Shakespeare’s Sonnet #1: “From fairest creatures we desire increase”

Reading of Sonnet 1

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The images in the YouTube video are from an original 1609 edition of Shake-speares Sonnets held by the British Library.  It is one of only thirteen copies in existence.  Images courtesy of the Octavo Corporation.  

Modernized Spelling and Punctuation

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.

Simplified Modern English Translation

We wish that the fairest people would have children
so that beauty would live on throughout the ages,
so that, as today’s most exceptional people age,
their children would preserve their beauty.
But you, in love only with yourself,
waste your reproductive ability on your own self,
making your bounteous beauty powerless to regenerate.
You have become your own worst enemy.
You, who are the best looking in the world
and just entering the most hopeful time of life,
spend your vital force upon yourself
and waste your reproductive potential by not pursuing a wife.
Be kind to the world and have children, or else be selfish
and keep your beauty to yourself and have it be buried with you.

Text from Original 1609 Quarto

Transcription courtesy of University of Virginia Library

From fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauties Rose might neuer die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heire might beare his memory:
But thou contracted to thine owne bright eyes,
Feed’st thy lights flame with selfe substantiall fewell,
Making a famine where aboundance lies,
Thy selfe thy foe, to thy sweet selfe too cruell:
Thou that art now the worlds fresh ornament,
And only herauld to the gaudy spring,
Within thine owne bud buriest thy content,
And tender chorle makst wast in niggarding:
Pitty the world, or else this glutton be,
To eate the worlds due, by the graue and thee.