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Sonnet One hundred and forty-two by William Shakespeare
Love is my sin, and thy dear virtue hate,Hate of my sin, grounded on sinful loving.O, but with mine compare thou thine own state,And thou shalt find it merits not reproving.Or if it do, not from those lips of thine,That have profaned their scarlet ornamentsAnd sealed false bonds of love as oft as mine,Robbed others’ beds’ revenues of their rents.Be it lawful I love thee as thou lov’st thoseWhom thine eyes woo as mine importune thee;Root pity in thy heart, that, when it grows,Thy pity may deserve to pitied be. If thou dost seek to have what thou dost hide, By self-example mayst thou be denied.
10 Nov 2025
Sonnet One hundred and fifty-four by William Shakespeare
The little love-god, lying once asleep,Laid by his side his heart-inflaming brand,Whilst many nymphs that vowed chaste life to keepCame tripping by; but in her maiden handThe fairest votary took up that fire,Which many legions of true hearts had warmed;And so the general of hot desireWas, sleeping, by a virgin hand disarmed.This brand she quenchèd in a cool well by,Which from Love’s fire took heat perpetual,Growing a bath and healthful remedyFor men diseased; but I, my mistress’ thrall, Came there for cure, and this by that I prove: Love’s fire heats water; water cools not love.
10 Nov 2025
Sonnet One hundred and fifty-three by William Shakespeare
Cupid laid by his brand and fell asleep.A maid of Dian’s this advantage found,And his love-kindling fire did quickly steepIn a cold valley-fountain of that ground,Which borrowed from this holy fire of LoveA dateless lively heat, still to endure,And grew a seething bath which yet men proveAgainst strange maladies a sovereign cure.But at my mistress’ eye Love’s brand new fired,The boy for trial needs would touch my breast;I, sick withal, the help of bath desiredAnd thither hied, a sad distempered guest, But found no cure. The bath for my help lies Where Cupid got new fire—my mistress’ eyes.
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