#sonnet 108

Sonnet 108 by William Shakespeare (read by Sir Patrick Stewart)

What's in the brain that ink may character Which hath not figured to thee my true spirit? What's new to speak, what now to register, That may express my love, or thy dear merit?

Nothing, sweet boy; but yet, like prayers divine, I must each day say o'er the very same; Counting no old thing old, thou mine, I thine, Even as when first I hallowed thy fair name.

So that eternal love in love's fresh case, Weighs not the dust and injury of age, Nor gives to necessary wrinkles place, But makes antiquity for aye his page;

Mackenzie Mauzy & Billy Magnussen

Sonnet 108

The Sonnet Project

March 14 , 2015

What’s in the brain that ink may character

Which hath not figured to thee my true spirit ?

What’s new to speak, what now to register,

That may express my love or thy dear merit ?

Nothing, sweet boy, but yet, like prayers divine,

I must each day say o’er the very same ;

Counting no old thing old, thou mine, I thine,

Even as when first I hallowed thy fair name.

So that eternal love in love’s fresh case

Weighs not the dust and injury of age,

Nor gives to necessary wrinkles place,

But makes antiquity for aye his page,

Finding the first conceit of love there bred

Sonnet 108 by William Shakespeare (read by Simon Callow)

What's in the brain that ink may character Which hath not figured to thee my true spirit? What's new to speak, what now to register, That may express my love, or thy dear merit?

Nothing, sweet boy; but yet, like prayers divine, I must each day say o'er the very same; Counting no old thing old, thou mine, I thine, Even as when first I hallowed thy fair name.

So that eternal love in love's fresh case, Weighs not the dust and injury of age, Nor gives to necessary wrinkles place, But makes antiquity for aye his page;

Finding the first conceit of love there bred, Where time and outward form would show it dead.

When Sorrow, using mine own fire’s might,     

Melts down his lead into my boiling breast,      

Through that dark furnace to my heart oppressed,

There shines a joy from thee, my only light:

But soon as thought of thee breeds my delight,      

And my young soul flutters to thee, his nest,     

Most rude Despair, my daily unbidden guest,

Clips straight my wings, straight wraps me in his night,      

And makes me then bow down my head and say:

’Ah, what doth Phoebus’ gold that wretch avail

Whom iron doors do keep from use of day?’

So strangely (alas) thy works in me prevail,      

That in my woes for thee thou art my joy,