The Sonnets LXXXIV - Who is it that says most, which can say more

Who is it that says most, which can say more,
Than this rich praise, that you alone, are you?
In whose confine immured is the store
Which should example where your equal grew.
Lean penury within that pen doth dwell
That to his subject lends not some small glory;
But he that writes of you, if he can tell
That you are you, so dignifies his story,
Let him but copy what in you is writ,
Not making worse what nature made so clear,
And such a counterpart shall fame his wit,
Making his style admired every where.
You to your beauteous blessings add a curse,
Being fond on praise, which makes your praises worse.

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 XLII - That thou hast her it is not all my grief

William Shakespeare, Simple Poetry

The Sonnets XXI - So is it not with me as with that Muse

William Shakespeare, Simple Poetry

The Sonnets XXVIII - How can I then return in happy plight

William Shakespeare, Simple Poetry

The Sonnets L - How heavy do I journey on the way

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 LXXIX - Whilst I alone did call upon thy aid

Whilst I alone did call upon thy aid,
My verse alone had all thy gentle grace;
But now my gracious numbers are decayd,
And my sick Muse doth give an other place.
I grant, sweet love, thy lovely argument
Deserves the travail of a worthier pen;
Yet what of thee thy poet doth invent
He robs thee of, and pays it thee again.
He lends thee virtue, and he stole that word
From thy behaviour; beauty doth he give,
And found it in thy cheek: he can afford
No praise to thee, but what in thee doth live.
Then thank him not for that which he doth say,
Since what he owes thee, thou thyself dost pay.

William Shakespeare

The Sonnets XCI - Some glory in their birth, some in their skill

Some glory in their birth, some in their skill,
Some in their wealth, some in their bodys force,
Some in their garments though new-fangled ill;
Some in their hawks and hounds, some in their horse;
And every humour 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 costs,
Of more delight than hawks and horses be;
And having thee, of all mens pride I boast:
Wretched in this alone, that thou mayst take
All this away, and me most wretched make.

William Shakespeare

The Sonnets LXXXV - My tongue-tied Muse in manners holds her still

My tongue-tied Muse in manners holds her still,
While comments of your praise richly compild,
Reserve their character with golden quill,
And precious phrase by all the Muses fild.
I think good thoughts, whilst others write good words,
And like unlettered clerk still cry Amen
To every hymn that able spirit affords,
In polishd form of well-refined pen.
Hearing you praised, I say tis so, tis true,
And to the most of praise add something more;
But that is in my thought, whose love to you,
Though words come hindmost, holds his rank before.
Then others, for the breath of words respect,
Me for my dumb thoughts, speaking in effect.

William Shakespeare

The Sonnets XXXIX - O! how thy worth with manners may I sing

O! how thy worth with manners may I sing,
When thou art all the better part of me?
What can mine own praise to mine own self bring?
And what ist but mine own when I praise thee?
Even for this, let us divided live,
And our dear love lose name of single one,
That by this separation I may give
That due to thee which thou deservst alone.
O absence! what a torment wouldst thou prove,
Were it not thy sour leisure gave sweet leave,
To entertain the time with thoughts of love,
Which time and thoughts so sweetly doth deceive,
And that thou teachest how to make one twain,
By praising him here who doth hence remain.

William Shakespeare

The Sonnets XCV - How sweet and lovely dost thou make the shame

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 beautys 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-usd doth lose his edge.

William Shakespeare

The Sonnets CXII - Your love and pity doth the impression fill

Your love and pity doth the impression fill,
Which vulgar scandal stampd upon my brow;
For what care I who calls me well or ill,
So you oer-green my bad, my good allow?
You are my all-the-world, and I must strive
To know my shames and praises from your tongue;
None else to me, nor I to none alive,
That my steeld sense or changes right or wrong.
In so profound abysm I throw all care
Of others voices, that my adders sense
To critic and to flatterer stopped are.
Mark how with my neglect I do dispense:
You are so strongly in my purpose bred,
That all the world besides methinks are dead.

William Shakespeare