The Sonnets CXXVII - In the old age black was not counted fair

In the old age black was not counted fair,
Or if it were, it bore not beautys name;
But now is black beautys successive heir,
And beauty slanderd with a bastard shame:
For since each hand hath put on Natures power,
Fairing the foul with Arts false borrowed face,
Sweet beauty hath no name, no holy bower,
But is profand, if not lives in disgrace.
Therefore my mistress eyes are raven black,
Her eyes so suited, and they mourners seem
At such who, not born fair, no beauty lack,
Slandring creation with a false esteem:
Yet so they mourn becoming of their woe,
That every tongue says beauty should look so.

William Shakespeare

William Shakespeare was an English playwright, poet, and actor, regarded as the greatest writer in the English language and the world's greatest dramatist. Known as the 'Bard of Avon,' his extant works include approximately 39 plays, 154 sonnets, two long narrative poems, and a few other verses. His plays have been translated into every major living language and are performed more often than those of any other playwright.

William Shakespeare

The Sonnets CXXXVII - Thou blind fool, Love, what dost thou to mine eyes

William Shakespeare, Simple Poetry

The Sonnets CIV - To me, fair friend, you never can be old

William Shakespeare, Simple Poetry

The Sonnets XXXVIII - How can my muse want subject to invent

William Shakespeare, Simple Poetry

The Sonnets XXXII - If thou survive my well-contented day

William Shakespeare, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

The Sonnets CXXXII - Thine eyes I love, and they, as pitying me

Thine eyes I love, and they, as pitying me,
Knowing thy heart torment me with disdain,
Have put on black and loving mourners be,
Looking with pretty ruth upon my pain.
And truly not the morning sun of heaven
Better becomes the grey cheeks of the east,
Nor that full star that ushers in the even,
Doth half that glory to the sober west,
As those two mourning eyes become thy face:
O! let it then as well beseem thy heart
To mourn for me since mourning doth thee grace,
And suit thy pity like in every part.
Then will I swear beauty herself is black,
And all they foul that thy complexion lack.

William Shakespeare

The Sonnets CXXXI - Thou art as tyrannous, so as thou art

Thou art as tyrannous, so as thou art,
As those whose beauties proudly make them cruel;
For well thou knowst to my dear doting heart
Thou art the fairest and most precious jewel.
Yet, in good faith, some say that thee behold,
Thy face hath not the power to make love groan;
To say they err I dare not be so bold,
Although I swear it to myself alone.
And to be sure that is not false I swear,
A thousand groans, but thinking on thy face,
One on anothers neck, do witness bear
Thy black is fairest in my judgments place.
In nothing art thou black save in thy deeds,
And thence this slander, as I think, proceeds.

William Shakespeare

The Sonnets II - When forty winters shall besiege thy brow

When forty winters shall besiege thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beautys field,
Thy youths proud livery so gazed on now,
Will be a tatterd weed of small worth held:
Then being asked, where all thy beauty lies,
Where all the treasure of thy lusty days;
To say, within thine own deep sunken eyes,
Were an all-eating shame, and thriftless praise.
How much more praise deservd thy beautys use,
If thou couldst answer This fair child of mine
Shall sum my count, and make my old excuse,
Proving his beauty by succession thine!
This were to be new made when thou art old,
And see thy blood warm when thou feelst it cold.

William Shakespeare

The Sonnets CIV - To me, fair friend, you never can be old

To me, fair friend, you never can be old,
For as you were when first your eye I eyd,
Such seems your beauty still. Three winters cold,
Have from the forests shook three summers pride,
Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn turnd,
In process of the seasons have I seen,
Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burnd,
Since first I saw you fresh, which yet are green.
Ah! yet doth beauty like a dial-hand,
Steal from his figure, and no pace perceivd;
So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand,
Hath motion, and mine eye may be deceivd:
For fear of which, hear this thou age unbred:
Ere you were born was beautys summer dead.

William Shakespeare

The Sonnets CVI - When in the chronicle of wasted time

When in the chronicle of wasted time
I see descriptions of the fairest wights,
And beauty making beautiful old rime,
In praise of ladies dead and lovely knights,
Then, in the blazon of sweet beautys best,
Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow,
I see their antique pen would have expressd
Even such a beauty as you master now.
So all their praises are but prophecies
Of this our time, all you prefiguring;
And for they looked but with divining eyes,
They had not skill enough your worth to sing:
For we, which now behold these present days,
Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise.

William Shakespeare

The Sonnets LXVIII - Thus is his cheek the map of days outworn

Thus is his cheek the map of days outworn,
When beauty lived and died as flowers 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 sepulchres, were shorn away,
To live a second life on second head;
Ere beautys dead fleece made another gay:
In him those holy antique hours are seen,
Without all ornament, itself and true,
Making no summer of anothers 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.

William Shakespeare