30

  ORIGINAL TEXT

  When to the sessions of sweet silent thought

  I summon up remembrance of things past,

  I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,

  And with old woes new wail my dear time’s waste.

  Then can I drown an eye unused to flow,

  For precious friends hid in death’s dateless night,

  And weep afresh love’s long since cancelled woe,

  And moan th’ expense of many a vanished sight.

  Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,

  And heavily from woe to woe tell o’er

  The sad account of fore-bemoanèd moan,

  Which I new pay as if not paid before.

  But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,

  All losses are restored, and sorrows end.

  30

  MODERN TEXT

  When I sit alone in silence and remember the past, I get depressed about all the things I don’t have that I once strived for, and I add to old griefs new tears for all the valuable time I’ve wasted. Then I can drown my eyes, which are not usually wet from crying, in tears for precious friends who are dead, and I can weep again for hurts in loves that are long since over and moan about the loss of many things I’ll never see again. Then I can grieve about grievances I had let go of and sadly recount each woe that I’d already cried about in the past, feeling the pain all over again, as if I hadn’t suffered over these things already. But if I think about you, my dear friend, while I’m doing all of this, I get back everything I’d lost, and all my sorrows end.

  31

  ORIGINAL TEXT

  Thy bosom is endearèd with all hearts

  Which I, by lacking, have supposèd dead;

  And there reigns love, and all love’s loving parts,

  And all those friends which I thought burièd.

  How many a holy and obsequious tear

  Hath dear religious love stol’n from mine eye

  As interest of the dead, which now appear

  But things removed that hidden in thee lie.

  Thou art the grave where buried love doth live,

  Hung with the trophies of my lovers gone,

  Who all their parts of me to thee did give;

  That due of many now is thine alone.

  Their images I loved I view in thee,

  And thou, all they, hast all the all of me.

  31

  MODERN TEXT

  You have the love of everyone who used to love me, people who I supposed were dead because I didn’t have their love anymore. Love reigns in your heart—both everything belonging to love and all those friends who I thought were dead and buried. How many tears of devoted love have I shed at funerals, in payment to the dead, when now it appears they had only gone to hide in your heart. You’re like a grave where dead lovers come alive again, decorated with mementos of those lost loves who gave you all the love I owed to each of them. All the love I owed to many is now yours alone. I see these lovers in you, and you, who contain everyone I have ever loved or was loved by, have all of me.

  32

  ORIGINAL TEXT

  If thou survive my well-contented day,

  When that churl death my bones with dust shall cover,

  And shalt by fortune once more re-survey

  These poor rude lines of thy deceasèd lover,

  Compare them with the bett’ring of the time,

  And though they be outstripped by every pen,

  Reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme,

  Exceeded by the height of happier men.

  O then vouchsafe me but this loving thought:

  “Had my friend’s muse grown with this growing age,

  A dearer birth than this his love had brought

  To march in ranks of better equipage.

  But since he died and poets better prove,

  Theirs for their style I’ll read, his for his love.”

  32

  MODERN TEXT

  If you survive me, living on after dust covers my bones, and you should happen to read over again these poor, crude sonnets written by the man who once loved you, remember that things have improved since my day. So even though any poet today could write better sonnets, keep my poems for the sake of my love, not for my skill, which luckier men have far surpassed. And grant me this loving thought: “If my friend’s inspiration was paired with the advantages today’s poets have, his love would have brought forth better poems than these, to rank alongside those of today’s better poets. But since he died, and poets are better now, I’ll read their poems for their style, his for his love.”

  33

  ORIGINAL TEXT

  Full many a glorious morning have I seen

  Flatter the mountain tops with sovereign eye,

  Kissing with golden face the meadows green,

  Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy,

  Anon permit the basest clouds to ride

  With ugly rack on his celestial face,

  And from the fórlorn world his visage hide,

  Stealing unseen to west with this disgrace.

  Ev’n so my sun one early morn did shine

  With all triumphant splendor on my brow;

  But out alack, he was but one hour mine;

  The region cloud hath masked him from me now.

  Yet him for this my love no whit disdaineth.

  Suns of the world may stain when heav’n’s sun staineth.

  33

  MODERN TEXT

  I’ve seen many beautiful mornings in which the sun beautifies the mountaintops, kissing the green meadows with its golden face and making streams sparkle as if by magic. But then it suddenly permits the nastiest clouds to ride across its heavenly face, and it hides from the forlorn world, sneaking off to the west in disgrace. In exactly this way, early one morning my sun shone on my face with triumphant splendor, but alas he was only mine for one hour. The clouds have hidden him from me now. But I don’t fault him for this at all. Golden men like him can disgrace themselves as much as the real sun does.

  In Sonnets 33–34, the speaker uses the image of the sun being covered by clouds as a metaphor for his being betrayed by the young man he loves.

  34

  ORIGINAL TEXT

  Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day

  And make me travel forth without my cloak,

  To let base clouds o’ertake me in my way,

  Hiding thy brav’ry in their rotten smoke?

  ’Tis not enough that through the cloud thou break,

  To dry the rain on my storm-beaten face.

  For no man well of such a salve can speak

  That heals the wound and cures not the disgrace.

  Nor can thy shame give physic to my grief;

  Though thou repent, yet I have still the loss.

  The offender’s sorrow lends but weak relief

  To him that bears the strong offense’s cross.

  Ah, but those tears are pearl which thy love sheds,

  And they are rich, and ransom all ill deeds.

  34

  MODERN TEXT

  Sun, why did you make it look like today was going to be such a beautiful day, so that I went out without my cloak, only to let nasty clouds overtake me on my way, hiding your radiance behind their poisonous mist? It’s not enough that you broke through the clouds and dried the rain off my storm-beaten face, because no man can be satisfied with a cure that heals the physical injury but doesn’t take away the disgrace. Nor does it comfort me that you’re ashamed, because even though you regret what you did, I have still lost out. When someone takes something away from you, their being sorry doesn’t help much. Ah, but those tears you’re shedding out of love for me are like pearls—very valuable ones—and they make up for all your bad deeds.

  35

  ORIGINAL TEXT

  No more be grieved at that which thou hast done.

  Roses have thorns, and silver fountains mud;

  Clouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun,

  And loathsome canker lives in sweetest bud.

  All men make faults, and even I in this,

  Authórizing thy trespass with compare,

  Myself corrupting, salving thy amiss,

  Excusing these sins more than these sins are.

  For to thy sensual fault I bring in sense—

  Thy adverse party is thy advocate—

  And ’gainst myself a lawful plea commence.

  Such civil war is in my love and hate

  That I an áccessory needs must be

  To that sweet thief which sourly robs from me.

  35

  MODERN TEXT

  Don’t be upset anymore about what you did. Everything has its bad side: Roses have thorns, sparkling fountains have mud, the sun and the moon are periodically covered up by clouds and eclipses, and disgusting worms live in the sweetest flowers. All men do bad things—even me, right now: As I excuse your transgression by comparing it to other things, I corrupt myself by making excuses for your misdeeds (more excuses for these little sins than they even require). Because what I’m doing is taking your sins, which were just physical urges, and putting my mind to work on their behalf. The person you’ve hurt is now advocating for you—I’m now pleading the case against myself. I’m so conflicted between love and hate that I can’t resist helping that sweet villain who bitterly injures me every hour.

  36

  ORIGINAL TEXT

  Let me confess that we two must be twain,

  Although our undivided loves are one.

  So shall those blots that do with me remain

  Without thy help by me be borne alone.

  In our two loves there is but one respect,

  Though in our lives a separable spite,

  Which, though it alter not love’s sole effect,

  Yet doth it steal sweet hours from love’s delight.

  I may not evermore acknowledge thee,

  Lest my bewailèd guilt should do thee shame;

  Nor thou with public kindness honor me,

  Unless thou take that honor from thy name.

  But do not so; I love thee in such sort,

  As, thou being mine, mine is thy good report.

  36

  MODERN TEXT

  I acknowledge that the two of us have to part, even though we’re united in love. That way I can take those disgraces that we’ve incurred together all onto myself, bearing them without any help from you. Our love for one another gives us common cause, despite this awful situation that forces us apart, which, though it can’t prevent us from being united in love, still robs us of sweet hours of pleasure together. I can never greet you openly again, because my guilt would bring shame upon you. Nor can you ever honor me with public kindness without dishonoring your own reputation. But don’t do that. I love you so much that I value your good reputation as my own.

  37

  ORIGINAL TEXT

  As a decrepit father takes delight

  To see his active child do deeds of youth,

  So I, made lame by fortune’s dearest spite,

  Take all my comfort of thy worth and truth.

  For whether beauty, birth, or wealth, or wit,

  Or any of these all, or all, or more,

  Entitled in thy parts do crownèd sit,

  I make my love engrafted to this store.

  So then I am not lame, poor, nor despised,

  Whilst that this shadow doth such substance give

  That I in thy abundance am sufficed,

  And by a part of all thy glory live.

  Look what is best, that best I wish in thee.

  This wish I have; then ten times happy me.

  37

  MODERN TEXT

  Just as a decrepit father takes pleasure in seeing his active child engaging in youthful activities, so I, whom misfortune has injured and crippled, take all the comfort I can in your good worth and fidelity. For whether beauty, nobility, wealth, and intelligence—or any one of these, or all of them, or more than these—are your princely attributes, I’m attaching my love to them. I’m not lame, poor, or despised, as long as this fantasy of mine lets me take so much satisfaction in your good luck and I can live off part of your glory. Whatever is best, that’s what I wish you to have. Since I have this wish, I’m lucky ten times over.

  38

  ORIGINAL TEXT

  How can my muse want subject to invent

  While thou dost breathe, that pour’st into my verse

  Thine own sweet argument, too excellent

  For every vulgar paper to rehearse?

  O give thyself the thanks, if aught in me

  Worthy perusal stand against thy sight.

  For who’s so dumb that cannot write to thee,

  When thou thyself dost give invention light?

  Be thou the tenth muse, ten times more in worth

  Than those old nine which rhymers invocate;

  And he that calls on thee, let him bring forth

  Eternal numbers to outlive long date.

  If my slight muse do please these curious days,

  The pain be mine, but thine shall be the praise.

  38

  MODERN TEXT

  How could I lack things to write about while you’re alive? You pour inspiration into my poetry by giving me the sweetest subject to write about: yourself—too excellent a subject for ordinary writers to describe. Oh, give yourself the credit if you see anything in my writing that’s worth reading. For who is so speechless that he can’t write to you, when you yourself provide the creative spark? You should be the tenth muse, worth ten times more than those other nine invoked by poets. And whoever calls on you for inspiration, let him write eternal verses, to outlive even the farthest reaches of time. If my little bit of inspiration happens to please today’s demanding readers, the painful work can be mine, but the praise shall be yours.

  39

  ORIGINAL TEXT

  O how thy worth with manners may I sing,

  When thou art all the better part of me?

  What can mine own praise to mine own self bring,

  And what is’t but mine own when I praise thee?

  Even for this, let us divided live,

  And our dear love lose name of single one,

  That by this separation I may give

  That due to thee which thou deserv’st alone.

  O absence, what a torment wouldst thou prove,

  Were it not thy sour leisure gave sweet leave

  To entertain the time with thoughts of love,

  Which time and thoughts so sweetly dost deceive,

  And that thou teachest how to make one twain,

  By praising him here who doth hence remain.

  39

  MODERN TEXT

  How can I celebrate your worth in my poems without appearing conceited, given that you’re my better half? What good does it do me to praise myself—and am I doing anything besides praising myself when I praise you? For this reason, let’s live apart. And though we love each other dearly, let’s lose our common identity; by this separation, I can give you the praise that you deserve by yourself. Oh, absence, you would be such a torment if it weren’t for the fact that you give me the chance to fill up the lonely hours with thoughts of love, which make the time pass so sweetly, and that you teach me how to divide my love and me in two, as I, here, praise my friend while he remains elsewhere.

  40

  ORIGINAL TEXT

  Take all my loves, my love; yea, take them all.

  What hast thou then more than thou hadst before?

  No love, my love, that thou mayst true love call.

  All mine was thine before thou hadst this more.

  Then if for my love thou my love receivest,

  I cannot blame thee, for my love thou usest.

  But yet be blamed, if thou thyself deceivest

  By wilful taste of what thyself refusest.

  I do forgive thy robb’ry, gentle thief,

  Although thou steal thee all my poverty;

  And yet love knows it is a greater grief

  To bear love’s wrong than hate’s known injury.

  Lascivious grace, in whom all ill well shows,

  Kill me with spites; yet we must not be foes.

  40

  MODERN TEXT

  Take all my loves, my love—yes, take them all: Take my love for you, take away your love for me, and take a lover from me. What do you have now that you didn’t have before? My love, you haven’t acquired true love, because my true love was yours to begin with, before you took this extra from me. If, instead of accepting my love, you make love to the person, love, I can’t blame you, because you’re only taking advantage of my love. But, you should be blamed if you deceive yourself by taking from one person what you won’t take from another—if you willingly make love to one person while refusing to make love to me. I forgive you for stealing from me, gentle thief, although you’re taking the little I have. And yet every lover knows that it hurts more to be injured by a lover than by an enemy. You, who are gracious even when succumbing to lust, you in whom everything bad looks good—even if you kill me with injuries, let’s not become enemies.

  41

  ORIGINAL TEXT

  Those pretty wrongs that liberty commits

  When I am sometime absent from thy heart,

  Thy beauty and thy years full well befits,

  For still temptation follows where thou art.

  Gentle thou art, and therefore to be won;

  Beauteous thou art, therefore to be assailed;

  And when a woman woos, what woman’s son

  Will sourly leave her till he have prevailed?

  Ay me, but yet thou might’st my seat forbear,