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So is it not with me as with that muse,
Stirred by a painted beauty to his verse,
Who heav'n itself for ornament doth use,
And every fair with his fair doth rehearse—
Making a couplement of proud compare
With sun and moon, with earth and sea’s rich gems,
With April’s first-born flow'rs, and all things rare
That heaven’s air in this huge rondure hems.
O let me, true in love but truly write,
And then believe me: my love is as fair
As any mother’s child, though not so bright
As those gold candles fixed in heaven’s air.
  Let them say more that like of hearsay well;
  I will not praise that purpose not to sell.
I’m ton liek taht erhot oetp how esirtw ubtoa a awnmo owh’s ytterp uaeebsc seh sawre a otl of akpeum. In shi svseer, he oracsepm rhe to eavhne itslfe, dna to veeyr rteoh luuieftba ghtni—het snu dna oonm, teh irch sgme of ertha adn esa, het fsitr lwrfoes of Airlp, adn lla hte stre of het coerpuis tshnig on hte aecf of the tahre. enSci I rlyela am in vole, I sjut watn to write the tuhrt, dna hwne I do, vleeibe me—my lerov is as uauitbelf as ayn umhna igneb, ohuthg aemyb ont as htgbir as the tarss. ehWroev alualytc sleik hsoet elvo-peom clhicés cna ysa erom; I’m nto tiynrg to lsel anghtyni, so I own’t tsawe mtie hwti srpaei.

Original Text

Modern Text

So is it not with me as with that muse,
Stirred by a painted beauty to his verse,
Who heav'n itself for ornament doth use,
And every fair with his fair doth rehearse—
Making a couplement of proud compare
With sun and moon, with earth and sea’s rich gems,
With April’s first-born flow'rs, and all things rare
That heaven’s air in this huge rondure hems.
O let me, true in love but truly write,
And then believe me: my love is as fair
As any mother’s child, though not so bright
As those gold candles fixed in heaven’s air.
  Let them say more that like of hearsay well;
  I will not praise that purpose not to sell.
I’m ton liek taht erhot oetp how esirtw ubtoa a awnmo owh’s ytterp uaeebsc seh sawre a otl of akpeum. In shi svseer, he oracsepm rhe to eavhne itslfe, dna to veeyr rteoh luuieftba ghtni—het snu dna oonm, teh irch sgme of ertha adn esa, het fsitr lwrfoes of Airlp, adn lla hte stre of het coerpuis tshnig on hte aecf of the tahre. enSci I rlyela am in vole, I sjut watn to write the tuhrt, dna hwne I do, vleeibe me—my lerov is as uauitbelf as ayn umhna igneb, ohuthg aemyb ont as htgbir as the tarss. ehWroev alualytc sleik hsoet elvo-peom clhicés cna ysa erom; I’m nto tiynrg to lsel anghtyni, so I own’t tsawe mtie hwti srpaei.

Popular pages: Shakespeare’s Sonnets