This project creates sonnets from the first lines of Shakespeare's sonnets
Ah, wherefore with infection should he live,
Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed,
Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore,
From you have I been absent in the spring,
My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun;
I grant thou wert not married to my muse,
If my dear love were but the child of state,
Being your slave, what should I do but tend
Whilst I alone did call upon thy aid,
That thou hast her, it is not all my grief,
Unthrifty loveliness, why dost thou spend
When I do count the clock that tells the time
In faith, I do not love thee with mine eyes,
Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Or whether doth my mind, being crowned with you,
Since I left you, mine eye is in my mind,
To me, fair friend, you never can be old,
Beshrew that heart that makes my heart to groan
When most I wink, then do mine eyes best see,
O, for my sake do you with Fortune chide,
O, how I faint when I of you do write,
Accuse me thus: that I have scanted all
Those lips that Love’s own hand did make
A woman’s face with Nature’s own hand painted
Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea
O, how much more doth beauty beauteous seem
Those parts of thee that the world’s eye doth view
In loving thee thou know’st I am forsworn,
So is it not with me as with that muse
Be wise as thou art cruel; do not press
That god forbid, that made me first your slave,
Two loves I have, of comfort and despair,
Were ’t aught to me I bore the canopy,
If the dull substance of my flesh were thought,
How heavy do I journey on the way,
When thou shalt be disposed to set me light
Thou blind fool, Love, what dost thou to mine eyes
But do thy worst to steal thyself away,
Is it for fear to wet a widow’s eye
Canst thou, O cruel, say I love thee not
Say that thou didst forsake me for some fault,
Alas, ’tis true, I have gone here and there
My glass shall not persuade me I am old
Some say thy fault is youth, some wantonness;
Who is it that says most, which can say more
The other two, slight air and purging fire,
Love is too young to know what conscience is;
’Tis better to be vile than vile esteemed,
How oft, when thou, my music, music play’st
Where art thou, muse, that thou forget’st so long
My tongue-tied muse in manners holds her still
But wherefore do not you a mightier way
So oft have I invoked thee for my muse
When forty winters shall besiege thy brow
So shall I live, supposing thou art true,
Take all my loves, my love, yea, take them all.
Thy glass will show thee how thy beauties wear,
Then hate me when thou wilt, if ever, now,
Those lines that I before have writ do lie,
Some glory in their birth, some in their skill,
Alack, what poverty my muse brings forth,
Why is my verse so barren of new pride,
Th’ expense of spirit in a waste of shame
What’s in the brain that ink may character
That you were once unkind befriends me now,
So, now I have confessed that he is thine
Lord of my love, to whom in vassalage
When in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes,
Thou art as tyrannous, so as thou art,
No more be grieved at that which thou hast done.
Sweet love, renew thy force. Be it not said
Is it thy will thy image should keep open
O, how thy worth with manners may I sing
When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
Not from the stars do I my judgment pluck,
Like as to make our appetites more keen
In the old age, black was not counted fair,
How can I then return in happy plight
The little love-god, lying once asleep,
Betwixt mine eye and heart a league is took,
Full many a glorious morning have I seen
My love is strengthened, though more weak in seeming;
Against my love shall be, as I am now,
Let not my love be called idolatry,
The forward violet thus did I chide:
No, Time, thou shalt not boast that I do change.
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
As a decrepit father takes delight
O, call not me to justify the wrong
When I have seen by Time’s fell hand defaced
Let those who are in favor with their stars
But be contented when that fell arrest
Ah, wherefore with infection should he live,
Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed,
Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore,
From you have I been absent in the spring,
What is your substance, whereof are you made,
If there be nothing new, but that which is