The ghosts who visit the rival poet at night, both helping and tricking him, are very difficult to explain. They seem to refer to something in Shakespeare’s time that is now unknown.

  87

  ORIGINAL TEXT

  Farewell, thou art too dear for my possessing,

  And like enough thou know’st thy estimate.

  The charter of thy worth gives thee releasing;

  My bonds in thee are all determinate.

  For how do I hold thee but by thy granting,

  And for that riches where is my deserving?

  The cause of this fair gift in me is wanting,

  And so my patent back again is swerving.

  Thyself thou gav’st, thy own worth then not knowing,

  Or me, to whom thou gav’st it, else mistaking;

  So thy great gift, upon misprision growing,

  Comes home again, on better judgment making.

  Thus have I had thee as a dream doth flatter:

  In sleep a king, but waking no such matter.

  87

  MODERN TEXT

  Goodbye; you’re too valuable for me to hold onto, and you probably know exactly what you’re worth. Your high value gives you the right to leave me; you have severed the ties that bind me to you. For what hold do I have over you except the hold that you choose to give me, and how do I deserve such a treasure? There’s nothing in me to justify such a beautiful gift, so my right to possess you is reverting back to you. When you gave yourself to me, you didn’t know your own worth, or else you were mistaken about me, the person you gave yourself to. So the great gift you gave me, being based on a false estimate, goes back to you now that you’re able to make a better judgment. Thus, the time in which I had you was like a flattering dream; while I was asleep, I thought I was a king, but when I woke up, I found that was not the case.

  88

  ORIGINAL TEXT

  When thou shalt be disposed to set me light

  And place my merit in the eye of scorn,

  Upon thy side against myself I’ll fight,

  And prove thee virtuous, though thou art forsworn.

  With mine own weakness being best acquainted,

  Upon thy part I can set down a story

  Of faults concealed, wherein I am attainted,

  That thou in losing me shalt win much glory.

  And I by this will be a gainer too,

  For bending all my loving thoughts on thee,

  The injuries that to myself I do,

  Doing thee vantage, double vantage me.

  Such is my love, to thee I so belong,

  That for thy right myself will bear all wrong.

  88

  MODERN TEXT

  When you feel inclined to think little of me and make other people scorn me, I’ll take your side and argue against myself, demonstrating that you’re virtuous even while you’re lying about me. Since I know my own weaknesses better than anyone, I can tell a story about my hidden faults (in which I reveal myself as morally tainted) that will have people thinking better of you for not being with me anymore. And I, too, will gain by turning all my loving thoughts to you: Whatever injuries I do to myself will help you, which will help me doubly. I love you so much—belong to you so totally—that to get you everything you’re entitled to, I will take every wrong upon myself.

  89

  ORIGINAL TEXT

  Say that thou didst forsake me for some fault,

  And I will comment upon that offense.

  Speak of my lameness, and I straight will halt,

  Against thy reasons making no defense.

  Thou canst not, love, disgrace me half so ill,

  To set a form upon desired change,

  As I’ll myself disgrace, knowing thy will;

  I will acquaintance strangle and look strange,

  Be absent from thy walks, and in my tongue

  Thy sweet belovèd name no more shall dwell,

  Lest I, too much profane, should do it wrong

  And haply of our old acquaintance tell.

  For thee against myself I’ll vow debate,

  For I must ne’er love him whom thou dost hate.

  89

  MODERN TEXT

  (Continuing from Sonnet 88) If you tell people you left me because of some fault of mine, I will expand upon whatever you say I did wrong. Say I’m lame, and I’ll start limping immediately, without trying to defend myself against your accusations. My love, in finding a reason to justify leaving me, you can’t disgrace me half as badly as I’ll disgrace myself, as soon as I know what you want. I’ll pretend I don’t know you and act like a stranger. I won’t go where I might run into you. And I won’t mention your beloved name anymore in case I’d dirty it by reminding people that we used to be acquainted. For your sake, I’ll vow to be my own enemy, because I must not love someone whom you hate.

  90

  ORIGINAL TEXT

  Then hate me when thou wilt, if ever, now,

  Now while the world is bent my deeds to cross;

  Join with the spite of fortune, make me bow,

  And do not drop in for an after-loss:

  Ah, do not, when my heart hath ’scaped this sorrow,

  Come in the rearward of a conquered woe.

  Give not a windy night a rainy morrow,

  To linger out a purposed overthrow.

  If thou wilt leave me, do not leave me last,

  When other petty griefs have done their spite

  But in the onset come; so shall I taste

  At first the very worst of fortune’s might;

  And other strains of woe, which now seem woe,

  Compared with loss of thee will not seem so.

  90

  MODERN TEXT

  (Continuing from Sonnet 89) So hate me when you want to, but if you’re ever going to, do it now, now while the world is determined to frustrate everything I try to do. Add to my misfortune, make me collapse under it, don’t hit me with this later, after I’ve already endured so many other blows. Ah, do not let me think I’ve avoided the sorrow of losing you, then come and reject me—right after I’ve been defeated by another grief. Don’t turn my windy night into a rainy tomorrow, prolonging the defeat you intend to give me. If you’re going to leave me, don’t wait until the end, after other little sorrows have done their damage. Leave me at the beginning, so I experience the worst misfortune first. Then other hurtful things, which seem painful now, won’t seem so, compared with losing you.

  91

  ORIGINAL TEXT

  Some glory in their birth, some in their skill,

  Some in their wealth, some in their body’s force,

  Some in their garments, though new-fangled ill,

  Some in their hawks and hounds, some in their horse;

  And every humor hath his adjunct pleasure,

  Wherein it finds a joy above the rest.

  But these particulars are not my measure;

  All these I better in one general best.

  Thy love is better than high birth to me,

  Richer than wealth, prouder than garments’ cost,

  Of more delight than hawks or horses be;

  And having thee, of all men’s pride I boast;

  Wretched in this alone, that thou mayst take

  All this away, and me most wretched make.

  91

  MODERN TEXT

  Some people are proud of the social status they’ve inherited; some people of their abilities; some of their wealth; some of how strong they are; some of their clothes, though the clothes are trendy and weird; some are proud of their hawks and hounds; some of their horses; and every individual temperament has its particular pleasure, something the person enjoys above everything else. But I don’t measure happiness by any of these things. There’s something else that’s better than them all. To me, your love is better than high social status, more valuable than wealth, more worth being proud of than expensive clothes, and more enjoyable than hawks or horses. And having you, I have something better than what other men are proud of—except I’m wretched in this one respect: You can take all this away from me and make me completely wretched.

  92

  ORIGINAL TEXT

  But do thy worst to steal thyself away,

  For term of life thou art assurèd mine,

  And life no longer than thy love will stay,

  For it depends upon that love of thine.

  Then need I not to fear the worst of wrongs,

  When in the least of them my life hath end.

  I see a better state to me belongs

  Than that which on thy humor doth depend.

  Thou canst not vex me with inconstant mind,

  Since that my life on thy revolt doth lie.

  O what a happy title do I find,

  Happy to have thy love, happy to die!

  But what’s so blessèd-fair that fears no blot?

  Thou mayst be false, and yet I know it not.

  92

  MODERN TEXT

  (Continuing from Sonnet 91) But go ahead and leave me—do your best to hurt me. I’m sure to have you as long as I’m alive, because I will only be alive as long as you love me: My life depends on your love. Now I don’t have to worry about all the terrible things you might do to hurt me; as soon as you hurt me even a little, I’ll die. I realize now that I’m in a better position than I would be if I were dependent on your affections. You can’t worry me with the idea that you’re fickle, since my life would be over as soon as you changed your mind about me. Oh, what a happy position I’m in: I’m happy to have your love, but also happy to die! But what situation is so perfectly blessed that it breeds no worries? You might be unfaithful to me without my knowing it.

  93

  ORIGINAL TEXT

  So shall I live, supposing thou art true,

  Like a deceived husband; so love’s face

  May still seem love to me, though altered new:

  Thy looks with me, thy heart in other place.

  For there can live no hatred in thine eye,

  Therefore in that I cannot know thy change.

  In many’s looks, the false heart’s history

  Is writ in moods and frowns and wrinkles strange,

  But heav’n in thy creation did decree

  That in thy face sweet love should ever dwell;

  Whate’er thy thoughts or thy heart’s workings be,

  Thy looks should nothing thence but sweetness tell.

  How like Eve’s apple doth thy beauty grow,

  If thy sweet virtue answer not thy show.

  93

  MODERN TEXT

  (Continuing from Sonnet 92) In that case, I’ll live like a deceived husband, assuming you’re faithful. Then your face will still show that you love me, even though you don’t—your looks will stay the same, but your heart will be somewhere else. As your face could never have a hateful expression, I couldn’t ever know a change of heart from looking at it. Many people express their unfaithfulness in their faces—in moody looks and frowns and strange wrinkles. But when heaven created you, it decided that your face would always express sweet love. Whatever your thoughts or desires, your looks never express anything but sweetness. In fact, your beauty becomes much like Eve’s apple when you’re not as sweet and virtuous as you look.

  94

  ORIGINAL TEXT

  They that have pow’r to hurt, and will do none,

  That do not do the thing they most do show,

  Who moving others are themselves as stone,

  Unmovèd, cold, and to temptation slow,

  They rightly do inherit heaven’s graces,

  And husband nature’s riches from expense.

  They are the lords and owners of their faces;

  Others but stewards of their excellence.

  The summer’s flow’r is to the summer sweet,

  Though to itself it only live and die.

  But if that flow’r with base infection meet,

  The basest weed outbraves his dignity.

  For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds;

  Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds.

  94

  MODERN TEXT

  Those whose beauty gives them the power to hurt others, but who refuse to; those who look very sexy but won’t have sex; who attract other people but are themselves like stones—cold, unemotional, and difficult to tempt—those are the ones who will rightly inherit heaven’s blessings and keep nature’s treasures from being wasted. Those who have self-control truly own their beauty; the rest are only administering their beauty for others’ use. The summer flower seems sweet to us in summer, though the flower itself may feel that it’s only living and dying. But if that flower lets itself be infected by a parasite, the lowest weed will be better, for the sweetest things have the capacity to turn the sourest by acting wrongly. Lilies that rot smell a lot worse than weeds.

  95

  ORIGINAL TEXT

  How sweet and lovely dost thou make the shame

  Which, like a canker in the fragrant rose,

  Doth spot the beauty of thy budding name!

  O in what sweets dost thou thy sins enclose!

  That tongue that tells the story of thy days,

  Making lascivious comments on thy sport,

  Cannot dispraise but in a kind of praise;

  Naming thy name blesses an ill report.

  O what a mansion have those vices got

  Which for their habitation chose out thee,

  Where beauty’s veil doth cover every blot,

  And all things turns to fair that eyes can see!

  Take heed, dear heart, of this large privilege;

  The hardest knife ill used doth lose his edge.

  95

  MODERN TEXT

  You make the flaw that’s ruining your reputation (like a worm infecting a rosebud) look so sweet and lovely. Oh, you cover up your sins with such a sweet exterior! The person who accuses you of wild lust somehow manages to turn his criticisms into praise: Your name makes bad actions look good. Oh, the vices you have inside you live in a beautiful house. Your beauty serves as a veil that makes every bad thing you do seem good! But be careful, dear heart, with this great privilege that your beauty gives you. If you abuse it, it will stop working, like a knife that loses its edge from misuse.

  96

  ORIGINAL TEXT

  Some say thy fault is youth, some wantonness,

  Some say thy grace is youth and gentle sport;

  Both grace and faults are loved of more and less;

  Thou mak’st faults graces that to thee resort.

  As on the finger of a thronèd queen

  The basest jewel will be well esteemed,

  So are those errors that in thee are seen

  To truths translated, and for true things deemed.

  How many lambs might the stern wolf betray,

  If like a lamb he could his looks translate;

  How many gazers mightst thou lead away,

  If thou wouldst use the strength of all thy state!

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

  As thou being mine, mine is thy good report.

  96

  MODERN TEXT

  Some say your fault is your youth, others that the problem is your lustfulness. Some say your youth and playfulness are charming. Both important and unimportant people love your charms and your faults too. You turn your faults into sources of charm. Just as a worthless jewel is regarded as valuable when a queen is wearing it, so the sins that people see you commit are turned into good characteristics and regarded as good. How many lambs could the grim wolf trick if he could make himself look like a lamb? How many people might you lead astray if you seduced them with the full force of your beauty and social position? But don’t do that. I love you so much (since you are mine) that your reputation extends to me as well.

  97

  ORIGINAL TEXT

  How like a winter hath my absence been

  From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year!

  What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen!

  What old December’s bareness everywhere!

  And yet this time removed was summer’s time,

  The teeming autumn big with rich increase,

  Bearing the wanton burthen of the prime,

  Like widowed wombs after their lords’ decease.

  Yet this abundant issue seemed to me

  But hope of orphans, and unfathered fruit.

  For summer and his pleasures wait on thee,

  And thou away, the very birds are mute.

  Or if they sing, ’tis with so dull a cheer

  That leaves look pale, dreading the winter’s near.

  97

  MODERN TEXT

  My separation from you has felt just like winter, since you’re what makes the year pleasurable! I’ve felt very cold, and the days have seemed very dark, and everything has been as barren as in December! And yet the time we’ve been apart was actually summer, then fall, the harvest-time when nature gives birth to crops planted in the spring like a woman giving birth after her husband has died. And these abundant fruits of nature seemed like hopeless orphans to me, because summer and summer’s pleasures all depend on you, and, with you away, even the birds are silent. Or if they sing, they do it so dismally that the leaves grow pale with fear, dreading the fact that winter’s almost here.