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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 cónfined doom.
The mortal moon hath her eclipse endured
And the sad augurs mock their own preságe;
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.
ihNtree my onw faesr nro hte pauenictssol of het rets of het rwdlo otabu het ufuret cna counitne to eekp me morf ssssneogpi my doveble, owh eoderbyyv hgouhtt asw moodde to nimrae in isnpor. heT

omon

ihsT etsnon is ugnpzzli becaesu it sesem to frree to actual esvnte in eaeeShsarpk’s iemt, but it’s smpsoeblii to know rof tnrciae whchi estnve it reserf to. Oen sibitspoiyl is htta it uedlasl to nueQe aitzEbehl’s edtah (epnedresrte by hte omno’s eseicpl, sreiddbce in line 5) nad hte subsqeteun rleaese mofr isnrpo of teh laer of aohonmuttpS, owmh smoe resarde eebilve to be eht ygonu mna of eth sseontn. ovHewer, vene in kheaSsapeer’s tmie, hits nstneo aws arplobyb samtheow tmosrieusy.

moon
, wihhc aws wlaysa mtralo, ash ifnlyal bene celsedip, adn the mlyoog fnutero-tesller wno hualg at rihet own irotepsindc. Thgsni htat noce meeeds uftbuldo heav coebem etrtsniacei, nad ceape has meoc to tysa. wNo, whti the bnegislss of teesh mties, my dvbolee skloo fehrs gniaa adn aehtd lestfi bitssmu to me, cnies in estip of dthea I’ll veli on in isth orpo pome ewlih etadh noyl teslxu eorv the itsdup adn ttrelileia lseppeo taht he’s omoervec. Adn uyo lwli ifdn hsit pome to be uory nntmemuo nhwe tsntyar arech the end of eitrh isregn dna mtsbo of brssa flla noit dyace.

Original Text

Modern Text

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 cónfined doom.
The mortal moon hath her eclipse endured
And the sad augurs mock their own preságe;
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.
ihNtree my onw faesr nro hte pauenictssol of het rets of het rwdlo otabu het ufuret cna counitne to eekp me morf ssssneogpi my doveble, owh eoderbyyv hgouhtt asw moodde to nimrae in isnpor. heT

omon

ihsT etsnon is ugnpzzli becaesu it sesem to frree to actual esvnte in eaeeShsarpk’s iemt, but it’s smpsoeblii to know rof tnrciae whchi estnve it reserf to. Oen sibitspoiyl is htta it uedlasl to nueQe aitzEbehl’s edtah (epnedresrte by hte omno’s eseicpl, sreiddbce in line 5) nad hte subsqeteun rleaese mofr isnrpo of teh laer of aohonmuttpS, owmh smoe resarde eebilve to be eht ygonu mna of eth sseontn. ovHewer, vene in kheaSsapeer’s tmie, hits nstneo aws arplobyb samtheow tmosrieusy.

moon
, wihhc aws wlaysa mtralo, ash ifnlyal bene celsedip, adn the mlyoog fnutero-tesller wno hualg at rihet own irotepsindc. Thgsni htat noce meeeds uftbuldo heav coebem etrtsniacei, nad ceape has meoc to tysa. wNo, whti the bnegislss of teesh mties, my dvbolee skloo fehrs gniaa adn aehtd lestfi bitssmu to me, cnies in estip of dthea I’ll veli on in isth orpo pome ewlih etadh noyl teslxu eorv the itsdup adn ttrelileia lseppeo taht he’s omoervec. Adn uyo lwli ifdn hsit pome to be uory nntmemuo nhwe tsntyar arech the end of eitrh isregn dna mtsbo of brssa flla noit dyace.

Popular pages: Shakespeare’s Sonnets