Shakespeare

2009-01-01

I’ve discovered, largely thanks to Facebook, that I enjoy writing almost as much as I enjoy hearing myself talk, and so I decided to finally pick up a book of poetry and see if I could learn to identify, and hopefully reproduce, the qualities that linquists appreciate most in the art.

Perhaps I should have looked into something more modern - I seem to remember writing a report on Emily Dickinson back in grade 10. But, at any rate, I wound up with a collection of sonnets by Shakespeare. I found a dozen or so that stuck in my mind above the rest (154 in total), and wanted to share them here:

#27

Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed, The dear respose for limbs with travel tirèd; But then begins a journey in my head To work my mind, when body’s work’s expirèd. 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.

#30

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.

#42

That thou hast her, it is not all my grief, And yet it may be said I loved her dearly; That she hath thee is of my wailing chief, A loss in love that touches me more nearly. Loving offenders, thus I will excuse ye: Thou dost love her because thou know’st I love her, And for my sake even so doth she abuse me, Suf’ring my friend for my sake to approve her. If I lose thee, my loss is my love’s gain, And losing her, my friend hath found that loss: Both find each other, and I lose both twain, And both for my sake lay on me this cross.

But here’s the joy: my friend and I are one. Sweet flattery! Then she loves but me alone.

#61

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 tenure 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 elsewhere, From me far off, with others all too near.

#110

Alas! ‘tis true, I have gone here and there, And made my self a motley to the view, Gored mine own thoughts, sold cheap what is most dear, Made old offences of affections new; Most true it is, that I have looked on truth Askance and strangely; but, by all above, These blenches gave my heart another youth, And worse essays proved thee my best of love. Now all is done, have what shall have no end: Mine appetite I never more will grind On newer proof, to try an older friend, A god in love, to whom I am confined.

Then give me welcome, next my heaven the best, Even to thy pure and most most loving breast.

#119

What potions have I drunk of Siren tears, Distilled from limbecks foul as hell within, Applying fears to hopes, and hopes to fears, Still losing when I saw myself to win! What wretched errors hath my heart committed, Whilst it hath thought itself so blessed never! How have mine eyes out of their spheres been fitted, In the distraction of this madding fever! O benefit of ill! now I find true That better is by evil still made better; And ruined love, when it is built anew, Grows fairer than at first, more strong, far greater.

So I return rebuked to my content, And gain by ill thrice more than I have spent.

#128

How oft when thou, my music, music play’st, Upon that blessed wood whose motion sounds With thy sweet fingers when thou gently sway’st The wiry concord that mine ear confounds, Do I envy those jacks that nimble leap, To kiss the tender inward of thy hand, Whilst my poor lips which should that harvest reap, At the wood’s boldness by thee blushing stand! To be so tickled, they would change their state And situation with those dancing chips, O’er whom thy fingers walk with gentle gait, Making dead wood more bless’d than living lips.

Since saucy jacks so happy are in this, Give them thy fingers, me thy lips to kiss.

#134

So now I have confessed that he is thine, And I my self am mortgaged to thy will, Myself I’ll forfeit, so that other mine Thou wilt restore to be my comfort still: But thou wilt not, nor he will not be free, For thou art covetous, and he is kind; He learned but surety-like to write for me, Under that bond that him as fast doth bind. The statute of thy beauty thou wilt take, Thou usurer, that put’st forth all to use, And sue a friend came debtor for my sake; So him I lose through my unkind abuse.

Him have I lost; thou hast both him and me: He pays the whole, and yet am I not free.

#139

O! call not me to justify the wrong That thy unkindness lays upon my heart; Wound me not with thine eye, but with thy tongue: Use power with power, and slay me not by art, Tell me thou lov’st elsewhere; but in my sight, Dear heart, forbear to glance thine eye aside: What need’st thou wound with cunning, when thy might Is more than my o’erpressed defence can bide? Let me excuse thee: ah! my love well knows Her pretty looks have been mine enemies; And therefore from my face she turns my foes, That they elsewhere might dart their injuries:

Yet do not so; but since I am near slain, Kill me outright with looks, and rid my pain.

#142

Love is my sin, and thy dear virtue hate, Hate of my sin, grounded on sinful loving: O! but with mine compare thou thine own state, And thou shalt find it merits not reproving; Or, if it do, not from those lips of thine, That have profaned their scarlet ornaments And sealed false bonds of love as oft as mine, Robbed others’ beds’ revenues of their rents. Be it lawful I love thee, as thou lov’st those Whom thine eyes woo as mine importune thee: Root pity in thy heart, that, when it grows, Thy pity may deserve to pitied be.

If thou dost seek to have what thou dost hide, By self-example mayst thou be denied!

#144

Two loves I have of comfort and despair, Which like two spirits do suggest me still: The better angel is a man right fair, The worser spirit a woman coloured ill. To win me soon to hell, my female evil, Tempteth my better angel from my side, And would corrupt my saint to be a devil, Wooing his purity with her foul pride. And whether that my angel be turned fiend, Suspect I may, yet not directly tell; But being both from me, both to each friend, I guess one angel in another’s hell:

Yet this shall I ne’er know, but live in doubt, Till my bad angel fire my good one out.

#145

Those lips that Love’s own hand did make, Breathed forth the sound that said ‘I hate’, To me that languished for her sake: But when she saw my woeful state, Straight in her heart did mercy come, Chiding that tongue that ever sweet Was used in giving gentle doom; And taught it thus anew to greet; ‘I hate’ she altered with an end, That followed it as gentle day, Doth follow night, who like a fiend From heaven to hell is flown away.

‘I hate’, from hate away she threw, And saved my life, saying ‘not you’.

#148

O me! what eyes hath Love put in my head, Which have no correspondence with true sight; Or, if they have, where is my judgment fled, That censures falsely what they see aright? If that be fair whereon my false eyes dote, What means the world to say it is not so? If it be not, then love doth well denote Love’s eye is not so true as all men’s: no, How can it? O! how can Love’s eye be true, That is so vexed with watching and with tears? No marvel then, though I mistake my view; The sun itself sees not, till heaven clears.

O cunning Love! with tears thou keep’st me blind, Lest eyes well-seeing thy foul faults should find.

I hesitate to pick a favourite, since I’m sure my opinion will change with time and be based more on the topic than the quality of writing, but perhaps when I’m better versed in poetry (pun!) and feeling objective, I’ll make a judgement after all.

Updated Apr 23, 2023 3:19:11pm

Oct 09, 2008 1:46:25am