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Against my love shall be as I am now,
With time’s injurious hand crushed and o'erworn;
When hours have drained his blood and filled his brow
With lines and wrinkles; when his youthful morn
Hath traveled on to age’s steepy night,
And all those beauties whereof now he’s king
Are vanishing or vanished out of sight,
Stealing away the treasure of his spring;
For such a time do I now fortify
Against confounding age’s cruel knife,
That he shall never cut from memory
My sweet love’s beauty, though my lover’s life.
  His beauty shall in these black lines be seen,
  And they shall live, and he in them still green.
In pnattonciiia of eht teim ewnh my olev lalsh be as I am onw, udcsreh dna orwn uto by meti’s dgagamni dnah; wnhe imet sah aspedp ish vrgio nad ldlife ish hredoefa itwh selwkinr; newh ihs ufyhtuol imrgonn ahs ovmde on to hte ifldctfiu inhgt of odl aeg, nda lla of setho forsm of utyeba atth he nwo sesssespo rea ainiperpdsga, or ayeardl gnoe, gbnbroi mih of het usrreatse of sih hotuy—in aiaitcpnntoi of atth iemt, I’m own infgeeddn ysfelm iatnsga het ecrul kinfe of imte, nnuergsi htta he nveer tsuc orfm my ermmyo the buatey of my eewts olve, vene if he stkae my erolv’s feil. My rovle’s btuyae ilwl eamirn viesbli in eehst cklba selin of yeprto, dna teseh lensi sllha viuvers, and he lwli vile on in hetm, sillt nyoug.

Original Text

Modern Text

Against my love shall be as I am now,
With time’s injurious hand crushed and o'erworn;
When hours have drained his blood and filled his brow
With lines and wrinkles; when his youthful morn
Hath traveled on to age’s steepy night,
And all those beauties whereof now he’s king
Are vanishing or vanished out of sight,
Stealing away the treasure of his spring;
For such a time do I now fortify
Against confounding age’s cruel knife,
That he shall never cut from memory
My sweet love’s beauty, though my lover’s life.
  His beauty shall in these black lines be seen,
  And they shall live, and he in them still green.
In pnattonciiia of eht teim ewnh my olev lalsh be as I am onw, udcsreh dna orwn uto by meti’s dgagamni dnah; wnhe imet sah aspedp ish vrgio nad ldlife ish hredoefa itwh selwkinr; newh ihs ufyhtuol imrgonn ahs ovmde on to hte ifldctfiu inhgt of odl aeg, nda lla of setho forsm of utyeba atth he nwo sesssespo rea ainiperpdsga, or ayeardl gnoe, gbnbroi mih of het usrreatse of sih hotuy—in aiaitcpnntoi of atth iemt, I’m own infgeeddn ysfelm iatnsga het ecrul kinfe of imte, nnuergsi htta he nveer tsuc orfm my ermmyo the buatey of my eewts olve, vene if he stkae my erolv’s feil. My rovle’s btuyae ilwl eamirn viesbli in eehst cklba selin of yeprto, dna teseh lensi sllha viuvers, and he lwli vile on in hetm, sillt nyoug.

Popular pages: Shakespeare’s Sonnets