Resembling strong youth in his middle age,

  Yet mortal looks adore his beauty still,

  Attending on his golden pilgrimage.

  But when from highmost pitch, with weary car,

  Like feeble age he reeleth from the day,

  The eyes, ’fore duteous, now converted are

  From his low tract and look another way.

  So thou, thyself out-going in thy noon,

  Unlooked on diest unless thou get a son.

  7

  MODERN TEXT

  When the gracious light of the sun rises in the east, each person on earth pays homage to it by gazing upon all its sacred majesty. And even at noon, once the sun has climbed the steep path to the top of the sky, it still looks like a strong young man in his prime and human beings still adore its beauty, watching it pass on its way like a golden king making a pilgrimage. But when the sun grows weary and falls from its highest point, it reels like an old man, and the people who once looked up at it so dutifully stop looking and turn the other way. In the same way, you, wasting your sexual energy in the prime of your life, will die alone and unloved unless you father a son.

  8

  ORIGINAL TEXT

  Music to hear, why hear’st thou music sadly?

  Sweets with sweets war not, joy delights in joy.

  Why lov’st thou that which thou receiv’st not gladly,

  Or else receiv’st with pleasure thine annoy?

  If the true concord of well-tuned sounds,

  By unions married, do offend thine ear,

  They do but sweetly chide thee, who confounds

  In singleness the parts that thou shouldst bear.

  Mark how one string, sweet husband to another,

  Strikes each in each by mutual ordering,

  Resembling sire and child and happy mother,

  Who all in one, one pleasing note do sing;

  Whose speechless song, being many, seeming one,

  Sings this to thee: “Thou single wilt prove none.”

  8

  MODERN TEXT

  You’re like music to listen to, so why does listening to music make you sad? Delightful and joyful things should complement one another. So why do you love things that make you unhappy and enjoy things that are bad for you? If music played well and in tune sounds bad to you, it’s because that music is rebuking you for not playing your own part—not making your own harmony—by getting married and having children. Notice how the sound of two strings vibrating together in harmony is like a father and child and happy mother, who all sing one pleasing note together. Though their music has no words, the unity of their voices sings this warning to you: If you stay single, you’ll be a childless nobody.

  9

  ORIGINAL TEXT

  Is it for fear to wet a widow’s eye

  That thou consum’st thyself in single life?

  Ah, if thou issueless shalt hap to die,

  The world will wail thee like a makeless wife;

  The world will be thy widow and still weep,

  That thou no form of thee hast left behind,

  When every private widow well may keep,

  By children’s eyes, her husband’s shape in mind.

  Look what an unthrift in the world doth spend

  Shifts but his place, for still the world enjoys it;

  But beauty’s waste hath in the world an end,

  And kept unused, the user so destroys it.

  No love toward others in that bosom sits

  That on himself such murd’rous shame commits.

  9

  MODERN TEXT

  Are you eating up your own life by remaining single because you’re afraid your widow will cry when you die? Ah, if you happen to die childless, the entire world will mourn for you like a wife who’s lost her husband. The world will be your widow and weep forever about the fact that you didn’t leave a copy of yourself. But if you had left a wife behind, she’d have had her children to look at and remind her of her husband. A person who wastes his money is just shifting money around—at least the money’s still in the world. But if beauty is wasted, the world loses it forever: If a beautiful person doesn’t use his beauty, he destroys it. The person who would commit such a murderous outrage on himself has no love in his heart for others.

  10

  ORIGINAL TEXT

  For shame deny that thou bear’st love to any,

  Who for thyself art so unprovident.

  Grant if thou wilt, thou art belov’d of many,

  But that thou none lov’st is most evident;

  For thou art so possessed with murd’rous hate

  That ’gainst thyself thou stick’st not to conspire,

  Seeking that beauteous roof to ruinate

  Which to repair should be thy chief desire.

  O change thy thought, that I may change my mind.

  Shall hate be fairer lodged than gentle love?

  Be as thy presence is, gracious and kind,

  Or to thyself at least kind-hearted prove.

  Make thee another self for love of me,

  That beauty still may live in thine or thee.

  10

  MODERN TEXT

  If you have any sense of shame, admit that you don’t have any love in your heart for anyone, since you’re so unwilling to care about yourself. I’ll admit, if you like, that many people love you, but it’s also obvious that you love no one. For you are so possessed with murderous hatred that you have no problem plotting against yourself, seeking to destroy the house that you should want to repair. Oh, change your way of thinking, so I can change my mind about you. Should hate have a more beautiful home than love? Be gracious and kind, like your appearance—or at least be kind-hearted to yourself. Have a child out of love for me, so your beauty will live on in your children, if not in you.

  11

  ORIGINAL TEXT

  As fast as thou shalt wane, so fast thou grow’st

  In one of thine, from that which thou departest;

  And that fresh blood which youngly thou bestow’st

  Thou mayst call thine when thou from youth convertest.

  Herein lives wisdom, beauty, and increase;

  Without this, folly, age, and cold decay.

  If all were minded so, the times should cease,

  And threescore year would make the world away.

  Let those whom nature hath not made for store,

  Harsh, featureless, and rude, barrenly perish.

  Look whom she best endowed, she gave the more,

  Which bounteous gift thou shouldst in bounty cherish.

  She carved thee for her seal, and meant thereby

  Thou shouldst print more, not let that copy die.

  11

  MODERN TEXT

  As fast as you will decline, you could grow again just as fast, through one of your children. The youth and vigor that you would pass on to a child now that you’re still young, you could call your own when you’re no longer young. In marriage and childbirth lie wisdom, beauty, and reproduction. Without them you have only foolishness, age, and the cold decay of death. If everyone thought like you, the human race would end, and in sixty years there’d be no more world. Let the people who aren’t good enough to preserve—the rough, ugly, poor people—die childless. Nature gave abundantly to the people whom she endowed with beauty, and you should cherish her gifts by being generous with them. Nature made you her stamp, to serve as a template for all human beauty. She meant for you to make copies of yourself, so that the original—you—wouldn’t die.

  12

  ORIGINAL TEXT

  When I do count the clock that tells the time,

  And see the brave day sunk in hideous night;

  When I behold the violet past prime,

  And sable curls all silvered o’er with white;

  When lofty trees I see barren of leaves,

  Which erst from heat did canopy the herd,

  And summer’s green all girded up in sheaves

  Borne on the bier with white and bristly beard;

  Then of thy beauty do I question make,

  That thou among the wastes of time must go,

  Since sweets and beauties do themselves forsake

  And die as fast as they see others grow,

  And nothing ’gainst Time’s scythe can make defense

  Save breed to brave him when he takes thee hence.

  12

  MODERN TEXT

  When I look at the clock and notice time ticking away, and see splendid day sink into hideous night; when I see the violet wilt and curly black hair turn white with age; when I see tall trees that once provided shade for herds now barren of leaves, and the summer’s crops tied up and hauled to the barn as if summer itself were an old man being carried off to his grave—then I have doubts about the fate of your beauty, since you too will have to undergo the ravages of time. Sweet and beautiful creatures don’t stay that way; they die as fast as they see others grow. And there’s no defense against Time’s destructive power, except perhaps to have children—to defy Time when he takes you away.

  13

  ORIGINAL TEXT

  O that you were yourself! But, love, you are

  No longer yours than you yourself here live.

  Against this coming end you should prepare,

  And your sweet semblance to some other give.

  So should that beauty which you hold in lease

  Find no determination; then you were

  Yourself again after yourself’s decease,

  When your sweet issue your sweet form should bear.

  Who lets so fair a house fall to decay,

  Which husbandry in honor might uphold

  Against the stormy gusts of winter’s day

  And barren rage of death’s eternal cold?

  O, none but unthrifts, dear my love you know,

  You had a father; let your son say so.

  13

  MODERN TEXT

  Oh, how I wish you were yourself! But, my love, your identity will only last as long as you’re alive. You should make preparations in anticipation of your inevitable death and pass on your beautiful appearance to someone else. That way, your beauty, which you’ve only borrowed, wouldn’t have to end. Then, even after you died, your beautiful body would be renewed in your children. Who would let such a beautiful house fall into disrepair when prudent maintenance might make it outlast the stormy gusts of winter and the frustrating barrenness surrounding death? Only the most irresponsible spender could do such a thing, you know, my dear love. You had a father—let your son be able to say the same.

  14

  ORIGINAL TEXT

  Not from the stars do I my judgment pluck,

  And yet methinks I have astronomy,

  But not to tell of good or evil luck,

  Of plagues, of dearths, or seasons’ quality;

  Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell,

  Pointing to each his thunder, rain, and wind,

  Or say with princes if it shall go well,

  By oft predict that I in heaven find;

  But from thine eyes my knowledge I derive,

  And, constant stars, in them I read such art

  As truth and beauty shall together thrive,

  If from thyself to store thou wouldst convert;

  Or else of thee this I prognosticate:

  Thy end is truth’s and beauty’s doom and date.

  14

  MODERN TEXT

  I don’t base my judgments on the stars, and yet it does seem to me I know astrology. I can’t foresee good or bad events—predict plagues, famines, or what a season will be like. Nor can I predict down to the minute what each person’s misfortunes are going to be. Nor can I tell princes whether things will go well for them by looking at the heavens. But I can forecast the future by looking in your eyes. I see by those reliable guides that truth and beauty will thrive if you would only pass your attributes on to a child. Otherwise, this is what I predict: When you die, truth and beauty will die with you.

  15

  ORIGINAL TEXT

  When I consider every thing that grows

  Holds in perfection but a little moment;

  That this huge stage presenteth nought but shows

  Whereon the stars in secret influence commént;

  When I perceive that men as plants increase,

  Cheerèd and checked ev’n by the self-same sky,

  Vaunt in their youthful sap, at height decrease,

  And wear their brave state out of memory;

  Then the conceit of this inconstant stay

  Sets you, most rich in youth, before my sight,

  Where wasteful time debateth with decay,

  To change your day of youth to sullied night;

  And all in war with time for love of you,

  As he takes from you, I engraft you new.

  15

  MODERN TEXT

  When I think about the fact that every living thing is perfect only for a brief time, that the whole world is one big stage on which the stars secretly control the action; when I see that men grow like plants, encouraged and then thwarted by the same sky, exulting in their youthful vigor and then declining just when they’re at their height, vanishing until their glory is no longer even remembered; when I think about the whole world’s instability—then I think of you, a youth enjoying so many of nature’s rich gifts. In my mind, I see time and decay debating with each other about how to corrupt your sunny youth, how to convert it to old age and night. Out of love for you, I wage war against time: As he takes away your youth, I continually recreate you in these poems.

  16

  ORIGINAL TEXT

  But wherefore do not you a mightier way

  Make war upon this bloody tyrant, time,

  And fortify yourself in your decay

  With means more blessèd than my barren rhyme?

  Now stand you on the top of happy hours,

  And many maiden gardens, yet unset,

  With virtuous wish would bear your living flowers,

  Much liker than your painted counterfeit.

  So should the lines of life that life repair

  Which this time’s pencil or my pupil pen

  Neither in inward worth nor outward fair

  Can make you live yourself in eyes of men.

  To give away yourself keeps yourself still,

  And you must live, drawn by your own sweet skill.

  16

  MODERN TEXT

  (Continuing from Sonnet 15) But why not take advantage of a stronger way to fight against this bloody tyrant, Time, and strengthen yourself in your old age in a happier way than with my useless sonnets? Now your capacity for pleasure is at its peak, and many virtuous maidens would love to marry you and bear your children, who would recreate your image much better than any artificial reproduction such as a painting or poem. The faces of your children will renew your life. Time created you and brought you to your present state of perfection, but it cannot preserve your inner worth or outer beauty, and neither can my poetry. Having a baby would preserve your image and ensure that you live on by your own design.

  17

  ORIGINAL TEXT

  Who will believe my verse in time to come

  If it were filled with your most high deserts?

  Though yet heav’n knows it is but as a tomb

  Which hides your life and shows not half your parts.

  If I could write the beauty of your eyes

  And in fresh numbers number all your graces,

  The age to come would say, “This poet lies—

  Such heavenly touches ne’er touched earthly faces.”

  So should my papers, yellowed with their age,

  Be scorned, like old men of less truth than tongue,

  And your true rights be termed a poet’s rage

  And stretchèd meter of an ántique song;

  But were some child of yours alive that time,

  You should live twice: in it and in my rhyme.

  17

  MODERN TEXT

  Who in the future will ever believe my poetry if I praise you as you deserve? Though, I have to admit, my poetry is like a tomb that actually hides what you are really like and doesn’t manage to show even half of your true qualities. If I could capture in my writing how beautiful your eyes are and create new verses to list all of your wonderful attributes, decades from now people would say, “This poet lies. No human face was ever so divine.” In this way, my poems (yellowed with age), would be scorned, like old men who talk too much without saying anything true, and what is really your due would be dismissed as a poet’s madness, the false verses of an old song. But if some child of yours were still alive then, you would live twice: in the child, and in my poetry.

  18

  ORIGINAL TEXT

  Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?

  Thou art more lovely and more temperate.

  Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,

  And summer’s lease hath all too short a date.

  Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,

  And often is his gold complexion dimmed;

  And every fair from fair sometime declines,

  By chance or nature’s changing course untrimmed.

  But thy eternal summer shall not fade,

  Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st,

  Nor shall death brag thou wand’rest in his shade,

  When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st.

  So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,

  So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

  18

  MODERN TEXT

  Shall I compare you to a summer day? You’re lovelier and milder. Rough winds shake the pretty buds of May, and summer doesn’t last nearly long enough. Sometimes the sun shines too hot, and often its golden face is darkened by clouds. And everything beautiful stops being beautiful, either by accident or simply in the course of nature. But your eternal summer will never fade, nor will you lose possession of your beauty, nor shall death brag that you are wandering in the underworld, once you’re captured in my eternal verses. As long as men are alive and have eyes with which to see, this poem will live and keep you alive.