141

  ORIGINAL TEXT

  In faith, I do not love thee with mine eyes,

  For they in thee a thousand errors note;

  But ’tis my heart that loves what they despise,

  Who in despite of view is pleased to dote.

  Nor are mine ears with thy tongue’s tune delighted,

  Nor tender feeling to base touches prone,

  Nor taste, nor smell, desire to be invited

  To any sensual feast with thee alone.

  But my five wits, nor my five senses, can

  Dissuade one foolish heart from serving thee,

  Who leaves unswayed the likeness of a man,

  Thy proud heart’s slave and vassal wretch to be.

  Only my plague thus far I count my gain,

  That she that makes me sin awards me pain.

  141

  MODERN TEXT

  I swear, I don’t love you with my eyes: They notice a thousand flaws in you. Rather, it’s my heart that loves what my eyes despise; despite what you look like, my heart dotes on you. Nor are my ears delighted by the sound of your voice. Nor do I want to abuse my delicate sense of touch by groping you. Nor do my sense of taste or smell want to be invited to any feast of the senses in which you’re the main course. But neither my brain nor my five senses can dissuade my foolish heart from being your servant. My body stands here like an empty shell with no one to control it, while my heart goes off to be your slave and wretched property. I gain one thing from being plagued with love for this woman: The same woman who’s making me sin rewards me with pain.

  142

  ORIGINAL TEXT

  Love is my sin, and thy dear virtue hate,

  Hate of my sin, grounded on sinful loving.

  O but with mine compare thou thine own state,

  And thou shalt find it merits not reproving;

  Or, if it do, not from those lips of thine,

  That have profaned their scarlet ornaments

  And sealed false bonds of love as oft as mine,

  Robbed others’ beds’ revénues of their rents.

  Be it lawful I love thee as thou lov’st those

  Whom thine eyes woo as mine impórtune thee.

  Root pity in thy heart, that when it grows,

  Thy pity may deserve to pitied be.

  If thou dost seek to have what thou dost hide,

  By self-example mayst thou be denied.

  142

  MODERN TEXT

  Loving you is my sin, and your precious virtue consists in hating my sin, a hate grounded in your own sinful loving. But compare my moral state with your own, and you’ll see I don’t deserve to be reprimanded, or if I do, not from those lips of yours, which you’ve dishonored by using too much. Your lips have kissed as many people and made as many false promises as mine have, and both of us have cheated on our partners, giving away sexual favors where they don’t belong. If I may be allowed to love you the same way you love those other men whom you seduce with your glances, have a little pity for me; then you’ll deserve to be pitied yourself. If you want people to take pity on you and sleep with you, but you don’t show pity for me, you might be turned down because of your own example.

  143

  ORIGINAL TEXT

  Lo, as a careful housewife runs to catch

  One of her feathered creatures broke away,

  Sets down her babe and makes all swift dispatch

  In púrsuit of the thing she would have stay;

  Whilst her neglected child holds her in chase,

  Cries to catch her whose busy care is bent

  To follow that which flies before her face,

  Not prizing her poor infant’s discontent:

  So run’st thou after that which flies from thee,

  Whilst I, thy babe, chase thee afar behind.

  But if thou catch thy hope, turn back to me,

  And play the mother’s part, kiss me, be kind.

  So will I pray that thou mayst have thy Will,

  If thou turn back and my loud crying still.

  143

  MODERN TEXT

  Like an anxious housewife who runs to catch one of her chickens that’s run away, setting down her baby to follow it while her neglected child chases after her and cries out to get her attention—she focusing all of her mind on trying to catch the chicken that’s flying in front of her, not caring about her infant’s distress—in the same way, you’re running after someone who’s running from you, while I, your baby, chase after you from far behind. But if you catch the one you’re hoping for, turn back to me and act like a mother. Kiss me, be kind. If you’ll turn back and stop my loud crying, I’ll pray that you’ll get to have your Will.

  As in Sonnets 135 and 136, the speaker’s mistress loves a man named Will who is not the speaker.

  144

  ORIGINAL TEXT

  Two loves I have, of comfort and despair,

  Which, like two spirits, do suggest me still;

  The better angel is a man right fair,

  The worser spirit a woman colored ill.

  To win me soon to hell, my female evil

  Tempteth my better angel from my side,

  And would corrupt my saint to be a devil,

  Wooing his purity with her foul pride.

  And whether that my angel be turned fiend

  Suspect I may, but not directly tell;

  But being both from me both to each friend,

  I guess one angel in another’s hell.

  Yet this shall I ne’er know, but live in doubt,

  Till my bad angel fire my good one out.

  144

  MODERN TEXT

  I love two people. One comforts me and the other makes me despair. Like two spirits both constantly point me in different directions. The better angel is a beautiful, fair-haired man. The bad one is an evil-looking woman. To help put me in hell sooner, my evil female tempts my angel away from my side. She hopes to make my saint into a devil, seducing him to impure acts in her foul and self-assured way. And though I can suspect him, there’s no way I can tell directly whether my angel has turned into a fiend. But since the two of them are away from me and friendly with each other, I’m guessing that one angel is inside the other—and in hell with her. Yet I’ll never know this for sure, instead living in doubt until my bad angel fires the good one out of hell.

  The bad angel’s “fire” suggests the burning sensations of venereal disease.

  145

  ORIGINAL TEXT

  Those lips that love’s own hand did make

  Breathed forth the sound that said “I hate”

  To me that languished for her sake;

  But when she saw my woeful state,

  Straight in her heart did mercy come,

  Chiding that tongue that, ever sweet,

  Was used in giving gentle doom,

  And taught it thus anew to greet:

  “I hate” she altered with an end

  That followed it as gentle day

  Doth follow night, who like a fiend

  From heav’n to hell is flown away.

  “I hate” from hate away she threw,

  And saved my life, saying “not you.”

  145

  MODERN TEXT

  Those lips that look like they were made by the goddess of love herself breathed forth the words, “I hate”—and she was talking to me, the man who’s pining with love for her. But when she saw how unhappy she’d made me, mercy came into her heart and she chided her sweet tongue, which is usually so gentle and merciful, and taught it to speak something else to me. She changed “I hate” by adding a few words the way day follows night, that fiend flying from heaven to hell: She took hatred away from “I hate,” saving my life with “not you.”

  146

  ORIGINAL TEXT

  Poor soul, the center of my sinful earth,

  [Thrall to] these rebel pow’rs that thee array,

  Why dost thou pine within and suffer dearth,

  Painting thy outward walls so costly gay?

  Why so large cost, having so short a lease,

  Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend?

  Shall worms, inheritors of this excess,

  Eat up thy charge? Is this thy body’s end?

  Then, soul, live thou upon thy servant’s loss,

  And let that pine to aggravate thy store;

  Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross;

  Within be fed, without be rich no more.

  So shalt thou feed on death, that feeds on men,

  And death once dead, there’s no more dying then.

  Due to a printer’s error in the earliest edition of the Sonnets, no one knows what Shakespeare intended for the first two syllables of line 2. The guesses editors have made over the centuries include “Thrall to,” “Hemm’d by,” “Fool’d by,” “Foil’d by,” and “Feeding.”

  146

  MODERN TEXT

  My poor soul, you’re the very center of this sinful world, my body, which rebels against you. Why do you starve yourself inside me and suffer from a shortage of supplies while you dress your outside in such expensive finery? Why do you spend so much on your aging body when you get to occupy it for such a short time? All of this expenditure on a body that is eventually going to be eaten by the worms—do you want what you spend to be devoured by worms? Is this what your body was intended for? In that case, soul, feed yourself by starving your body; let it pine for food while you accumulate the riches. Buy time in heaven by giving up worthless time wasted on earth. Feed your inner self; let your body be poor. By starving your body, you will eat up death, which eats up men, and once death is dead, there’s no more dying then.

  147

  ORIGINAL TEXT

  My love is as a fever, longing still

  For that which longer nurseth the disease,

  Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill,

  Th’ uncertain sickly appetite to please.

  My reason, the physician to my love,

  Angry that his prescriptions are not kept,

  Hath left me, and I desp’rate now approve

  Desire is death, which physic did except.

  Past cure I am, now reason is past care,

  And frantic mad with evermore unrest,

  My thoughts and my discourse as madmen’s are,

  At random from the truth vainly expressed;

  For I have sworn thee fair and thought thee bright,

  Who art as black as hell, as dark as night.

  147

  MODERN TEXT

  My love is like a fever, always making me yearn for what will prolong my disease. It lives on whatever will preserve the illness, in order to prop up my fickle desire. My reasoning has acted as doctor and treated my love, but then it left me because I wasn’t following its instructions. Now that I’m finally desperate enough, I realize that sexual desire, which was against the doctor’s orders, is lethal. Now that my mind is past caring, I’m past the point where I can be cured, and I’ve gone frantically crazy and grown increasingly restless. My thoughts and speech are like a madman’s, pointlessly expressing random untruths. For I have sworn that you’re beautiful and thought you radiant when you’re actually as black as hell and as dark as night.

  148

  ORIGINAL TEXT

  O me! what eyes hath love put in my head,

  Which have no correspondence with true sight!

  Or, if they have, where is my judgment fled,

  That censures falsely what they see aright?

  If that be fair whereon my false eyes dote,

  What means the world to say it is not so?

  If it be not, then love doth well denote

  Love’s eye is not so true as all men’s: no,

  How can it? O how can love’s eye be true,

  That is so vexed with watching and with tears?

  No marvel then, though I mistake my view;

  The sun itself sees not till heaven clears.

  O cunning love! With tears thou keep’st me blind,

  Lest eyes well seeing thy foul faults should find.

  148

  MODERN TEXT

  Oh, me! What kind of eyes has love put into my head that I don’t see anything accurately? Or if my eyes do see correctly, what’s happened to my judgment to make me wrongly criticize what they see? If the woman I love to look at is beautiful, why does the rest of the world say she’s not? If she’s not, then a person in love doesn’t see as accurately as others. No—how can a lover see right? Oh, how can a lover’s eye work properly when it’s so distressed by staying awake and crying? It’s no wonder then that I’m wrong about what I see; the sun itself doesn’t see anything until the sky is clear. Oh, ingenious love, you keep me blind with tears so I won’t discover my lover’s foul faults, as I would if my eyes worked properly.

  149

  ORIGINAL TEXT

  Canst thou, O cruel, say I love thee not,

  When I against myself with thee partake?

  Do I not think on thee, when I forgot

  Am of myself, all, tyrant, for thy sake?

  Who hateth thee that I do call my friend?

  On whom frown’st thou that I do fawn upon?

  Nay, if thou lour’st on me, do I not spend

  Revenge upon myself with present moan?

  What merit do I in myself respect,

  That is so proud thy service to despise,

  When all my best doth worship thy defect,

  Commanded by the motion of thine eyes?

  But, love, hate on, for now I know thy mind;

  Those that can see thou lov’st, and I am blind.

  149

  MODERN TEXT

  Oh, you cruel woman, can you say I don’t love you when I take sides with you against myself? Don’t I think about you even when I’ve forgotten about myself—and all for your sake, you tyrant? Who hates you that I would call my friend? Who do you frown at that I grovel on and flatter? No—if you scowl at me, don’t I immediately punish myself by moaning? Which quality do I see in myself that would make me too proud to be your servant? All of the best in me worships the worst in you, and you can command me with a glance. But, my love, go on hating me, because now I know your mind. You love people who can see, and I’m blind.

  150

  ORIGINAL TEXT

  O from what pow’r hast thou this pow’rful might,

  With insufficiency my heart to sway,

  To make me give the lie to my true sight,

  And swear that brightness doth not grace the day?

  Whence hast thou this becoming of things ill,

  That in the very refuse of thy deeds

  There is such strength and warrantise of skill

  That in my mind thy worst all best exceeds?

  Who taught thee how to make me love thee more,

  The more I hear and see just cause of hate?

  O, though I love what others do abhor,

  With others thou shouldst not abhor my state.

  If thy unworthiness raised love in me,

  More worthy I to be beloved of thee.

  150

  MODERN TEXT

  Oh, what is the source of this mighty power you have, which controls my affections despite your inadequacies, making me disbelieve what my eyes truly see until I’m so turned around I swear that daylight isn’t bright? Where did you get this capacity to make bad things look good in you, to perform the most worthless actions so skillfully that I think your worst is better than anyone else’s best? Who taught you how to make me love you more, the more I hear and see good reasons to hate you? Oh, even though I love what other people despise, you shouldn’t despise my love the way other people do. Since your unworthiness made me love you, I’m the person who deserves your love.

  151

  ORIGINAL TEXT

  Love is too young to know what conscience is,

  Yet who knows not conscience is born of love?

  Then, gentle cheater, urge not my amiss,

  Lest guilty of my faults thy sweet self prove;

  For, thou betraying me, I do betray

  My nobler part to my gross body’s treason.

  My soul doth tell my body that he may

  Triumph in love—flesh stays no father reason,

  But, rising at thy name, doth point out thee

  As his triumphant prize—proud of this pride,

  He is contented thy poor drudge to be,

  To stand in thy affairs, fall by thy side.

  No want of conscience hold it that I call

  Her “love” for whose dear love I rise and fall.

  151

  MODERN TEXT

  Cupid is too young to know right from wrong, but doesn’t everybody know that love is what gives you a conscience? In that case, gentle cheater, don’t criticize me too harshly for my mistake, because your sweet self might turn out to be guilty of the same faults. Because you betray me, I betray my soul to my dumb, rebellious body. My soul tells my body that it can have its way in love. My flesh doesn’t wait to hear any more, but at the sound of your name it rises up and points you out as its prize. My flesh, proud of having you, is happy to be your poor worker, to stand up to do your business and fall down beside you afterward. Do not assume my conscience is lacking just because the woman I call “love” makes my flesh rise and fall for her love.

  152

  ORIGINAL TEXT

  In loving thee thou know’st I am forsworn;