker personifies the spring as a dead father because the season is gone even while the crops planted during its duration remain.

  98

  ORIGINAL TEXT

  From you have I been absent in the spring,

  When proud-pied April, dressed in all his trim,

  Hath put a spirit of youth in everything,

  That heavy Saturn laughed and leapt with him.

  Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell

  Of different flow’rs in odor and in hue,

  Could make me any summer’s story tell,

  Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew.

  Nor did I wonder at the lily’s white,

  Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose;

  They were but sweet, but figures of delight,

  Drawn after you, you pattern of all those.

  Yet seemed it winter still, and, you away,

  As with your shadow I with these did play.

  98

  MODERN TEXT

  I was away from you during the spring, when splendid April in all its finery made everything feel so young that even Saturn, the god of old age and gloominess, laughed and leaped along with it. But neither the songs of birds nor the sweet smell of all the various flowers could make me feel like it was summer or inspire me to go flower picking. I wasn’t amazed by how white the lily was, nor did I praise the deep red of the roses. They were only sweet, only pictures of delight, drawn in imitation of you, the archetype of spring. It seemed like it was still winter and, with you away, I played with these flowers as if I were playing with your reflection.

  99

  ORIGINAL TEXT

  The forward violet thus did I chide:

  Sweet thief, whence didst thou steal thy sweet that smells,

  If not from my love’s breath? The purple pride

  Which on thy soft cheek for complexion dwells

  In my love’s veins thou hast too grossly dyed.

  The lily I condemnèd for thy hand,

  And buds of marjoram had stol’n thy hair;

  The roses fearfully on thorns did stand,

  One blushing shame, another white despair;

  A third, nor red nor white, had stol’n of both,

  And to his robb’ry had annexed thy breath;

  But for his theft, in pride of all his growth

  A vengeful canker ate him up to death.

  More flow’rs I noted, yet I none could see

  But sweet or color it had stol’n from thee.

  99

  MODERN TEXT

  (Continuing from Sonnet 98) This is how I scolded the presumptuous violet: “Sweet thief, where did you steal your sweet smell from if not from my beloved’s breath? You obviously got that purple color you’re so proud of by dying yourself in his blood.” I condemned the lily for stealing its whiteness from your hand and the marjoram buds for stealing your curly hair. The roses stood by anxiously, the red one blushing in shame, the white one pale with despair, knowing they were guilty of stealing your colors too. A third rose, neither red nor white, had stolen both red and white from your complexion, and added to his robbery the smell of your breath. But as punishment for his theft, a vengeful worm destroyed the rose just at its proudest growth. I noticed other flowers, and I couldn’t see any that hadn’t stolen its sweetness or color from you.

  100

  ORIGINAL TEXT

  Where art thou, Muse, that thou forget’st so long

  To speak of that which gives thee all thy might?

  Spend’st thou thy fury on some worthless song,

  Dark’ning thy pow’r to lend base subjects light?

  Return, forgetful Muse, and straight redeem

  In gentle numbers time so idly spent;

  Sing to the ear that doth thy lays esteem,

  And gives thy pen both skill and argument.

  Rise, resty Muse; my love’s sweet face survey,

  If time have any wrinkle graven there;

  If any, be a satire to decay,

  And make time’s spoils despisèd everywhere.

  Give my love fame faster than time wastes life;

  So thou prevent’st his scythe and crookèd knife.

  100

  MODERN TEXT

  Where have you been, Muse, that you have forgotten for so long to inspire me to write about the person who gives you all your power? Are you using up your inspiration on some worthless poem, eclipsing your true powers by making unworthy topics seem brighter? Return, forgetful Muse, and make up for the time you’ve wasted by inspiring me to write some gentle verses. Inspire poems addressed to my beloved, the person who actually likes your songs, and who gives you both poetic skill and a topic to write about. Get up, sleepy Muse: Examine my beloved’s sweet face to see if time has engraved any wrinkles on it. If there are any, then satirize aging and make everybody despise time’s destructive powers. Make my beloved famous faster than time can destroy his life; prevent time’s knife from cutting my beloved down.

  101

  ORIGINAL TEXT

  O truant Muse, what shall be thy amends

  For thy neglect of truth in beauty dyed?

  Both truth and beauty on my love depends;

  So dost thou too, and therein dignified.

  Make answer, Muse: wilt thou not haply say

  Truth needs no color, with his color fixed,

  Beauty no pencil, beauty’s truth to lay;

  But best is best if never intermixed?

  Because he needs no praise, wilt thou be dumb?

  Excuse not silence so, for ’t lies in thee

  To make him much outlive a gilded tomb,

  And to be praised of ages yet to be.

  Then do thy office, Muse. I teach thee how

  To make him seem long hence as he shows now.

  101

  MODERN TEXT

  (Continuing from Sonnet 100) Oh truant Muse, how are you going to make amends for neglecting my beloved, the embodiment of truth bound up with beauty? Both truth and beauty depend upon my beloved. You depend on, and are dignified by, him too. Answer me, Muse; perhaps you’ll say, “Truth doesn’t need to be embellished when it’s already attached to beauty. Beauty doesn’t need to be poetically described in order for its truth to be apparent. Whatever is best is best when it’s not mixed with anything else.” But just because my beloved needs no praise, will you be silent? You can’t excuse this silence, as you have the ability to make him live longer than a golden tomb and win the praise of future ages. Then do your job, Muse. I’ll teach you how to make him look in the distant future like he does now.

  102

  ORIGINAL TEXT

  My love is strengthened, though more weak in seeming;

  I love not less, though less the show appear.

  That love is merchandised whose rich esteeming

  The owner’s tongue doth publish everywhere.

  Our love was new, and then but in the spring,

  When I was wont to greet it with my lays,

  As Philomel in summer’s front doth sing,

  And stops his pipe in growth of riper days.

  Not that the summer is less pleasant now

  Than when her mournful hymns did hush the night,

  But that wild music burthens every bough,

  And sweets grown common lose their dear delight.

  Therefore, like her, I sometime hold my tongue,

  Because I would not dull you with my song.

  102

  MODERN TEXT

  My love is stronger, though it seems weaker. I don’t love less, but I show my love less. When a person broadcasts how he loves and how richly he esteems the person he loves, he turns his love into a commodity. Our love was still new when I used to write poems about it, just as the nightingale sings at the beginning of summer, then stops singing as the summer progresses. It’s not that summer is less pleasant now than the nights when the nightingale sang. It’s just that every tree branch is filled with songbirds, and when things are common they’re less delightful. Therefore, like the nightingale, sometimes I keep silent because I don’t want to bore you with my song.

  103

  ORIGINAL TEXT

  Alack, what poverty my muse brings forth,

  That having such a scope to show her pride,

  The argument all bare is of more worth

  Than when it hath my added praise beside!

  O blame me not if I no more can write!

  Look in your glass, and there appears a face

  That overgoes my blunt invention quite,

  Dulling my lines and doing me disgrace.

  Were it not sinful then, striving to mend,

  To mar the subject that before was well?

  For to no other pass my verses tend

  Than of your graces and your gifts to tell;

  And more, much more than in my verse can sit

  Your own glass shows you, when you look in it.

  103

  MODERN TEXT

  Alas, I’m a poor poet, since even with such a great subject to write about (you), the subject is worth more by itself than with my praise added to it. Don’t blame me if I can’t write anymore! Look in the mirror, and you’ll see a face that quite overwhelms my limited poetic skills, making my lines stupid and thereby disgracing me. It would be a sin, wouldn’t it, if in trying to improve my poetry, I messed up their subject, which was perfectly fine before? For the only things I write about are your charms and your wonderful qualities, and your own mirror will show you far, far more of these than I can possibly fit into my poetry.

  104

  ORIGINAL TEXT

  To me, fair friend, you never can be old,

  For as you were when first your eye I eyed,

  Such seems your beauty still. Three winters cold

  Have from the forests shook three summers’ pride;

  Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn turned

  In process of the seasons have I seen;

  Three April pérfumes in three hot Junes burned,

  Since first I saw you fresh, which yet are green.

  Ah yet doth beauty, like a dial hand,

  Steal from his figure, and no pace perceived;

  So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand,

  Hath motion, and mine eye may be deceived.

  For fear of which, hear this, thou age unbred:

  Ere you were born was beauty’s summer dead.

  104

  MODERN TEXT

  You’ll never be old to me, beautiful friend, for your beauty seems just the same as it was when I first saw your lovely eyes. Since then, three cold winters have stripped the leaves off three proud summers; three beautiful springs have turned to three yellow autumns, all in the course of the seasons. Three Aprils, full of perfumed flowers, have all burned up into three hot Junes since the first day I saw you in your freshness—and you’re still fresh and green. Ah, but beauty, like the hand of a clock, creeps away from the person it’s attached to so slowly no one can see it. In the same way, your sweet beauty, which seems to be standing still, is actually changing, and my eye may be deceived. In case it is, hear this, future generations: Before you were born, the greatest example of beauty was already dead.

  105

  ORIGINAL TEXT

  Let not my love be called idolatry,

  Nor my belovèd as an idol show,

  Since all alike my songs and praises be

  To one, of one, still such, and ever so.

  Kind is my love today, tomorrow kind,

  Still constant in a wondrous excellence;

  Therefore my verse to constancy confined,

  One thing expressing, leaves out difference.

  Fair, kind, and true is all my argument,

  Fair, kind, and true, varying to other words;

  And in this change is my invention spent—

  Three themes in one, which wondrous scope affords.

  Fair, kind, and true have often lived alone,

  Which three, till now, never kept seat in one.

  105

  MODERN TEXT

  Let no one call my love idolatry or say that I treat my beloved as an idol, since all of my poems and praises have been addressed to one person, are about one person, and always will be. My love is kind today, will be kind tomorrow, always constant in wondrous excellence. Therefore, since my poetry is confined to a subject that’s always the same, it always expresses the same thing, never including anything different. The subject of my poems is the beautiful, kind, and faithful. I write about the beautiful, kind, and faithful in various ways, and this is the task that I expend all of my creativity on—three themes rolled up in one person, which offers an amazing scope for poetic invention. Beauty, kindness, and fidelity have often been divided into different people, but the three of them were never together in one person until now.

  The humor of this sonnet is that while defending himself against the charge of idolatry, the speaker echoes language traditionally used by Christians to describe God.

  106

  ORIGINAL TEXT

  When in the chronicle of wasted time

  I see descriptions of the fairest wights

  And beauty making beautiful old rhyme

  In 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 ántique pen would have expressed

  Ev’n such a beauty as you master now.

  So 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,

  Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise.

  106

  MODERN TEXT

  When in accounts of historic times I come upon descriptions of very beautiful people and read the beautiful poems inspired by them, in praise of ladies now dead and lovely knights; when I see the poems catalog their beauty—their hands, feet, lips, eyes, foreheads—I realize that these ancient writers were trying to describe the same kind of beauty that you possess now. So all the praises of these writers are actually prophecies of our time; all of them prefigure you. If the writers hadn’t been divinely inspired with this gift of prophecy, they wouldn’t have had the skill to describe your worth. Those of us who live now may be able to see your beauty firsthand and be amazed by it, but we lack the poetic skill to describe it.

  107

  ORIGINAL TEXT

  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,

  Supposed as forfeit to a cónfined doom.

  The mortal moon hath her eclipse endured

  And the sad augurs mock their own preságe;

  Incertainties now crown themselves assured,

  And peace proclaims olives of endless age.

  Now 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,

  When tyrants’ crests and tombs of brass are spent.

  107

  MODERN TEXT

  Neither my own fears nor the speculations of the rest of the world about the future can continue to keep me from possessing my beloved, who everybody thought was doomed to remain in prison. The moon, which was always mortal, has finally been eclipsed, and the gloomy fortune-tellers now laugh at their own predictions. Things that once seemed doubtful have become certainties, and peace has come to stay. Now, with the blessings of these times, my beloved looks fresh again and death itself submits to me, since in spite of death I’ll live on in this poor poem while death only exults over the stupid and illiterate peoples that he’s overcome. And you will find this poem to be your monument when tyrants reach the end of their reigns and tombs of brass fall into decay.

  This sonnet is puzzling because it seems to refer to actual events in Shakespeare’s time, but it’s impossible to know for certain which events it refers to. One possibility is that it alludes to Queen Elizabeth’s death (represented by the moon’s eclipse, described in line 5) and the subsequent release from prison of the earl of Southampton, whom some readers believe to be the young man of the sonnets. However, even in Shakespeare’s time, this sonnet was probably somewhat mysterious.

  108

  ORIGINAL TEXT

  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,

  That 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,

  Ev’n as when first I hallowed thy fair name.

  So 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

  Where time and outward form would show it dead.