Shakespeare’s Sonnet #141 “In faith, I do not love thee with mine eyes”
Only my plague thus far I count my gain,
That she that makes me sin awards me pain.
Reading of Sonnet 141
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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
In faith, I do not love thee with mine eyes,
For they in thee a thousand errors note;
But ’tis my heart that loves what they despise,
Who in despite of view is pleased to dote.
Nor are mine ears with thy tongue’s tune delighted,
Nor tender feeling to base touches prone,
Nor taste, nor smell, desire to be invited
To any sensual feast with thee alone.
But my five wits nor my five senses can
Dissuade one foolish heart from serving thee,
Who leaves unswayed the likeness of a man,
Thy proud hearts slave and vassal wretch to be.
Only my plague thus far I count my gain,
That she that makes me sin awards me pain.
Simplified Modern English Translation
Truly, I do not love you with my eyes,
for they note a thousand flaws in you;
but it is my heart that loves what my eyes despise,
doting on you in spite of your appearance.
Nor are my ears delighted with the sound of your voice,
nor does your touch draw me towards you,
nor does my sense of taste or smell inspire me
to any sensual feast with you alone.
But neither my five wits nor my five senses can
dissuade one foolish heart from serving you,
which leaves ungoverned the shell of a man,
to become your personal slave and vassal wretch.
So far, the sickness of love is all I can consider a gain;
you that lure me into sin award me only with pain.
Text from Original 1609 Quarto
Transcription courtesy of University of Virginia Library:
In faith I doe not loue thee with mine eyes,
For they in thee a thousand errors note,
But ’tis my heart that loues what they dispise,
Who in dispight of view is pleasd to dote.
Nor are mine eares with thy toungs tune delighted,
Nor tender feeling to base touches prone,
Nor taste, nor smell, desire to be inuited
To any sensuall feast with thee alone:
But my fiue wits, nor my fiue sences can
Diswade one foolish heart from seruing thee,
Who leaues vnswai’d the likenesse of a man,
Thy proud hearts slaue and vassall wretch to be:
Onely my plague thus farre I count my gaine,
That she that makes me sinne, awards me paine.