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Introduction

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE is the most studied writer in the history of Western civilization, the breadth of his genius so great that twentieth-century poet William Carlos Williams declared, “Shakespeare is the greatest university of all.”

Over a span of twenty years, Shakespeare churned out an impressively whopping thirty-eight plays, 154 love sonnets, and two epic narrative poems. While most people associate him with his plays, it was his sonnets that likely earned him admiration among his contemporaries. Yes, that’s right: In his lifetime, Shakespeare garnered more acclaim for his sonnets than he did for his plays.

In England during the 1590s, writing plays was considered a bit hackish—a way to pay the bills—and not an intellectual pursuit. Writing sonnets was all the rage—and a way to gain literary prestige. These poems weren’t published for the plebeian public, but were written down and shared among the literati—and aristocrats looking for some intellectual cachet by becoming patrons to brilliant but perhaps financially strapped writers. So, while Shakespeare likely wrote nearly all of his love sonnets in the early to mid 1590s, they weren’t officially collected and published until 1609, well after the fad had passed.

W. H. Auden said of Shakespeare’s sonnets: “They are the work of someone whose ear is unerring.” In today’s less poetry-friendly world, appreciation of these sonnets tends, sadly, to be relegated to classrooms, Valentine’s Day, and anniversaries. Which is too bad, because—though they do indeed rhyme—they are far superior to the ditties found in ninety-nine-cent greeting cards. In fact, they cover the whole gamut of love—the good, the bad, the erotic, and the ugly, including love triangles, being dumped, and jealousy.

There is also speculation as to how autobiographical the sonnets are. The truth is that we know so little about Shakespeare’s private life. Of particular interest is the fact that he lived apart from his wife for twenty years. At the height of his fame in the bustle of London, it’s not hard to imagine that he selected a mistress or two (or more) from the bevy of groupies he surely had. Or did he have male lovers? There is no conclusive evidence confirming either of these possibilities. But both are, indeed, possibilities.

The sonnets are generally divided into three different sections. Sonnets 1 through 126 (including the infamous “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day,” on page 26) are addressed to a friend who appears to be a young, handsome (yes, male) aristocrat. There are several real-life candidates for the addressee, but his true identity (if he did, in fact, exist) has never been confirmed, as well as whether their relationship extended beyond platonic friendship.

Sonnets 127 through 152 (including the oft-quoted “My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun,” on page 154) are chiefly addressed to a mysterious “Dark Lady,” who, again, remains unidentified these 400 years later—if, indeed, she was based on an actual person.

And what of the last two sonnets (153 and 154), you ask? They are considered by most to be one-offs that don’t appear to have much connection to the preceding poems—or to each other.

In this compact tome, we’ve collected 80 of Shakespeare’s most memorable sonnets for your perusal and enjoyment. Careful not to swoon. Actually, go ahead—swoon away to some of the most beautiful and eloquent poems ever composed.

The Sonnets

1

FROM FAIREST CREATURES

      we desire increase,

That thereby beauty’s rose

   might never die,

But as the riper should by time

   decease,

His tender heir might bear

   his memory;

But thou contracted to

   thine own bright eyes,

Feed’st thy light’s flame with

   self-substantial fuel,

Making a famine where abundance

   lies,

Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet

   self too cruel.

Thou that art now the world’s fresh

   ornament,

And only herald to the gaudy spring,

Within thine own bud

   buriest thy content,

And, tender churl, mak’st

   waste in niggarding.

Pity the world, or else this

   glutton be,

To eat the world’s due, by

   the grave and thee.