THE LIST OF SHAKESPEARE'S SONNETS

Sonnet 1

Sonnet 2

Sonnet 3

Sonnet 4

Sonnet 5

Sonnet 6

Sonnet 7

Sonnet 8

Sonnet 9

Sonnet 10

Sonnet 11

Sonnet 12

Sonnet 13

Sonnet 14

Sonnet 15

Sonnet 16

Sonnet 17

Sonnet 18

Sonnet 19

Sonnet 20

Sonnet 21

Sonnet 22

Sonnet 23

Sonnet 24

Sonnet 25

Sonnet 26

Sonnet 27

Sonnet 28

Sonnet 29

Sonnet 30

Sonnet 31

Sonnet 32

Sonnet 33

Sonnet 34

Sonnet 35

Sonnet 36

Sonnet 37

Sonnet 38

Sonnet 39

Sonnet 40

Sonnet 41

Sonnet 42

Sonnet 43

Sonnet 44

Sonnet 45

Sonnet 46

Sonnet 47

Sonnet 48

Sonnet 49

Sonnet 50

Sonnet 51

Sonnet 52

Sonnet 53

Sonnet 54

Sonnet 55

Sonnet 56

Sonnet 57

Sonnet 58

Sonnet 59

Sonnet 60

Sonnet 61

Sonnet 62

Sonnet 63

Sonnet 64

Sonnet 65

Sonnet 66

Sonnet 67

Sonnet 68

Sonnet 69

Sonnet 70

Sonnet 71

Sonnet 72

Sonnet 73

Sonnet 74

Sonnet 75

Sonnet 76

Sonnet 77

Sonnet 78

Sonnet 79

Sonnet 80

Sonnet 81

Sonnet 82

Sonnet 83

Sonnet 84

Sonnet 85

Sonnet 86

Sonnet 87

Sonnet 88

Sonnet 89

Sonnet 90

Sonnet 91

Sonnet 92

Sonnet 93

Sonnet 94

Sonnet 95

Sonnet 96

Sonnet 97

Sonnet 98

Sonnet 99

Sonnet 100

Sonnet 101

Sonnet 102

Sonnet 103

Sonnet 104

Sonnet 105

Sonnet 106

Sonnet 107

Sonnet 108

Sonnet 109

Sonnet 110

Sonnet 111

Sonnet 112

Sonnet 113

Sonnet 114

Sonnet 115

Sonnet 116

Sonnet 117

Sonnet 118

Sonnet 119

Sonnet 120

Sonnet 121

Sonnet 122

Sonnet 123

Sonnet 124

Sonnet 125

Sonnet 126

Sonnet 127

Sonnet 128

Sonnet 129

Sonnet 130

Sonnet 131

Sonnet 132

Sonnet 133

Sonnet 134

Sonnet 135

Sonnet 136

Sonnet 137

Sonnet 138

Sonnet 139

Sonnet 140

Sonnet 141

Sonnet 142

Sonnet 143

Sonnet 144

Sonnet 145

Sonnet 146

Sonnet 147

Sonnet 148

Sonnet 149

Sonnet 150

Sonnet 151

Sonnet 152

Sonnet 153

Sonnet 154

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 From fairest creatures we desire increase,

When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,

Look in thy glass, and tell the face thou viewest

Unthrifty loveliness, why dost thou spend

Those hours, that with gentle work did frame

Then let not winter's ragged hand deface

Lo! in the orient when the gracious light

Music to hear, why hear'st thou music sadly?

Is it for fear to wet a widow's eye

For shame! deny that thou bear'st love to any,

As fast as thou shalt wane, so fast thou growest

When I do count the clock that tells the time,

O, that you were yourself! but, love, you are

Not from the stars do I my judgment pluck;

When I consider every thing that grows

But wherefore do not you a mightier way

Who will believe my verse in time to come,

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?

Devouring Time, blunt thou the lion's paws,

A woman's face with Nature's own hand painted

So is it not with me as with that Muse

My glass shall not persuade me I am old,

As an unperfect actor on the stage

Mine eye hath play'd the painter and hath stell'd

Let those who are in favour with their stars

Lord of my love, to whom in vassalage

Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed,

How can I then return in happy plight,

When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,

When to the sessions of sweet silent thought

Thy bosom is endeared with all hearts,

If thou survive my well-contented day,

Full many a glorious morning have I seen

Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day,

No more be grieved at that which thou hast done:

Let me confess that we two must be twain,

As a decrepit father takes delight

How can my Muse want subject to invent,

O, how thy worth with manners may I sing,

Take all my loves, my love, yea, take them all;

Those petty wrongs that liberty commits,

That thou hast her, it is not all my grief,

When most I wink, then do mine eyes best see,

If the dull substance of my flesh were thought,

The other two, slight air and purging fire,

Mine eye and heart are at a mortal war

Betwixt mine eye and heart a league is took,

How careful was I, when I took my way,

Against that time, if ever that time come,

How heavy do I journey on the way,

Thus can my love excuse the slow offence

So am I as the rich, whose blessed key

What is your substance, whereof are you made,

O, how much more doth beauty beauteous seem

Not marble, nor the gilded monuments

Sweet love, renew thy force; be it not said

Being your slave, what should I do but tend

That god forbid that made me first your slave,

If there be nothing new, but that which is

Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore,

Is it thy will thy image should keep open

Sin of self-love possesseth all mine eye

Against my love shall be, as I am now,

When I have seen by Time's fell hand defaced

Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea,

Tired with all these, for restful death I cry,

Ah! wherefore with infection should he live,

Thus is his cheek the map of days outworn,

Those parts of thee that the world's eye doth view

That thou art blamed shall not be thy defect,

No longer mourn for me when I am dead

O, lest the world should task you to recite

That time of year thou mayst in me behold

But be contented: when that fell arrest

So are you to my thoughts as food to life,

Why is my verse so barren of new pride,

Thy glass will show thee how thy beauties wear,

So oft have I invoked thee for my Muse

Whilst I alone did call upon thy aid,

O, how I faint when I of you do write,

Or I shall live your epitaph to make,

I grant thou wert not married to my Muse

I never saw that you did painting need

Who is it that says most? which can say more

My tongue-tied Muse in manners holds her still,

Was it the proud full sail of his great verse,

Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing,

When thou shalt be disposed to set me light,

Say that thou didst forsake me for some fault,

Then hate me when thou wilt; if ever, now;

Some glory in their birth, some in their skill,

But do thy worst to steal thyself away,

So shall I live, supposing thou art true,

They that have power to hurt and will do none,

How sweet and lovely dost thou make the shame

Some say thy fault is youth, some wantonness;

How like a winter hath my absence been

From you have I been absent in the spring,

The forward violet thus did I chide:

Where art thou, Muse, that thou forget'st so long

O truant Muse, what shall be thy amends

My love is strengthen'd, though more weak in seeming;

Alack, what poverty my Muse brings forth,

To me, fair friend, you never can be old,

Let not my love be call'd idolatry,

When in the chronicle of wasted time

Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul

What's in the brain that ink may character

O, never say that I was false of heart,

Alas, 'tis true I have gone here and there

O, for my sake do you with Fortune chide,

Your love and pity doth the impression fill

Since I left you, mine eye is in my mind;

Or whether doth my mind, being crown'd with you,

Those lines that I before have writ do lie,

Let me not to the marriage of true minds

Accuse me thus: that I have scanted all

Like as, to make our appetites more keen,

What potions have I drunk of Siren tears,

That you were once unkind befriends me now,

'Tis better to be vile than vile esteem'd,

Thy gift, thy tables, are within my brain

No, Time, thou shalt not boast that I do change:

If my dear love were but the child of state,

Were 't aught to me I bore the canopy,

O thou, my lovely boy, who in thy power

if it were, it bore not beauty's name;

oft, when thou, my music, music play'st,

The expense of spirit in a waste of shame

My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;

Thou art as tyrannous, so as thou art,

Thine eyes I love, and they, as pitying me,

Beshrew that heart that makes my heart to groan

So, now I have confess'd that he is thine,

Whoever hath her wish, thou hast thy 'Will,'

If thy soul cheque thee that I come so near,

Thou blind fool, Love, what dost thou to mine eyes,

When my love swears that she is made of truth

O, call not me to justify the wrong

Be wise as thou art cruel; do not press

In faith, I do not love thee with mine eyes,

Love is my sin and thy dear virtue hate,

Lo! as a careful housewife runs to catch

Two loves I have of comfort and despair,

Those lips that Love's own hand did make

Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth,

My love is as a fever, longing still

O me, what eyes hath Love put in my head,

Canst thou, O cruel! say I love thee not,

O, from what power hast thou this powerful might

Love is too young to know what conscience is;

In loving thee thou know'st I am forsworn,

Cupid laid by his brand, and fell asleep:

The little Love-god lying once asleep

Click here for the analysis of Sonnet 18 with its paraphrase!!!!

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