Shakespeare's Sonnets
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William Shakespeare
William Shakespeare is the world's greatest ever playwright. Born in 1564, he split his time between Stratford-upon-Avon and London, where he worked as a playwright, poet and actor. In 1582 he married Anne Hathaway. Shakespeare died in 1616 at the age of fifty-two, leaving three children—Susanna, Hamnet and Judith. The rest is silence.
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Reviews for Shakespeare's Sonnets
1,092 ratings21 reviews
- Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5A stunning edition. Incredibly dense but rarely arrogant! Love it.
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5A difficult art form, and laid out by a master.
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5This was narrated by multiple narrators, the great and good of the acting profession and it was a delight to listen to. If I was going to quibble, the volume level was a little uneven, and some seemed to have been recorded in a huge, empty auditorium. I also think that it might have benefited from allowing a little longer between each sonnet, or giving the number for each one. Having said that, the craftmanship in here is exquisite. The words, the use of language, the way the stresses on a repeated word changed as it was used multiple times in a sonnet, it all makes for a beautiful listening experience. I also noticed that the tone changes as you move through the sequence. The initial ones feel very young and idealistic, then there moves into a period of death or loss featuring and towards the end there seems to be a bitter or disappointed note creeping in at times. I now want to find a copy with some scholarly notes on each one and read them all over again allowing myself to savour each one. This Shakespeare chappie, he's good!
- Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5Shakespeare's poems deserve to be read and studies, but they also deserve to be heard. Simon Callow has a wonderful voice, but I wish the number of the sonnets was announced as he read them.
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Shakespeares Dramen kennt die ganze Welt, heute noch werden sie gespielt. Auch seine Sonette sind bekannt, etwa Sonett 18: „Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? (Soll ich dich einem Sommertag vergleichen?)“ oder 66 „Tired with all these, for restful death I cry“. Ich finde diese Ausgabe sehr schön, da sie die englische und die deutsche Sprache gegenüber stellt. Und Shakespeares Englisch ist einfach schön zu lesen, weil es rhythmisch und melodisch ist: „ To me, fair friend, you never can be old, For as you were when first your eye I eyed, Such seems your beauty still…”(Sonett 104)Es ist recht interessant, im Nachwort zu lesen, dass Shakespeares Sonette deutlich mehr als seine Dramen Autobiografisches zu transportieren scheinen. So ist die Identität von „Mr. W. H.“, dem „Erzeuger der Sonette“, nie aufgeklärt worden. Der Wikipdia-Artikel zu den Sonetten ist sehr ausführlich: https://de.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shakespeares_Sonette
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5What can I say? If you love Shakespeare, you're definitely gonna love this one.
All his Sonnets in one book, along with detailed explanation notes to help with the meanings of each sonnet. Loved it! - Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5Music to mine ears.
- Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5There are poems which are life rafts and serve much the same purpose, and this collection is full of them. They're a big part of who I am and where I am today.
- Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5Beautiful, intelligent, lyrical, romantic, clever, bitter, amusing, sorrowful -- the gamut in 14 lines at a time. Pure genius.
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Certainly I do not admire this guy for the conceit of his audience, although I was curious to see if the affectation of the style would match the conceit it provoked, or whether it was rather different and undeserving of it, that is, unworthy of the negative association. Certainly the poetry is I think the better part of it, preferable to the plays, which are bloody and gloomy. (I got a 'complete works' of William S., but mostly for the poetry.) Many of them are about the most infamous wars, and even the ones that go by the reputation of being romantic are generally gory and distasteful.... (indeed, the comedy is rather somber).... I think that the reputation rather supports itself beyond a certain point; people read it to dip into the conceit, I think, of the people who read it. Part of the conceit is for things historical, and William S.'s chronological position, so early in the post-medieval period, benefits him, I think, it's the oldest (and, therefore, the best?) stuff that is generally intelligible in the original. Even more than that, though, the reputation of it being a sort of quasi-sacred Canon of super-highly valued works.... the reputation supports the reputation. It's what people are used to thinking. [And this conceit really does not require much knowledge; it's a common thing, albeit one that may be unimproved by much learning.] But if there's something in it besides egotistical war, it must be in the poetry. Surely alot of it is just over-rated because it's part of the Canon. And yet the sonnets have at least the stated intention of facilitating fertility, and not just the more egoic desires of old greybeards who know about the kings of Britain. But there's the question of how well these poems actually serve love, in real life. We know that people say this or that about it all, but what real utility does this sort of thing have for real love in a man's life?For example, consider the following exchange, which I always thought was an indirect reference to this (i.e., William S.): "'.... and envied me Jane's beauty. I do not like to boast of my own child, but to be sure, Jane-- one does not often see anybody better-looking. It is what everybody says. I do not trust my own partiality. When she was only fifteen, there was a gentleman at my brother Gardiner's in town so much in love with her that my sister-in-law was sure that he would make her an offer before we came away. But, however, he did not. Perhaps he thought her too young. However, he wrote some verses on her, and very pretty they were.''And so ended his affection,' said Elizabeth impatiently. 'There has been many a one, I fancy, overcome in the same way. I wonder who first discovered the efficacy of poetry in driving away love!' 'I have been used to consider poetry as the *food* of love,' said Darcy. 'Of a fine, stout, healthy love it may. Everything nourishes what is strong already. But if it be only a slight, thin sort of inclination, I am convinced that one good sonnet will starve it entirely away.'"~Pride and Prejudice, chapter 9. ..... I hope that my criticism will not be mistaken for (gasp) communistic radicalism, (although no one would mistake William S. for the voice of the people). Although I suppose in general I prefer the poetry/music of the 20th century to that of the pre-18th century (pre-Classical, on the timeline of classical music). The Beach Boys, for example, wrote alot of good love poetry/music, e.g., "Forever" from 1970. Fancy 'baroque' or classical poetry/music, like Mozart or Coleridge, can be nice too, but the very early period like William S. I don't like so well. [*over*-fancy]. For one thing, there's the spelling, and the language, and so on. Certainly with William S. there's a feeling of historicism, quite often, with a crusty accumulation of time-- Roman times and medieval times, piled on top of each other. (Coleridge is rather newer-- the Age of Discovery.) In alot of the William S. stuff, you get that-- the post-medieval (pre-modern) take on Roman times.....And what is the effect of the poetry itself? Does it have the power to create a desire to fulfill the literal advice? Or does it make it merely an affectation, to be spoken but not believed? What is its character-- is it a true lover, or a false friend? [Can any lovely feeling survive the transition to sonnet-making, and still be felt?]All that I can say is that I read it all without knowing any of those feelings so disdained by those who call themselves wiser. I actually felt them quite repetitive, and more in love with language than any use of it. It's gaudy verse, and often more impressed with the necessity of love than any ability to impress it....[Even when he speaks of love, he does not confine himself to his subject, but introduces words and images that smack of other things; he speaks of highfalutin things, elevated, various, and uncertain, and then says, "love", and "love" again.] I've actually read simple folk poetry, ballads, which I like better than this. Some of them are good, some are bad, all are accessible enough, and none of them have the lying intricacies of William S. [And maybe he was wrong to use a form so foreign to the language; it doesn't sound natural.] ..... The speech is too guarded to be the "food of love". (Instead of enabling vivid images and all that, the formula only cuts him off from clear communication.) [And it's certainly not all about love; he goes off and on and on about Time and Death, as if to say, 'Ha haha, I know about what truely matters.' But this is a conceit. Only the form remains constant, the actual object of the writing doesn't stay true.] If he is a wit, he has used it only for affected speech. ..... And although I can generally find my way to the meaning, it feels more the formula than anything. All rhyme has a form, but his is rather rigid. If you read it long enough, you start to wonder what it's like not to be so weirdly abstract.... (and then remember the straightforward tales of bloody tyrants) [And speaking of tyrants-- he calls time one, and who would tell their lover, as he does, 'Soon you'll be old, but you'll always have this note', that says, what, 'Soon you'll be old....'?.... Try living in the moment, William, if this is what happens when you don't.] I wonder at the sincerity of it all; he somewhat condescends to feel. ........ At any rate, the strawberries and cream of Wimbledon could well go on without William S., and I'm not really of the spirit to support that self-serving scholarship that delves into all that. Although I'll admit its not the worst thing I've ever read; it's not monstrously cynical, in its original form; it's merely ill-suited to its stated purpose. [.... In fact, I'd go so far to say that Mr. S. is *not* the most over-rated writer of all the world, since there are others.... but, let's not talk of that.] [Sometimes a rhyme pleases, but even at its best, there is an emotional distance I feel which blocks him off.... there's a lordly silence, as though he once drew close, then suddenly turned away.] (7/10)
- Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5I studied a few of Shakespeare's sonnets in high school, but hadn't read any of the others until now. I think the teachers/textbook editors picked the cream of the crop for high school students – XVIII (Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?), LXXIII (That time of year thou mayst in me behold...), CXVI (Let me not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediments). While a few others stood out for me, many of them struck me as just so-so, with over-repetitive themes.The sonnets don't seem to have been collated in a random order. There is a logical progression from one sonnet to the next. Some sonnets echo the previous sonnet, while others are a continuation of thought. As a whole, I prefer the Dark Lady sonnets to the rest of the collection. I was losing interest in the “you're so perfect” theme, so the Dark Lady sonnets were a welcome change. I'm glad I read the collection once. I'm not sure it's something I'll do again, or at least not until I've read all of the plays.
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The sonnets are great but the readings... I've heard better. Where the reader puts more feeling into it.
- Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5Shakespeare's Sonnets, those 154 beautifully-worded, nimbly-constructed poems, are not works with which one is ever "done." This collection of gems is something to revisit from time to time, and cliched though it may be, it yields some new understanding at every reading. I cannot say that I "know" these poems, though I have read each of them a number of times. Perhaps the two with which I am most familiar are #116: Let me not to the marriage of true minds / Admit impediments,... which features prominently in the film, Sense and Sensibility. Alas - the power of media... The other, and my all-time favorite, is #29: When in disgrace with Fortune and men's eyes / I all alone beweep my outcast state... This latter has always appealed to the more depressive side of my character (those who love Christmas carols will be unsurprised to learn that my favorite verse of We Three Kings is the one with all the sorrow, sighing, bleeding and dying).It is not a coincidence that these two, Sonnets 116 and 29, are also the only two which I have committed to memory. Perhaps it is owing to the fact that I can call them to mind at any given moment, that I have spent my time playing with the pleasant rhythm of their lines, that I feel I understand them best? Memorization is not a pedagogical tool much in favor these days, but although I am no proponent of learning anything by rote, I sometimes wonder if memorizing might not be a wonderful way of improving mental discipline, and even, furthering eventual understanding...As for editions, of which there are no shortage, I'm afraid I do not own one of those sensible, scholarly versions, with helpful notes. No, I have a gift edition, put out by the British publisher, Tiger Books. It is arranged with one sonnet per page, and decorated with original color illustrations (mostly in the way of floral motifs) by Ian Penney, as well as thirty Elizabethan and Jacobean miniatures. Very pretty, and not terribly useful. But being the resourceful scholar I am, I have provided myself with a copy of Helen Vendler's The Art of Shakespeare's Sonnets, whose 672 pages and CD should make all clear that was previously muddled.In short: I am by no means done with these poems, and when the time becomes available (I amuse myself sometimes with thoughts such as these), I intend to study them in greater detail. If you, gentle reader, have not yet had the pleasure of perusing these exquisite pieces... what can I say? Get thee to a library or bookstore with all haste.
- Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5A chore to read. Shakespeare's skills with language are wasted on expressing inane ideas.
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5As someone who really grapples with understanding Shakespeare, I found his sonnets easier to comprehend than the works I'd previously read without the guidance of a goddess English teacher (so, Hamlet, Othello, King Lear, and The Tempest). I was also reminded of the Twilight saga with every sonnet that I could comprehend (probably 78% of them; bed-time reading was a bad idea). I'm not sure if that's good or bad.
- Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5Zeer verfijnd en klassiek. De sonnetten zijn wat weerbarstig zonder uitleg, maar enkele ervan zijn echte pareltjes.
- Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5Classic poetry at its best. What more can be said.
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5My biggest piece of advice to first-time readers (like I just was): take your time. Maybe not as much time as I took, if you don't want--I read two or three sonnets at a sitting, so it took me months to finish the entire collection. I was able to discover my own favorite sonnet, which isn't one of the standard favorites (#44). I do like the Folgers series of Shakespeare (I like the notes on the facing page), but I also consulted other references (mostly online) as I read.
- Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5De Vere at his absolute best, ripping off sugar'd specimens to amaze and delight his elizabethan court."Would he had blotted 'a thousand..." but these are keepers!
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5the best classic i love shakespear
- Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5Shakespeare is smooth! I'm going to have to use some of those lines on my next victim, ahem, girlfriend. What girl won't fall for lines like, "And in some perfumes is there more delight/ than in the breath that from my mistress reeks." Come on. You can't beat that.
Book preview
Shakespeare's Sonnets - William Shakespeare
Sonnet I
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.
Sonnet II
When forty winters shall besiege thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty’s field,
Thy youth’s proud livery so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter’d weed, of small worth held:
Then being asked where all thy beauty lies,
Where all the treasure of thy lusty days;
To say, within thine own deep sunken eyes,
Were an all-eating shame, and thriftless praise.
How much more praise deserv’d thy beauty’s use,
If thou couldst answer, ‘This fair child of mine
Shall sum my count, and make my old excuse,’
Proving his beauty by succession thine!
This were to be new made when thou art old,
And see thy blood warm when thou feel’st it cold.
Sonnet III
Look in thy glass, and tell the face thou viewest
Now is the time that face should form another;
Whose fresh repair if now thou not renewest,
Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother.
For where is she so fair whose unear’d womb
Disdains the tillage of thy husbandry?
Or who is he so fond will be the tomb
Of his self-love, to stop posterity?
Thou art thy mother’s glass and she in thee
Calls back the lovely April of her prime;
So thou through windows of thine age shalt see,
Despite of wrinkles this thy golden time.
But if thou live, remember’d not to be,
Die single and thine image dies with thee.
Sonnet IV
Unthrifty loveliness, why dost thou spend
Upon thy self thy beauty’s legacy?
Nature’s bequest gives nothing, but doth lend,
And, being frank, she lends to those are free:
Then, beauteous niggard, why dost thou abuse
The bounteous largess given thee to give?
Profitless usurer, why dost thou use
So great a sum of sums, yet canst not live?
For having traffic with thy self alone,
Thou of thy self thy sweet self dost deceive:
Then how, when nature calls thee to be gone,
What acceptable audit canst thou leave?
Thy unused beauty must be tombed with thee,
Which, used, lives th’ executor to be.
Sonnet V
Those hours, that with gentle work did frame
The lovely gaze where every eye doth dwell,
Will play the tyrants to the very same,
And that unfair which fairly doth excel;
For never-resting time leads summer on
To hideous winter, and confounds him there;
Sap checked with frost, and lusty leaves quite gone,
Beauty o’er-snowed and bareness every where:
Then were not summer’s distillation left,
A liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass,
Beauty’s effect with beauty were bereft,
Nor it, nor no remembrance what it was:
But flowers distill’d, though they with winter meet,
Leese but their show; their substance still lives sweet.
Sonnet VI
Then let not winter’s ragged hand deface,
In thee thy summer, ere thou be distill’d:
Make sweet some vial; treasure thou some place
With beauty’s treasure, ere it be self-kill’d.
That use is not forbidden usury,
Which happies those that pay the willing loan;
That’s for thyself to breed another thee,
Or ten times happier, be it ten for one;
Ten times thy self were happier than thou art,
If ten of thine ten times refigur’d thee:
Then what could death do if thou shouldst depart,
Leaving thee living in posterity?
Be not self-will’d, for thou art much too fair
To be death’s conquest and make worms thine heir.
Sonnet VII
Lo! in the orient when the gracious light
Lifts up his burning head, each under eye
Doth homage to his new-appearing sight,
Serving with looks his sacred majesty;
And having climb’d the steep-up heavenly hill,
Resembling strong youth in his middle age,
Yet mortal looks adore his beauty still,
Attending on his golden pilgrimage:
But when from highmost pitch, with weary car,
Like feeble age, he reeleth from the day,
The eyes, ’fore duteous, now converted are
From his low tract, and look another way:
So thou, thyself outgoing in thy noon:
Unlook’d on diest, unless thou get a son.
Sonnet VIII
Music to hear, why hear’st thou music sadly?
Sweets with sweets war not, joy delights in joy:
Why lov’st thou that which thou receiv’st not gladly,
Or else receiv’st with pleasure thine annoy?
If the true concord of well-tuned sounds,
By unions married, do offend thine ear,
They do but sweetly chide thee, who confounds
In singleness the parts that thou shouldst bear.
Mark how one string, sweet husband to another,
Strikes each in each by mutual ordering;
Resembling sire and child and happy mother,
Who, all in one, one pleasing note do sing:
Whose speechless song being many, seeming one,
Sings this to thee: ‘Thou single wilt prove none.’
Sonnet IX
Is it for fear to wet a widow’s eye
That thou consum’st thy self in single life?
Ah! if thou issueless shalt hap to die,
The world will wail thee, like a makeless wife;
The world will be thy widow and still weep
That thou no form of thee hast left behind,
When every private widow well may keep
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