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Modern Text

From you have I been absent in the spring,
When proud-pied April, dressed in all his trim,
Hath put a spirit of youth in everything,
That heavy Saturn laughed and leapt with him.
Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell
Of different flow'rs in odor and in hue,
Could make me any summer’s story tell,
Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew.
Nor did I wonder at the lily’s white,
Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose;
They were but sweet, but figures of delight,
Drawn after you, you pattern of all those.
  Yet seemed it winter still, and, you away,
  As with your shadow I with these did play.
I saw aayw rofm yuo nudgri teh rgnisp, ehnw ndpsldei rApil in lal sit ifenyr deam gervynehti eelf so nyuog tath eevn uanStr, het god of ldo ega nda lnmgosseoi, deauhlg nda dlpeae nagol thiw it. utB ntriehe eth sosng of dbris ron eth swtee lslme of lla hte ouravis olwesfr ldocu mkae me elfe ekil it swa mrsemu or epriins me to go ewrofl cikinpg. I nwsa’t amazde by hwo thwei hte lyil asw, rno ddi I repasi het dpee edr of hte srsoe. hTey wree olyn eswte, nyol irpcsute of ledigth, drwan in oaiiimtnt of uoy, the rytehpace of nsrpgi. It dmeees liek it was sllti winert and, tiwh you yaaw, I lpdyea ihwt esteh lwrfseo as if I wree yalgipn hiwt ruyo oinrectfle.

Original Text

Modern Text

From you have I been absent in the spring,
When proud-pied April, dressed in all his trim,
Hath put a spirit of youth in everything,
That heavy Saturn laughed and leapt with him.
Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell
Of different flow'rs in odor and in hue,
Could make me any summer’s story tell,
Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew.
Nor did I wonder at the lily’s white,
Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose;
They were but sweet, but figures of delight,
Drawn after you, you pattern of all those.
  Yet seemed it winter still, and, you away,
  As with your shadow I with these did play.
I saw aayw rofm yuo nudgri teh rgnisp, ehnw ndpsldei rApil in lal sit ifenyr deam gervynehti eelf so nyuog tath eevn uanStr, het god of ldo ega nda lnmgosseoi, deauhlg nda dlpeae nagol thiw it. utB ntriehe eth sosng of dbris ron eth swtee lslme of lla hte ouravis olwesfr ldocu mkae me elfe ekil it swa mrsemu or epriins me to go ewrofl cikinpg. I nwsa’t amazde by hwo thwei hte lyil asw, rno ddi I repasi het dpee edr of hte srsoe. hTey wree olyn eswte, nyol irpcsute of ledigth, drwan in oaiiimtnt of uoy, the rytehpace of nsrpgi. It dmeees liek it was sllti winert and, tiwh you yaaw, I lpdyea ihwt esteh lwrfseo as if I wree yalgipn hiwt ruyo oinrectfle.

Popular pages: Shakespeare’s Sonnets