| | Sonnet 85 |
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My tongue-tied muse in manners holds her still, |
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While comments of your praise, richly compiled, |
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Reserve their character with golden quill |
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And precious phrase by all the muses filed. |
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I think good thoughts, whilst other write good words, |
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And like unlettered clerk still cry “Amen” |
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To every hymn that able spirit affords, |
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In polished form of well-refinèd pen. |
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Hearing you praised, I say “'Tis so, 'tis true,” |
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And to the most of praise add something more; |
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But that is in my thought, whose love to you, |
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Though words come hindmost, holds his rank before. |
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Then others for the breath of words respect, |
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Me for my dumb thoughts, speaking in effect. |
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| Sonnet 85 |
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My mute poetry politely remains silent, while commentaries praising you pile up, capturing the essence of your character in golden words and precious phrases inspired by all the muses. I think good thoughts about you while other people write good words, and like an illiterate parish clerk I continually cry “amen”
to every poem of praise that capable poets produce about you in their polished and refined style. When I hear you praised, I say, “That's right, that's true,” and add a little something to their utmost praise of you. What I add is only in my own mind, but in my own mind I know I love you the most, though I speak the least. So respect others for the words of praise they offer you, but respect me for my silent thoughts, which express themselves only in actions. |
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