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William Shakespeare
(1564-1616)
THE SONNETS
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.
kempis.nl poetry magazine
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William Shakespeare
(1564-1616)
THE SONNETS
109
O never say that I was false of heart,
Though absence seemed my flame to qualify,
As easy might I from my self depart,
As from my soul which in thy breast doth lie:
That is my home of love, if I have ranged,
Like him that travels I return again,
Just to the time, not with the time exchanged,
So that my self bring water for my stain,
Never believe though in my nature reigned,
All frailties that besiege all kinds of blood,
That it could so preposterously be stained,
To leave for nothing all thy sum of good:
For nothing this wide universe I call,
Save thou my rose, in it thou art my all.
kempis.nl poetry magazine
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William Shakespeare
(1564-1616)
THE SONNETS
108
What’s in the brain that ink may character,
Which hath not figured to thee my true spirit,
What’s new to speak, what now to register,
That may express my love, or thy dear merit?
Nothing sweet boy, but yet like prayers divine,
I must each day say o’er the very same,
Counting no old thing old, thou mine, I thine,
Even as when first I hallowed thy fair name.
So that eternal love in love’s fresh case,
Weighs not the dust and injury of age,
Nor gives to necessary wrinkles place,
But makes antiquity for aye his page,
Finding the first conceit of love there bred,
Where time and outward form would show it dead.
kempis.nl poetry magazine
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William Shakespeare
(1564-1616)
THE SONNETS
107
Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul,
Of the wide world, dreaming on things to come,
Can yet the lease of my true love control,
Supposed as forfeit to a confined doom.
The mortal moon hath her eclipse endured,
And the sad augurs mock their own presage,
Incertainties now crown themselves assured,
And peace proclaims olives of endless age.
Now with the drops of this most balmy time,
My love looks fresh, and death to me subscribes,
Since spite of him I’ll live in this poor rhyme,
While he insults o’er dull and speechless tribes.
And thou in this shalt find thy monument,
When tyrants’ crests and tombs of brass are spent.
kempis.nl poetry magazine
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William Shakespeare
(1564-1616)
THE SONNETS
Sonnet 106
When in the chronicle of wasted time,
I see descriptions of the fairest wights,
And beauty making beautiful old rhyme,
In praise of ladies dead, and lovely knights,
Then in the blazon of sweet beauty’s best,
Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow,
I see their antique pen would have expressed,
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.
Sonnet 106
Zie ’k in kronieken van de tijd vergaan
Hoe wezens uiterst fraai beschreven zijn
En schoonheid schoon in oude rijm gedaan,
Met lof op vrouwen dood en ridders fijn,
Dan zie ik in ’t blazoen van zoetste sierlijkheid
Van voorhoofd, oog, van lip, van hand, van voet,
Hoe hun antieke pen zou zijn gewijd
Aan zulk een schoonheid als u eer aandoet.
Dus heel hun hulde is slechts orakeltaal
Op onze tijd, die heel uw beeld voorzegt,
En daar hun blik slechts gissend was en vaal
Deed hun te zwakke zang uw pracht geen recht;
Maar ’t heden dat ons oog het wonder toont,
Verschaft geen tong die dat met lof bekroont.
Vertaling: Cornelis W. Schoneveld
(november 2011)
kempis.nl poetry magazine
More in: -Shakespeare Sonnets, Shakespeare
William Shakespeare
(1564-1616)
THE SONNETS
106
When in the chronicle of wasted time,
I see descriptions of the fairest wights,
And beauty making beautiful old rhyme,
In praise of ladies dead, and lovely knights,
Then in the blazon of sweet beauty’s best,
Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow,
I see their antique pen would have expressed,
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.
kempis.nl poetry magazine
More in: -Shakespeare Sonnets
William Shakespeare
(1564-1616)
THE SONNETS
105
Let not my love be called idolatry,
Nor my beloved as an idol show,
Since all alike my songs and praises be
To one, of one, still such, and ever so.
Kind is my love to-day, to-morrow kind,
Still constant in a wondrous excellence,
Therefore my verse to constancy confined,
One thing expressing, leaves out difference.
Fair, kind, and true, is all my argument,
Fair, kind, and true, varying to other words,
And in this change is my invention spent,
Three themes in one, which wondrous scope affords.
Fair, kind, and true, have often lived alone.
Which three till now, never kept seat in one.
kempis.nl poetry magazine
More in: -Shakespeare Sonnets
William Shakespeare
(1564-1616)
THE SONNETS
104
To me fair friend you never can be old,
For as you were when first your eye I eyed,
Such seems your beauty still: three winters cold,
Have from the forests shook three summers’ pride,
Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn turned,
In process of the seasons have I seen,
Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burned,
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 perceived,
So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand
Hath motion, and mine eye may be deceived.
For fear of which, hear this thou age unbred,
Ere you were born was beauty’s summer dead.
kempis.nl poetry magazine
More in: -Shakespeare Sonnets
William Shakespeare
(1564-1616)
THE SONNETS
Sonnet 103
Alack what poverty my muse brings forth,
That having such a scope to show her pride,
The argument all bare is of more worth
Than when it hath my added praise beside.
O blame me not if I no more can write!
Look in your glass and there appears a face,
That over-goes my blunt invention quite,
Dulling my lines, and doing me disgrace.
Were it not sinful then striving to mend,
To mar the subject that before was well?
For to no other pass my verses tend,
Than of your graces and your gifts to tell.
And more, much more than in my verse can sit,
Your own glass shows you, when you look in it.
Sonnet 103
Ach, hoe armoedig wat mijn muze maakt,
Want met zo’n ruimte toch voor trots vertoon,
Zit er meer waarde in het thema naakt
Dan met mijn lof bekleed als extra loon.
O laak mij niet als ‘t schrijven niet meer komt!
Kijk in uw spiegel en zie daar ‘t gezicht
Zo schoon dat mijn talent is afgestompt,
En ik veracht wordt voor mijn botte dicht.
Was het geen zonde^als ik herstel beoog,
Maar ‘t voorwerp, eerder nog zo gaaf, dan breek?
Want geen bedoeling heeft mijn vers vertoog
Dan dat ‘k uw statie en talent bespreek.
En meer, veel meer, dan uit mijn verzen blijkt,
Toont u uw spiegel, als u er in kijkt.
Vertaling Cornelis W. Schoneveld
(November 2011)
kempis.nl poetry magazine
More in: -Shakespeare Sonnets, Shakespeare
William Shakespeare
(1564-1616)
THE SONNETS
103
Alack what poverty my muse brings forth,
That having such a scope to show her pride,
The argument all bare is of more worth
Than when it hath my added praise beside.
O blame me not if I no more can write!
Look in your glass and there appears a face,
That over-goes my blunt invention quite,
Dulling my lines, and doing me disgrace.
Were it not sinful then striving to mend,
To mar the subject that before was well?
For to no other pass my verses tend,
Than of your graces and your gifts to tell.
And more, much more than in my verse can sit,
Your own glass shows you, when you look in it.
kempis.nl poetry magazine
More in: -Shakespeare Sonnets
William Shakespeare
(1564-1616)
THE SONNETS
Sonnet 102
My love is strengthened though more weak in seeming,
I love not less, though less the show appear,
That love is merchandized, whose rich esteeming,
The owner’s tongue doth publish every where.
Our love was new, and then but in the spring,
When I was wont to greet it with my lays,
As Philomel in summer’s front doth sing,
And stops her pipe in growth of riper days:
Not that the summer is less pleasant now
Than when her mournful hymns did hush the night,
But that wild music burthens every bough,
And sweets grown common lose their dear delight.
Therefore like her, I sometime hold my tongue:
Because I would not dull you with my song.
Sonnet 102
Mijn liefde is versterkt, maar minder zichtbaar,
Niet zwakker, minder slechts geproclameerd;
Díe rijk geschatte liefde is koopwaar
Die de bezitter overal adverteert.
Liefde was nieuw voor ons, pas voorjaar toen,
En ik kon steeds haar in mijn zangen kwijt,
Zoals nachtegalen tot de zomer doen,
En stoppen bij de groei van rijper tijd.
Niet dat de zomer minder nog pleziert
Dan toen haar klaaggezang de nacht bedwong,
Maar dat muzieklawaai door ‘t bos heen giert,
En teveel zoetheid streelt niet meer de tong.
Dus net als zij doet, zwijg ik nu soms stil:
Want jou vervelen is wat ik niet wil.
Vertaling Cornelis W. Schoneveld
(Oktober 2011)
kempis.nl poetry magazine
More in: -Shakespeare Sonnets, Shakespeare
William Shakespeare
(1564-1616)
THE SONNETS
102
My love is strengthened though more weak in seeming,
I love not less, though less the show appear,
That love is merchandized, whose rich esteeming,
The owner’s tongue doth publish every where.
Our love was new, and then but in the spring,
When I was wont to greet it with my lays,
As Philomel in summer’s front doth sing,
And stops her pipe in growth of riper days:
Not that the summer is less pleasant now
Than when her mournful hymns did hush the night,
But that wild music burthens every bough,
And sweets grown common lose their dear delight.
Therefore like her, I sometime hold my tongue:
Because I would not dull you with my song.
kempis.nl poetry magazine
More in: -Shakespeare Sonnets
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