Shakespeare’s Sonnets in Modern English

Sonnet 73

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.

Sonnet 94

Those who have the ability to hurt but choose not to,Who do not use that power even though they look most certain of having it,Who, when moving others, are themselves still,Unmoved, emotionally cold, and slow to temptation,It is they who rightly inherit heaven's gracesAnd spare nature's riches from ruin;They can control their thoughts and emotions,While others merely serve their emotions.The summer flower is sweet to the summer,Though the flower lives and dies only for itself;But if that flower should develop an awful infection,The worst weed would outshine the flower in dignity:For it is those things that are sweetest that can become sourest by their deeds;Lilies that rot smell far worse than weeds.

1

Sonnet 116

I will not allow myself to admit that true love has any restrictions. Love isn’t really love if it changes when it sees the beloved change or if it disappears when the beloved leaves. Oh no, love is a constant and unchanging light that shines on storms without being shaken; it is the star that guides every wandering boat. And like a star, its value is beyond measure, though its height can be measured. Love is not under time’s power, though time has the power to destroy rosy lips and cheeks. Love does not alter with the passage of brief hours and weeks, but lasts until Doomsday. If I’m wrong about this and can be proven wrong, I never wrote, and no man ever loved.

Sonnet 130

My mistress’s eyes are nothing like the sun. Coral is much redder than the red of her lips. Compared to the whiteness of snow, her breasts are grayish-brown. Poets describe their mistresses' hair as gold wires, but my mistress has black wires growing on her head. I have seen roses that were a mixture of red and white, but I don’t see those colors in her cheeks. And some perfumes smell more delightful than my mistress’s reeking breath. I love to hear her speak; yet I know perfectly well that music has a far more pleasant sound. I admit I never saw a goddess walk; when my mistress walks, she treads on the ground. And yet, by heaven, I think my beloved is as special as any woman whom poets have lied about with false comparisons.

2