19

  ORIGINAL TEXT

  Devouring Time, blunt thou the lion’s paws,

  And make the earth devour her own sweet brood;

  Pluck the keen teeth from the fierce tiger’s jaws,

  And burn the long-lived phoenix in her blood;

  Make glad and sorry seasons as thou fleet’st,

  And do whate’er thou wilt, swift-footed time,

  To the wide world and all her fading sweets;

  But I forbid thee one most heinous crime:

  O carve not with thy hours my love’s fair brow,

  Nor draw no lines there with thine ántique pen.

  Him in thy course untainted do allow

  For beauty’s pattern to succeeding men.

  Yet do thy worst, old Time; despite thy wrong,

  My love shall in my verse ever live young.

  19

  MODERN TEXT

  Devouring Time, go ahead and blunt the lion’s paws. Make the earth swallow up her own creatures. Pluck the sharp teeth out of the fierce tiger’s jaws, and burn the long-lived phoenix in its own blood. Make happy and sad times as you fly by, and do whatever you want, swift-footed Time, to the wide world and all its vanishing delights. But I forbid you to commit one heinous crime. Oh, don’t carve wrinkles into my love’s beautiful forehead, and don’t draw lines there with your old pen. Let him pass through time untainted, to serve as the model of beauty for men to come. But do your worst, old Time. Despite your wrongs, my love will stay young forever in my poetry.

  20

  ORIGINAL TEXT

  A woman’s face, with nature’s own hand painted,

  Hast thou, the master-mistress of my passion;

  A woman’s gentle heart, but not acquainted

  With shifting change, as is false women’s fashion;

  An eye more bright than theirs, less false in rolling,

  Gilding the object whereupon it gazeth;

  A man in hue, all hues in his controlling,

  Which steals men’s eyes and women’s souls amazeth.

  And for a woman wert thou first created,

  Till nature as she wrought thee fell a-doting,

  And by addition me of thee defeated,

  By adding one thing to my purpose nothing.

  But since she pricked thee out for women’s pleasure,

  Mine be thy love, and thy love’s use their treasure.

  20

  MODERN TEXT

  Your face is as pretty as a woman’s, but you don’t even have to use makeup—you, the man (or should I say woman?) I love. Your heart is as gentle as a woman’s, but it isn’t cheating like theirs. Your eyes are prettier than women’s, but not as roving—you bless everything you look at. You’ve got the good looks of a handsome man, but you attract both women and men. When Mother Nature made you, she originally intended to make you a woman, but then she got carried away with her creation and screwed me by adding a certain thing that I have no use for. But since she gave you a prick to please women, I’ll keep your love, and they can enjoy your body.

  21

  ORIGINAL TEXT

  So is it not with me as with that muse,

  Stirred by a painted beauty to his verse,

  Who heav’n itself for ornament doth use,

  And every fair with his fair doth rehearse—

  Making a couplement of proud compare

  With sun and moon, with earth and sea’s rich gems,

  With April’s first-born flow’rs, and all things rare

  That heaven’s air in this huge rondure hems.

  O let me, true in love but truly write,

  And then believe me: my love is as fair

  As any mother’s child, though not so bright

  As those gold candles fixed in heaven’s air.

  Let them say more that like of hearsay well;

  I will not praise that purpose not to sell.

  21

  MODERN TEXT

  I’m not like that other poet who writes about a woman who’s pretty because she wears a lot of makeup. In his verses, he compares her to heaven itself, and to every other beautiful thing—the sun and moon, the rich gems of earth and sea, the first flowers of April, and all the rest of the precious things on the face of the earth. Since I really am in love, I just want to write the truth, and when I do, believe me—my lover is as beautiful as any human being, though maybe not as bright as the stars. Whoever actually likes those love-poem clichés can say more; I’m not trying to sell anything, so I won’t waste time with praise.

  22

  ORIGINAL TEXT

  My glass shall not persuade me I am old

  So long as youth and thou are of one date;

  But when in thee time’s furrows I behold,

  Then look I death my days should expiate.

  For all that beauty that doth cover thee

  Is but the seemly raiment of my heart,

  Which in thy breast doth live, as thine in me.

  How can I then be elder than thou art?

  O therefore, love, be of thyself so wary

  As I, not for myself, but for thee will,

  Bearing thy heart, which I will keep so chary

  As tender nurse her babe from faring ill.

  Presume not on thy heart when mine is slain;

  Thou gav’st me thine not to give back again.

  22

  MODERN TEXT

  I won’t believe my mirror when it tells me I’m old, as long as you’re still young. But when I see you with wrinkles, then I’ll know death is on its way, because your beauty is as close to my heart as beautiful clothing to a body. Put another way, my heart beats in your chest and yours in mine. But if that’s true, then how can I be older than you? Therefore, my love, take care of yourself just as I will take care of myself, not for my own sake, but because I have your heart inside of me, which I will protect as carefully as a nurse her baby. Don’t expect to get your heart back from me when mine is dead. You gave it to me forever, never to be returned.

  23

  ORIGINAL TEXT

  As an unperfect actor on the stage,

  Who with his fear is put besides his part,

  Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage,

  Whose strength’s abundance weakens his own heart;

  So I, for fear of trust, forget to say

  The perfect ceremony of love’s rite,

  And in mine own love’s strength seem to decay,

  O’ercharged with burden of mine own love’s might.

  O let my books be then the eloquence

  And dumb presagers of my speaking breast,

  Who plead for love and look for recompense

  More than that tongue that more hath more expressed.

  O learn to read what silent love hath writ!

  To hear with eyes belongs to love’s fine wit.

  23

  MODERN TEXT

  Like an actor who hasn’t learned his lines perfectly and forgets his part because of stage fright, or like some raging animal or human whose excessive passion makes it weak, so I, because I can’t trust myself, forget to say the things a lover should say to his darling; just when my love is strongest it seems to be getting weak. So let my writings speak for my heart instead. They plead for love better than I could if I spoke, even if I said more and more eloquently. Oh, read in these silent lines the love I cannot express in speech. Love will give you the insight to read between the lines.

  24

  ORIGINAL TEXT

  Mine eye hath played the painter and hath steeled

  Thy beauty’s form in table of my heart.

  My body is the frame wherein ’tis held,

  And pérspective it is best painter’s art.

  For through the painter must you see his skill

  To find where your true image pictured lies,

  Which in my bosom’s shop is hanging still,

  That hath his windows glazèd with thine eyes.

  Now see what good turns eyes for eyes have done:

  Mine eyes have drawn thy shape, and thine for me

  Are windows to my breast, wherethrough the sun

  Delights to peep, to gaze therein on thee.

  Yet eyes this cunning want to grace their art;

  They draw but what they see, know not the heart.

  24

  MODERN TEXT

  My eye has acted like a painter and engraved your beautiful image on the canvas of my heart. My body is the frame that holds this picture; to draw that picture with perspective, realistically representing depth, is the highest skill a painter could have. Only via this painter—my eye—can you find the image of you that dwells continually in my heart: Your own eyes are the windows into my heart. Now look at the favors our eyes have done for each other: My eyes have drawn your shape, and your eyes are windows into which I can look to see my own heart, into which the sun also likes to look, taking a peep at your reflection. Yet my eyes lack a certain skill that would grace the others they already have: They can only draw what they see; they don’t see into your heart.

  Sonnet 24 is very difficult to follow even when translated. We are meant to picture the speaker and the addressee staring into each other’s eyes and each seeing his own reflection. The speaker is able to see through the eye of his own reflection into his own heart, where the image of the addressee is enshrined.

  25

  ORIGINAL TEXT

  Let those who are in favor with their stars

  Of public honor and proud titles boast,

  Whilst I, whom fortune of such triumph bars,

  Unlooked for joy in that I honor most.

  Great princes’ favorites their fair leaves spread

  But as the marigold at the sun’s eye,

  And in themselves their pride lies burièd,

  For at a frown they in their glory die.

  The painful warrior famousèd for worth,

  After a thousand victories once foiled,

  Is from the book of honor razèd quite,

  And all the rest forgot for which he toiled.

  Then happy I that love and am belovèd

  Where I may not remove nor be removèd.

  25

  MODERN TEXT

  Let fortunate people boast about their prizes and their titles, while I—who am not lucky enough to get such rewards—experience unexpected joy in what I honor most: your love. Those courtiers who enjoy high status because they’re the favorites of great princes are like marigolds. They bloom as long as the sun shines on them, but their pride is fragile—one frown will kill them. And once a famous warrior who has painfully endured and won a thousand battles is defeated, he’s stripped of all his honors, and all of the successes that he worked for are forgotten. How much happier am I, who love and am loved in a place I cannot leave and from which others cannot remove me.

  26

  ORIGINAL TEXT

  Lord of my love, to whom in vassalage

  Thy merit hath my duty strongly knit,

  To thee I send this written embassage,

  To witness duty, not to show my wit.

  Duty so great, which wit so poor as mine

  May make seem bare, in wanting words to show it,

  But that I hope some good conceit of thine

  In thy soul’s thought, all naked, will bestow it.

  Till whatsoever star that guides my moving

  Points on me graciously with fair aspéct

  And puts apparel on my tattered loving,

  To show me worthy of thy sweet respect.

  Then may I dare to boast how I do love thee;

  Till then, not show my head where thou mayst prove me.

  26

  MODERN TEXT

  My love, I am your absolute servant; your worth compels me to serve you loyally. I’m sending you this message to show my devotion to you, not to show that I can write well. My skills are so poor that I may make my obligation to you, which is great, seem meager. I don’t have the words to express it properly. But I hope that in your heart you’ll form an idea of what I mean and the idea will enrich your sense of what I owe you. When the star that guides me shines on me favorably, giving me the inspiration to dress up my tattered love for you in clever words that prove I’m worthy of your sweet respect—that’s when I’ll dare to boast about how much I love you. Until then, I won’t show my face anywhere that you can put me to the test.

  27

  ORIGINAL TEXT

  Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed,

  The dear repose for limbs with travail tired;

  But then begins a journey in my head

  To work my mind, when body’s work’s expired.

  For then my thoughts, from far where I abide,

  Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee,

  And keep my drooping eyelids open wide,

  Looking on darkness which the blind do see.

  Save that my soul’s imaginary sight

  Presents thy shadow to my sightless view,

  Which, like a jewel hung in ghastly night,

  Makes black night beauteous, and her old face new.

  Lo thus by day my limbs, by night my mind,

  For thee, and for myself, no quiet find.

  27

  MODERN TEXT

  Weary from work, I hasten to my bed, the sweet place of rest for a body tired out from laboring. But then I start to go on a journey in my head, making my mind work after my body’s work is finished. Because when I go to bed, my thoughts begin the trip from where I am, far away from you, to where you are. They keep my weary eyes wide open, staring at the darkness like blind people do. Except, in my imagination, I see your image, though it’s too dark to see anything else. Like a shining jewel hanging in the terrifying night, your image makes that old, black night look beautiful and young. See, because of you, my body does not rest in the daytime and my mind finds no peace at night.

  28

  ORIGINAL TEXT

  How can I then return in happy plight

  That am debarred the benefit of rest?

  When day’s oppression is not eased by night,

  But day by night and night by day oppressed?

  And each, though enemies to either’s reign,

  Do in consent shake hands to torture me,

  The one by toil, the other to complain

  How far I toil, still farther off from thee.

  I tell the day to please him thou art bright,

  And dost him grace when clouds do blot the heaven.

  So flatter I the swart-complexioned night,

  When sparkling stars twire not, thou gild’st the even.

  But day doth daily draw my sorrows longer,

  And night doth nightly make grief’s length seem stronger.

  28

  MODERN TEXT

  (Continuing from Sonnet 27) So how can I return in a cheerful state of mind when I’m prevented from getting any rest? When the oppression I experience during the day isn’t relieved by any sleep at night, but instead my sleepless nights oppress me during the day and my wearisome days oppress me at night? And though day and night are natural enemies, they’ve shook hands and made a bargain to both torture me, the day with labor, the night with thoughts of how far away you are as I labor over thoughts of you. I try to please the day by telling him how bright you are—so bright that you take the sun’s place when clouds cover the sky. In the same way, I use you to flatter black night, telling him how you brighten the evening sky when stars don’t shine. But they both—day and night—only prolong my sorrows, and night by night this prolonged grief grows stronger.

  29

  ORIGINAL TEXT

  When in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes

  I all alone beweep my outcast state,

  And trouble deaf heav’n with my bootless cries,

  And look upon myself, and curse my fate,

  Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,

  Featured like him, like him with friends possessed,

  Desiring this man’s art, and that man’s scope,

  With what I most enjoy contented least;

  Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,

  Haply I think on thee, and then my state,

  Like to the lark at break of day arising

  From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven’s gate.

  For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings

  That then I scorn to change my state with kings.

  29

  MODERN TEXT

  When I’m in disgrace with everyone and my luck has deserted me, I sit all alone and cry about the fact that I’m an outcast, and bother God with useless cries, which fall on deaf ears, and look at myself and curse my fate, wishing that I had more to hope for, wishing I had this man’s good looks and that man’s friends, this man’s skills and that man’s opportunities, and totally dissatisfied with the things I usually enjoy the most. Yet, as I’m thinking these thoughts and almost hating myself, I happen to think about you, and then my condition improves—like a lark at daybreak rising up and leaving the earth far behind to sing hymns to God. For when I remember your sweet love, I feel so wealthy that I’d refuse to change places even with kings.