64

  ORIGINAL TEXT

  When I have seen by time’s fell hand defaced

  The rich proud cost of outworn buried age;

  When sometime lofty towers I see down-razed,

  And brass eternal slave to mortal rage;

  When I have seen the hungry ocean gain

  Advantage on the kingdom of the shore,

  And the firm soil win of the watery main,

  Increasing store with loss, and loss with store;

  When I have seen such interchange of state,

  Or state itself confounded to decay,

  Ruin hath taught me thus to ruminate,

  That time will come and take my love away.

  This thought is as a death, which cannot choose

  But weep to have that which it fears to lose.

  64

  MODERN TEXT

  Now that I have seen time’s terrible hand deface the costly and splendid monuments of buried men from ages past, and once-lofty towers torn down; now that I have seen even hard brass subject to perpetual destruction by human beings; now that I have seen the hungry ocean swallow up the land and firm land seize territory from the ocean, so that each one’s loss is the other’s gain; now that I have seen that all things constantly change into something else or fall into decay—all this destruction has taught me to think: The time will come in which time will take my love from me. This thought feels like death, and makes me weep over what I have that I’m afraid of losing.

  65

  ORIGINAL TEXT

  Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea,

  But sad mortality o’ersways their power,

  How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea,

  Whose action is no stronger than a flower?

  O how shall summer’s honey breath hold out

  Against the wrackful siege of batt’ring days,

  When rocks impregnable are not so stout,

  Nor gates of steel so strong but time decays?

  O fearful meditation! Where, alack,

  Shall time’s best jewel from time’s chest lie hid?

  Or what strong hand can hold his swift foot back?

  Or who his spoil or beauty can forbid?

  O none, unless this miracle have might,

  That in black ink my love may still shine bright.

  65

  MODERN TEXT

  Since neither brass nor stone nor earth nor the limitless ocean is strong enough to resist the sad force of mortality, how can beauty possibly resist death’s rage when beauty is no stronger than a flower? How could your beauty, which is as fragile as the sweet breath of summer, hold out against the destructive assaults of time when neither invulnerable rocks nor gates of steel are strong enough to resist its decaying power? What a frightening thing to think about! Alas, where can I put your beauty, time’s most precious creation, to hide it from time itself? Whose hand is strong enough to slow time down? Who will forbid its destruction of your beauty? Oh, no one, unless this miracle proves effective: that in the black ink of my poetry, the one I love may still shine bright.

  66

  ORIGINAL TEXT

  Tired with all these, for restful death I cry,

  As to behold desert a beggar born,

  And needy nothing trimmed in jollity,

  And purest faith unhappily forsworn,

  And gilded honor shamefully misplaced,

  And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted,

  And right perfection wrongfully disgraced,

  And strength by limping sway disablèd,

  And art made tongue-tied by authority,

  And folly, doctor-like, controlling skill,

  And simple truth miscalled simplicity,

  And captive good attending captain ill.

  Tired with all these, from these would I be gone,

  Save that to die, I leave my love alone.

  66

  MODERN TEXT

  Because I’m tired of all of these things, I cry out for restful death: deserving people destined to be beggars, and worthless people dressed up in fancy clothes, and sacred vows broken, and rewards and honors shamefully bestowed on the wrong people, and chaste women turned into whores, and people perfectly in the right disgraced with slander, and the strong disabled by authorities who are weak, and artists silenced by authority, and fools controlling the wise like a doctor does the sick, and simple truth mistaken for simplemindedness, and good enslaved by evil. I’m tired of all these things and would like to escape them, except that if I die I’ll be leaving the person I love all alone.

  67

  ORIGINAL TEXT

  Ah, wherefore with infection should he live,

  And with his presence grace impiety,

  That sin by him advantage should achieve

  And lace itself with his society?

  Why should false painting imitate his cheek,

  And steal dead seeing of his living hue?

  Why should poor beauty indirectly seek

  Roses of shadow, since his rose is true?

  Why should he live, now nature bankrupt is,

  Beggared of blood to blush through lively veins?

  For she hath no exchequer now but his,

  And, proud of many, lives upon his gains.

  O him she stores, to show what wealth she had

  In days long since, before these last so bad.

  67

  MODERN TEXT

  (Continuing from Sonnet 66) Ah, why should the man I love have to live in the midst of all this corruption, gracing sinners with his presence so they can take advantage of their association with him? Why should portrait painters and makeup artists be allowed to imitate his face, making lifeless copies of his vibrant beauty? Why should those less beautiful than he imitate roses by false means, when he is a true rose? And why should he live, now that Nature has degenerated so much that she can hardly infuse anyone with vigor and beauty? Because she has no fund of beauty now except him and, having so many children to provide for, needs to borrow from his store. Oh, Nature keeps him alive in order to show the wealth of beauty she had long ago, before these recent bad days came.

  68

  ORIGINAL TEXT

  Thus is his cheek the map of days outworn,

  When beauty lived and died as flow’rs do now,

  Before these bastard signs of fair were born,

  Or durst inhabit on a living brow;

  Before the golden tresses of the dead,

  The right of sepulchers, were shorn away,

  To live a second life on second head;

  Ere beauty’s dead fleece made another gay.

  In him those holy ántique hours are seen,

  Without all ornament, itself and true,

  Making no summer of another’s green,

  Robbing no old to dress his beauty new;

  And him as for a map doth nature store,

  To show false art what beauty was of yore.

  68

  MODERN TEXT

  (Continuing from Sonnet 67) So his face is the incarnation of how things were in the old days, when beautiful people lived and died as commonly as flowers—before these illegitimate signs of beauty were created, or anyone dared to put them on a living human being. That was before the golden locks of corpses, which belong in graves, were cut off and made to live a second life on a second person’s head. It was before the hair of a beautiful corpse served to make another person happy. You can see the old-fashioned youthful beauty of his face: no wig to ornament it, the real thing in all its honesty, not borrowing someone else’s youth nor stealing from the old to look new again. Nature preserves him as a map, to show cosmetics what beauty used to be.

  69

  ORIGINAL TEXT

  Those parts of thee that the world’s eye doth view

  Want nothing that the thought of hearts can mend.

  All tongues, the voice of souls, give thee that due,

  Utt’ring bare truth, ev’n so as foes commend.

  Thy outward thus with outward praise is crowned;

  But those same tongues that give thee so thine own

  In other accents do this praise confound

  By seeing farther than the eye hath shown.

  They look into the beauty of thy mind,

  And that in guess they measure by thy deeds;

  Then, churls, their thoughts (although their eyes were kind)

  To thy fair flower add the rank smell of weeds;

  But why thy odor matcheth not thy show,

  The soil is this, that thou dost common grow.

  69

  MODERN TEXT

  Those parts of you that are visible to the world lack nothing, and no one could imagine improving them. Everybody admits this unreservedly, though they’re only saying what’s obviously true—what even your enemies praise you for. Thus, your outside is rewarded with public praise. But the same people who give you the praise your beauty deserves take quite another tack once they’ve looked beyond the surface. These people examine the beauty of your mind and character, and they guess at what’s in there by observing your actions. Then, though they judged your appearance kindly, their harsh thoughts tell them that although you appear beautiful you smell corrupt. So, if you don’t smell as good as you look, this is the reason: You’re hanging out with lowlifes.

  70

  ORIGINAL TEXT

  That thou art blamed shall not be thy defect,

  For slander’s mark was ever yet the fair;

  The ornament of beauty is suspéct,

  A crow that flies in heaven’s sweetest air.

  So thou be good, slander doth but approve

  Thy worth the greater, being wooed of time;

  For canker vice the sweetest buds doth love,

  And thou present’st a pure unstainèd prime.

  Thou hast passed by the ambush of young days,

  Either not assailed, or victor being charged;

  Yet this thy praise cannot be so thy praise,

  To tie up envy evermore enlarged.

  If some suspéct of ill masked not thy show,

  Then thou alone kingdoms of hearts shouldst owe.

  70

  MODERN TEXT

  The fact that people say bad things about you won’t be held against you, because beautiful people have always been the target of slander. Beautiful people are always the objects of suspicion, a black crow darkening heaven. As long as you’re good, you’re a target of temptation; slander just proves how worthy you are. For vice, like a worm, loves to devour the sweetest buds the most, which makes you—in your prime, pure and unstained—a perfect target. You’ve escaped the traps that usually endanger young men, because either no one tempted you or you resisted the temptation. However, this praise I’ve given you won’t inflate your reputation so much that it keeps envious people from talking, because they always will. If your beauty weren’t masked by at least some suspicion of evil, you’d be the most beloved person in the world.

  71

  ORIGINAL TEXT

  No longer mourn for me when I am dead

  Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell

  Give warning to the world that I am fled

  From this vile world with vildest worms to dwell:

  Nay, if you read this line, remember not

  The hand that writ it, for I love you so

  That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot,

  If thinking on me then should make you woe.

  O if, I say, you look upon this verse

  When I perhaps compounded am with clay,

  Do not so much as my poor name rehearse,

  But let your love even with my life decay,

  Lest the wise world should look into your moan

  And mock you with me after I am gone.

  71

  MODERN TEXT

  When I am dead, mourn for me only as long as you hear the funeral bell telling the world that I’ve left this vile world to go live with the vile worms. No, if you read this line, don’t remember who wrote it, because I love you so much that I’d rather you forgot me than thought about me and became sad. I’m telling you, if you look at this poem when I’m, say, dissolved in the earth, don’t so much as utter my name but let your love die with me. Otherwise, the world, in all its wisdom, will investigate why you’re sad and use me to mock you, now that I am gone.

  72

  ORIGINAL TEXT

  O lest the world should task you to recite

  What merit lived in me that you should love

  After my death, dear love, forget me quite,

  For you in me can nothing worthy prove;

  Unless you would devise some virtuous lie,

  To do more for me than mine own desert,

  And hang more praise upon deceasèd I

  Than niggard truth would willingly impart.

  O lest your true love may seem false in this,

  That you for love speak well of me untrue,

  My name be buried where my body is,

  And live no more to shame nor me nor you.

  For I am shamed by that which I bring forth,

  And so should you, to love things nothing worth.

  72

  MODERN TEXT

  (Continuing from Sonnet 71) Oh, in case the world challenges you to recite what merit I possessed that would justify your loving me, forget about me entirely after I die, dear love. For you won’t find anything worthy to say about me unless you make up some generous lie, which makes me sound better than I deserve, and attach more praise to my dead self than accords with the stingy truth. Oh, to prevent your true love from becoming false, as it will, in part, if you make false statements out of love for me, let my name be buried with my corpse and no longer bring shame to you or me. For I’m ashamed of what I produce, and you should be, too, to love such worthless things.

  73

  ORIGINAL TEXT

  That time of year thou mayst in me behold

  When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang

  Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,

  Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.

  In me thou seest the twilight of such day

  As after sunset fadeth in the west,

  Which by and by black night doth take away,

  Death’s second self, that seals up all in rest.

  In me thou seest the glowing of such fire

  That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,

  As the deathbed whereon it must expire

  Consumed with that which it was nourished by.

  This thou perceiv’st, which makes thy love more strong,

  To love that well which thou must leave ere long.

  73

  MODERN TEXT

  When you look at me, you can see an image of those times of year when the leaves are yellow or have fallen, or when the trees have no leaves at all and the bare branches where the sweet birds recently sang shiver in anticipation of the cold. In me you can see the twilight that remains after the sunset fades in the west, which by and by is replaced by black night, the twin of death, which closes up everyone in eternal rest. In me you can see the remains of a fire still glowing atop the ashes of its early stages, as if it lay on its own deathbed, on which it has to burn out, consuming what used to fuel it. You see all these things, and they make your love stronger, because you love even more what you know you’ll lose before long.

  74

  ORIGINAL TEXT

  But be contented when that fell arrest

  Without all bail shall carry me away;

  My life hath in this line some interest,

  Which for memorial still with thee shall stay.

  When thou reviewest this, thou dost review

  The very part was consecrate to thee.

  The earth can have but earth, which is his due;

  My spirit is thine, the better part of me.

  So then thou hast but lost the dregs of life,

  The prey of worms, my body being dead,

  The coward conquest of a wretch’s knife,

  Too base of thee to be rememb’red.

  The worth of that is that which it contains,

  And that is this, and this with thee remains.

  74

  MODERN TEXT

  (Continuing from Sonnet 73) But don’t be upset when death arrives to carry me off where no one can release me. My life will continue to some extent in these lines, which you’ll always have to remember me by. When you reread this, you’ll be seeing again the precise part of me that was dedicated to you. The earth can only have the earthly part of me, which is what belongs to it. My spirit, the better part of me, is yours. So when I’m dead you’ll have only my body—the dregs of my life, the part that worms eat, the only part of me that cowardly, wretched death could kill, the part that’s too worthless for you to remember. What gives my body its worth is the spirit it contains, and that spirit is this poem, and this poem will remain with you.

  75

  ORIGINAL TEXT

  So are you to my thoughts as food to life,

  Or as sweet seasoned show’rs are to the ground;

  And for the peace of you I hold such strife

  As ’twixt a miser and his wealth is found;

  Now proud as an enjoyer, and anon

  Doubting the filching age will steal his treasure;

  Now counting best to be with you alone,

  Then bettered that the world may see my pleasure;

  Sometime all full with feasting on your sight

  And by and by clean starvèd for a look;

  Possessing or pursuing no delight,

  Save what is had or must from you be took.