Being had, to triumph; being lacked, to hope.

  52

  MODERN TEXT

  I’m like a rich man who has the key to a great treasure chest, but who resists opening it every hour, because he doesn’t want to spoil his pleasure by getting too used to the treasure. That’s why holiday feasts are so infrequent: Spaced out across the year, they’re like precious jewels placed evenly across a crown. In the same way, the time that keeps us apart is my treasure chest, or it’s like a closet that hides a beautiful robe—the closet makes a special occasion even more special when it is opened to reveal its hidden splendor. You are blessed with such great worth that those who are with you feel triumphant, and those who are not with you hope to be.

  53

  ORIGINAL TEXT

  What is your substance, whereof are you made,

  That millions of strange shadows on you tend?

  Since everyone hath every one, one shade,

  And you, but one, can every shadow lend.

  Describe Adonis, and the counterfeit

  Is poorly imitated after you.

  On Helen’s cheek all art of beauty set,

  And you in Grecian tires are painted new.

  Speak of the spring and foison of the year;

  The one doth shadow of your beauty show,

  The other as your bounty doth appear,

  And you in every blessèd shape we know.

  In all external grace you have some part,

  But you like none, none you, for constant heart.

  53

  MODERN TEXT

  What is your true essence, what are you made of, that there should be millions of reflections of you? Every person has only one image, but you, though you’re only one person, lend something to everyone else’s image. If an artist tries to depict Adonis, he’ll wind up creating an inferior imitation of you. If he were to paint Helen as beautifully as possible, he would again wind up with a picture of you, decked out in Greek costume. Praise the spring and the abundant harvest season—but the spring is only a faint shadow of your beauty, and the fall a faint imitation of your abundance. We recognize you in every blessed sight that we see. You are part of every beautiful thing, but you’re not like any of them—you’re incomparable—in the constancy of your heart.

  Adonis: a mythological youth who was so beautiful that Venus, the goddess of love, fell in love with him

  Helen: a famously beautiful woman over whom the Trojan War was begun

  54

  ORIGINAL TEXT

  O how much more doth beauty beauteous seem

  By that sweet ornament which truth doth give!

  The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem

  For that sweet odor which doth in it live.

  The canker-blooms have full as deep a dye

  As the perfumèd tincture of the roses,

  Hang on such thorns, and play as wantonly,

  When summer’s breath their maskèd buds discloses;

  But for their virtue only is their show,

  They live unwooed, and unrespected fade,

  Die to themselves. Sweet roses do not so;

  Of their sweet deaths are sweetest odors made;

  And so of you, beauteous and lovely youth;

  When that shall vade, my verse distills your truth.

  54

  MODERN TEXT

  Beauty seems so much more beautiful when it comes with honesty and integrity. Roses are beautiful, but we think they’re even more so because of their sweet scent. Wildflowers have as deep a color as fragrant roses; their thorns are the same, and their beauty broadcasts just as loudly when summer opens their buds. But because their only virtue is their looks, no one wants or respects them and they die unnoticed and alone. Sweet roses don’t suffer that fate. When they die, the most fragrant perfumes are made from their corpses. The same is true of you, beautiful youth. When you fade away, my poems will preserve your essence.

  55

  ORIGINAL TEXT

  Not marble nor the gilded monuments

  Of princes shall outlive this pow’rful rhyme,

  But you shall shine more bright in these conténts

  Than unswept stone, besmeared with sluttish time.

  When wasteful war shall statues overturn,

  And broils root out the work of masonry,

  Nor Mars his sword, nor war’s quick fire, shall burn

  The living record of your memory.

  ’Gainst death and all oblivious enmity

  Shall you pace forth; your praise shall still find room

  Even in the eyes of all posterity

  That wear this world out to the ending doom.

  So till the judgment that yourself arise,

  You live in this, and dwell in lovers’ eyes.

  55

  MODERN TEXT

  Neither marble nor the gold-plated monuments of princes will outlive this powerful poetry. You will shine more brightly in these poems than those stones that crumble to dust, blackened by time. When devastating war overturns statues, with its battles uprooting buildings, neither the god of war nor his quick-burning fires shall destroy this record of you. Despite death and ignorant enmity, you shall continue on. All those generations to come, down to the weary end of time, will devote space to praising you. So until Judgment Day, when you are raised up, you will live in this poetry, and in the eyes of lovers who read this.

  56

  ORIGINAL TEXT

  Sweet love, renew thy force; be it not said

  Thy edge should blunter be than appetite,

  Which but today by feeding is allayed,

  Tomorrow sharpened in his former might.

  So love be thou; although today thou fill

  Thy hungry eyes even till they wink with fullness,

  Tomorrow see again, and do not kill

  The spirit of love with a perpetual dullness.

  Let this sad int’rim like the ocean be

  Which parts the shore, where two contracted new

  Come daily to the banks, that when they see

  Return of love, more blest may be the view;

  Else call it winter, which being full of care,

  Makes summer’s welcome, thrice more wished, more rare.

  56

  MODERN TEXT

  Sweet love, be as strong as you used to be. Don’t let people say that love is less keen and persistent than lust, which may be satiated today but then comes back tomorrow just as strong and sharp as ever. That’s how you should be, love. Although today you see so much of your love that you want to shut your eyes, look again tomorrow: Do not kill your affection by making yourself perpetually dull and lethargic. Let this sad period of separation be like an ocean that lies between two opposite shores; two newly betrothed lovers come every day to the opposite banks hoping to see each other, and when they do, the sight feels especially blessed. Or call this time winter, which, being full of misery, makes us wish for summer three times more than if it didn’t feel so rare.

  The speaker is addressing love the emotion, not an individual.

  57

  ORIGINAL TEXT

  Being your slave, what should I do but tend

  Upon the hours and times of your desire?

  I have no precious time at all to spend,

  Nor services to do, till you require.

  Nor dare I chide the world without end hour

  Whilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for you,

  Nor think the bitterness of absence sour

  When you have bid your servant once adieu.

  Nor dare I question with my jealous thought

  Where you may be, or your affairs suppose,

  But, like a sad slave, stay and think of nought

  Save, where you are, how happy you make those.

  So true a fool is love that in your will,

  Though you do anything, he thinks no ill.

  57

  MODERN TEXT

  Since I’m your slave, what else should I do but wait on the hours, and for the times when you’ll want me? I don’t have any valuable time to spend, or any services to do, until you need me. Nor do I dare complain about how agonizingly long the hours are while I watch the clock for you, my king, or how bitter your absence is after you’ve said goodbye to your servant. Nor do I dare ask jealous questions about where you might be, or speculate about your affairs, but like a sad slave I sit still and think about nothing except how happy you’re making whomever you’re with. Love makes a person such a faithful fool that no matter what you do to satisfy your desires, he doesn’t think you’ve done anything wrong.

  58

  ORIGINAL TEXT

  That god forbid, that made me first your slave,

  I should in thought control your times of pleasure,

  Or at your hand th’ account of hours to crave,

  Being your vassal bound to stay your leisure.

  O let me suffer, being at your beck,

  Th’ imprisoned absence of your liberty;

  And patience tame to sufferance bide each check,

  Without accusing you of injury.

  Be where you list, your charter is so strong

  That you yourself may privilege your time

  To what you will; to you it doth belong

  Yourself to pardon of self-doing crime.

  I am to wait, though waiting so be hell,

  Not blame your pleasure, be it ill or well.

  58

  MODERN TEXT

  (Continuing from Sonnet 57) Whatever god decided to make me your slave, may he never allow me to so much as think about having any control over when you see me, or asking you to account for how you’ve been passing the hours. I’m your slave, after all, and forced to wait until you have time for me. Oh, while I wait for your summons, let me suffer patiently the prison of this lengthy absence from you as you do whatever you want. And let me control my impatience and quietly endure each disappointment without accusing you of hurting me. Go wherever you want—you’re so privileged that you may decide to do whatever you like. You have the right to pardon yourself for any crime you commit. And I have to wait, even if it feels like hell, and not blame you for following your desire, whether it’s for good or bad.

  59

  ORIGINAL TEXT

  If there be nothing new, but that which is

  Hath been before, how are our brains beguiled,

  Which, lab’ring for invention, bear amiss

  The second burthen of a former child!

  O that recórd could with a backward look,

  Ev’n of five hundred courses of the sun,

  Show me your image in some ántique book,

  Since mind at first in character was done,

  That I might see what the old world could say

  To this composèd wonder of your frame;

  Whether we are mended, or where better they,

  Or whether revolution be the same.

  O sure I am the wits of former days

  To subjects worse have giv’n admiring praise.

  59

  MODERN TEXT

  If it’s true that there’s nothing new and everything that now exists existed in the past, then we are really fooling ourselves when we struggle to write something new, winding up, after much exhausting, painful labor, with a tired imitation of an imitation! If only I could look back into the records, even as far as five hundred years ago, and find a description of you in some old book, written when people were just beginning to put their thoughts in writing, so I could see what the old world would say about your amazingly beautiful body. Then I could see whether we’ve gotten better at writing or worse, or whether things have stayed the same as the world revolves. Oh, I’m sure the witty writers of the past have devoted praise and admiration to worse subjects than you.

  60

  ORIGINAL TEXT

  Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore,

  So do our minutes hasten to their end,

  Each changing place with that which goes before,

  In sequent toil all forwards do contend.

  Nativity, once in the main of light,

  Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crowned,

  Crooked eclipses ’gainst his glory fight,

  And time that gave doth now his gift confound.

  Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth

  And delves the parallels in beauty’s brow;

  Feeds on the rarities of nature’s truth,

  And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow.

  And yet to times in hope my verse shall stand,

  Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand.

  60

  MODERN TEXT

  As the waves move toward the pebbled shore, so do the minutes we have to live hasten toward their end, each moment changing place with the one before, striving to move forward with successive efforts. Everything that has been born, though it once swam in that broad ocean of light that exists before birth, crawls its way up the shores of maturity, where it faces cruel obstacles to its glory. Time, which gives everything, now destroys its own gift. Time pierces the beauty of youth, drawing wrinkles in beauty’s forehead. Time devours the choicest specimens of nature; nothing exists that it won’t mow down with its scythe. And yet my verses will last into the future, praising your worth despite Time’s cruel hand.

  61

  ORIGINAL TEXT

  Is it thy will thy image should keep open

  My heavy eyelids to the weary night?

  Dost thou desire my slumbers should be broken,

  While shadows like to thee do mock my sight?

  Is it thy spirit that thou send’st from thee

  So far from home into my deeds to pry,

  To find out shames and idle hours in me,

  The scope and tenor of thy jealousy?

  O no; thy love, though much, is not so great.

  It is my love that keeps mine eye awake,

  Mine own true love that doth my rest defeat,

  To play the watchman ever for thy sake.

  For thee watch I whilst thou dost wake elsewhére,

  From me far off, with others all too near.

  61

  MODERN TEXT

  Was it your intention that I should stay awake all night thinking about you? Do you want my sleep to be interrupted while I’m tantalized by mental images of you? Are you sending your spirit far from its home to pry into my dealings, to find out the shameful things I’ve been up to in idle hours? Are you jealous? Oh, no: Though you love me a great deal, you don’t love me that much. It’s my love for you that’s keeping me awake. My own true love keeps me from sleeping—staying up worrying about you. I stay up for you, while you are awake somewhere else: far away from me, but all too close to certain other people.

  62

  ORIGINAL TEXT

  Sin of self-love possesseth all mine eye

  And all my soul, and all my every part;

  And for this sin there is no remedy,

  It is so grounded inward in my heart.

  Methinks no face so gracious is as mine,

  No shape so true, no truth of such account;

  And for myself mine own worth do define,

  As I all other in all worths surmount.

  But when my glass shows me myself indeed,

  Beated and chopped with tanned antiquity,

  Mine own self-love quite contrary I read;

  Self so self-loving were iniquity.

  ’Tis thee, myself, that for myself I praise,

  Painting my age with beauty of thy days.

  62

  MODERN TEXT

  The sin of self-love controls everything I see, and my entire soul, and every part of me. There’s no way to get rid of this sin, it’s so deeply rooted in my heart. I think that no one’s face is as gracious as mine, no body so evenly proportioned, no one’s integrity of such high worth. I calculate my value such that I surpass everybody else in everything. But when my mirror shows me how I really look, beaten and cracked by age and the sun, I come to an opposite conclusion: For myself to love myself so much would be a sinful error. It’s you I’m praising when I praise myself, ornamenting my old age with the beauty of your youth.

  63

  ORIGINAL TEXT

  Against my love shall be as I am now,

  With time’s injurious hand crushed and o’erworn;

  When hours have drained his blood and filled his brow

  With lines and wrinkles; when his youthful morn

  Hath traveled on to age’s steepy night,

  And all those beauties whereof now he’s king

  Are vanishing or vanished out of sight,

  Stealing away the treasure of his spring;

  For such a time do I now fortify

  Against confounding age’s cruel knife,

  That he shall never cut from memory

  My sweet love’s beauty, though my lover’s life.

  His beauty shall in these black lines be seen,

  And they shall live, and he in them still green.

  63

  MODERN TEXT

  In anticipation of the time when my love shall be as I am now, crushed and worn out by time’s damaging hand; when time has sapped his vigor and filled his forehead with wrinkles; when his youthful morning has moved on to the difficult night of old age, and all of those forms of beauty that he now possesses are disappearing, or already gone, robbing him of the treasures of his youth—in anticipation of that time, I’m now defending myself against the cruel knife of time, ensuring that he never cuts from my memory the beauty of my sweet love, even if he takes my lover’s life. My lover’s beauty will remain visible in these black lines of poetry, and these lines shall survive, and he will live on in them, still young.