I thought you might like to see how the obscure language of Shakespearian times has hidden the true meaning of the Sonnets. But you must prepare yourself for a shock! For once translated into something you can understand the language become somewhat colourful and even rude in the extreme at times.
Contrary to what many believe these sonnets were not all written by William Shakespeare himself. However this isn't some story to take away the man's talent and credited it to some Nobleman or other writer. Just a conversation between him and his muse. Which in this case is Queen Elizabeth the First. Nevertheless when the muse answers the writer, it's not done in William's words, but her own words.
What these few Sonnets show here is William's desire that the Queen should marry and have children. It shows the age gap between him and her and how the Queen constantly puts herself down, even her own sexuality.
I have only shown the first ten Sonnets, to distinguish between Shakespeare and Elizabeth's written parts I have coloured Shakespeare's words RED and Elizabeth's BLUE. Additional words need for context or that are not translated (but needed) are shown as green.
The texts of these Sonnets will be in the early stages of his work starting around 1580. Some of the other Sonnet's (not featured in the ten here) will date after that date to around about 1592.
The un-translated version, but showing who wrote what, is in this PDF file: Sonnets all 154
William Shakespeare and Elizabeth Tudor (Queen Elizabeth I)
From beautified whores men desire sex,
That thereby beauty's Rose might never die,
But as the grim reaper should by time end,
His tender heir might carry his memory:
But you concerned by your own clear womb,
Feed’s your eternal flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
You are your own enemy, to your lushes self too cruel:
You are now the world's newest ornament,
And only announcements to the tasteless spring,
Within your own bud (inner-self) you hide your feelings,
And an affectionate ill-bred person wastes time in being mean:
Have Pity on this world, or else this useless person stay,
Have sex with the world now, or end in up dead.
When your forty, worn in face,
And time digs deep trenches in your beautiful complexion,
Your youth's good looks so gazed on now,
Your sex drive will be a tattered weed absolutely worthless :
Then when someone asks, where is your beauty,
Where has all the fertile juice of your sexy days gone;
Then you say within my own deep sunken arsehole,
Together with all my masturbation guilt, and my flattery,
How much more flattery can you take and be beautiful,
You could always say 'This beautiful child of mine
Shall sum me up, and even make up excuses for me'
Showing of his beauty by succession like mine.
The result is to be new made when you feel old,
And see your fertile juices warm when your ice-cold.
Look in your mirror and tell the face you see,
Now is the time that face should form another,
Whose fresh repair is the best to do soon before you can’t,
You annoy the world, un-consecrate some virgin.
For where is she so beautiful whose intact womb
Scorns the stick-ing (ploughing) of you sexual activity?
Or who is he, so fond will be the tomb,
Or his masturbation to stop changes?
You are your mother's Mary image and she sees in you
Recalling the lovely April day of her prime,
So you through windows of this age shall view,
Despite the wrinkles this is your golden time.
But if you carry on living like this,
Die (come) single and your imitation dies with you.
Poor loveliness why don’t you spend,
On yourself your beauty's legacy?
Nature's legacy gives nothing but doth lend,
And being honest she bends to those who are free:
Then beauteous mean why do you abuse,
That massive dick given you and fuck instead?
Profitless lender why don’t you use
So great a cunt of all cunts and still can not come?
For having a wank with yourself alone,
You doing it yourself you taste nothing,
Then how when nature ends your life,
What acceptable audit will you leave?
Your unused beauty must be in-tombed with you,
Which if used makes a profit to be.
Those hours that with no sexy work did frame
The lovely gaze where every eye doth dwell
Sexy people play the tyrants to the very same,
And the unbeautiful which is beautifully good at:
For never-resting time leads summer on (youth)
To hideous winter and confounds him there, (old age)
Sap checked with frost and sexy leaves quite gone, (ugly)
Beauty covered in snowed and bareness everywhere:
Then were is summer's distillation left! As
A liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass,
Beauty's effect without beauties benefits ,
And no longer with any idea of what it was.
But flowers distilled though they with winter meet,
Loose but their show, their perfume always lives sweet-tasting.
Then let not old age ragged dick deface,
In you your youth even though it has been:
Make sweet-tasting some vial; treasure you some place,
With beauty's fertile juice, even if it be self-destroyed:
That use is not forbidden lending,
Which pleases those that pay the willing loan;
That's the stuff for yourself to breed another you,
Or ten children, happier be it ten for one,
Ten times yourself were happier than you are,
If ten of you ten times remodelled yourself:
Then what could death do if you should depart,
Leaving you living in forever?
Be not self-willed for you are much too beautiful,
To be death's conquest and make worms your heir.
Look in the east when the gracious light
Lifts up his burning foreskin, each under eye
Do homage to his new-appearing sight,
Serving with looks his sacred majesty,
And having climbed the steep-up heavenly hill,
Resembling strong youth in his middle age,
Yet mortal looks adore his beauty always,
Attending on his golden pilgrimage:
But when from high most pitch with weary bog,
Like feeble age he droops from the day,
Those arseholes (‘fore duteous) now converted are
From his low tract and look another way:
So you, yourself out-going in thy noon:
Unlooked on will shrivel unless you get a son.
Music to hear, why does music make you cry?
Sweet things with sweet things war not, joy delights in joy:
Why love loves you that which you receive and received not gladly,
Or else received it with pleasure that annoys you?
If the true agreement of well-tuned sounds,
Or unions married do offend your ear,
They do but sweetly argue with you, who confounds
In singleness the parts that you should really carry:
See how one string is sweet husband to another,
Striking each in each by mutual ordering;
Resembling father and child and happy mother,
Who all in one, one pleasing note do sing:
These speechless song being many, seeming the same,
Sings this to you, 'You single will amount to nothing'.
Is it for fear to wet a widow's cock,
That you indulge in the single life?
Alas, if you issueless should happen to die,
The world will cry for you like a it was your wife,
The world will be thy widow and always weep,
That there is no form of you left behind,
When every private widow womb may keep,
By children's eyes, her husband's genitals in mind:
See what a generous world this is and how it spends
Shifts but his place, for always the world enjoys it;
But beauty in the world has an end,
And kept unused the user so destroys it:
No love toward others in this bosom is
So that you waste time so killing guilty perpetrators.
Great guilty and a contradiction that you have no love for any
Who are you to say, you who are so irresponsible.
Except if you can, you are worshipped by many,
Of course it is clear to everybody that you do not love any:
For you are so obsessed with a killing hatered,
That against yourself you fight till fight fights itself,
Trying to win beauty and ruin it.
Although rebuilding it should be your foremost goal:
Woman change your thoughts, that I may change my mind,
Should hate be more beautifully lodged than sexiness?
Be as you appear, that is gracious and kind,
Or at least to yourself kind-hearted prove,
Make you another one of you, for love of me
That beauty always may live in your child or you.