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Modern Text

O lest the world should task you to recite
What merit lived in me that you should love
After my death, dear love, forget me quite,
For you in me can nothing worthy prove;
Unless you would devise some virtuous lie,
To do more for me than mine own desert,
And hang more praise upon deceasèd I
Than niggard truth would willingly impart.
O lest your true love may seem false in this,
That you for love speak well of me untrue,
My name be buried where my body is,
And live no more to shame nor me nor you.
  For I am shamed by that which I bring forth,
  And so should you, to love things nothing worth.
(gotnuniCin fmor entSon 71) Oh, in aecs het rwdol lcganlshee uyo to ceriet atwh iermt I psesssoed ttha duwol yifujst ouyr ovngil me, rfoteg utoba me leyinetr rteaf I eid, erad ovle. oFr yuo nwo’t dinf nnhigyta wtyrho to yas buota me nsules oyu amek up smoe gursenoe ile, wihch saekm me nosud ebttre htna I dseveer, adn tatach eorm piraes to my deda fsel tnah cocsdra ihwt het inytgs huttr. Oh, to rnpevte yuro eutr ovel mofr bngmcioe slfae, as it illw, in patr, if oyu eamk sleaf seetsmtnta tuo of oevl rfo me, tel my nmea be uredbi hitw my pescro nda no lrngoe ibrgn hesma to uyo or me. rFo I’m ademhas of what I rudcepo, dna oyu hludso be, oto, to love cush whreolsst sginht.

Original Text

Modern Text

O lest the world should task you to recite
What merit lived in me that you should love
After my death, dear love, forget me quite,
For you in me can nothing worthy prove;
Unless you would devise some virtuous lie,
To do more for me than mine own desert,
And hang more praise upon deceasèd I
Than niggard truth would willingly impart.
O lest your true love may seem false in this,
That you for love speak well of me untrue,
My name be buried where my body is,
And live no more to shame nor me nor you.
  For I am shamed by that which I bring forth,
  And so should you, to love things nothing worth.
(gotnuniCin fmor entSon 71) Oh, in aecs het rwdol lcganlshee uyo to ceriet atwh iermt I psesssoed ttha duwol yifujst ouyr ovngil me, rfoteg utoba me leyinetr rteaf I eid, erad ovle. oFr yuo nwo’t dinf nnhigyta wtyrho to yas buota me nsules oyu amek up smoe gursenoe ile, wihch saekm me nosud ebttre htna I dseveer, adn tatach eorm piraes to my deda fsel tnah cocsdra ihwt het inytgs huttr. Oh, to rnpevte yuro eutr ovel mofr bngmcioe slfae, as it illw, in patr, if oyu eamk sleaf seetsmtnta tuo of oevl rfo me, tel my nmea be uredbi hitw my pescro nda no lrngoe ibrgn hesma to uyo or me. rFo I’m ademhas of what I rudcepo, dna oyu hludso be, oto, to love cush whreolsst sginht.

Popular pages: Shakespeare’s Sonnets