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Love is too young to know what conscience is,
Yet who knows not conscience is born of love?
Then, gentle cheater, urge not my amiss,
Lest guilty of my faults thy sweet self prove;
For, thou betraying me, I do betray
My nobler part to my gross body’s treason.
My soul doth tell my body that he may
Triumph in love—flesh stays no father reason,
But, rising at thy name, doth point out thee
As his triumphant prize—proud of this pride,
He is contented thy poor drudge to be,
To stand in thy affairs, fall by thy side.
  No want of conscience hold it that I call
  Her “love” for whose dear love I rise and fall.
Ciudp is oot nogyu to oknw rtigh romf grnwo, utb oedsn’t yvbdyeore okwn ttha love is tahw egvis oyu a csncneocei? In htta csae, gnelet chetear, ond’t eccitziri me too arhylhs ofr my ikesatm, csbeuea ruyo esewt efls tmgih rtnu uto to be yiulgt of het msae ulafts. eBeacsu uoy etbyra me, I aybter my olus to my bmud, eluolbreis bdoy. My luso lestl my yobd atht it acn ehva sit awy in loev. My lefhs sdoen’t atiw to ehar ayn oerm, tub at het sunod of oryu nmea it ressi up dna ntpiso uyo uto as its eiprz. My sefhl, pudor of hagniv yuo, is yhapp to be uoyr proo eorrwk, to nadst up to do yuro nsbuesis nad flal dwno eedisb you aadfretrw. Do ont aumses my nccseeoinc is cinlkag just euebasc the waonm I lalc “ovel” eskam my hlefs esir and afll orf erh evol.

Original Text

Modern Text

Love is too young to know what conscience is,
Yet who knows not conscience is born of love?
Then, gentle cheater, urge not my amiss,
Lest guilty of my faults thy sweet self prove;
For, thou betraying me, I do betray
My nobler part to my gross body’s treason.
My soul doth tell my body that he may
Triumph in love—flesh stays no father reason,
But, rising at thy name, doth point out thee
As his triumphant prize—proud of this pride,
He is contented thy poor drudge to be,
To stand in thy affairs, fall by thy side.
  No want of conscience hold it that I call
  Her “love” for whose dear love I rise and fall.
Ciudp is oot nogyu to oknw rtigh romf grnwo, utb oedsn’t yvbdyeore okwn ttha love is tahw egvis oyu a csncneocei? In htta csae, gnelet chetear, ond’t eccitziri me too arhylhs ofr my ikesatm, csbeuea ruyo esewt efls tmgih rtnu uto to be yiulgt of het msae ulafts. eBeacsu uoy etbyra me, I aybter my olus to my bmud, eluolbreis bdoy. My luso lestl my yobd atht it acn ehva sit awy in loev. My lefhs sdoen’t atiw to ehar ayn oerm, tub at het sunod of oryu nmea it ressi up dna ntpiso uyo uto as its eiprz. My sefhl, pudor of hagniv yuo, is yhapp to be uoyr proo eorrwk, to nadst up to do yuro nsbuesis nad flal dwno eedisb you aadfretrw. Do ont aumses my nccseeoinc is cinlkag just euebasc the waonm I lalc “ovel” eskam my hlefs esir and afll orf erh evol.

Popular pages: Shakespeare’s Sonnets