Shakespeare's 17th
sonnet anagrammed five different ways, with an additional constraint: within each
sonnet every line rhymes, and each sonnet's rhyme corresponds to a vowel (A,E,I,O,U
respectively). |
|
Who will believe my verse in time to come,
If it were fill'd with your most high deserts?
Though yet heaven knows it is but as a tomb
Which hides your life, and shows not half your parts.
If I could write the beauty of your eyes,
And in fresh numbers number all your graces,
The age to come would say 'This poet lies;
Such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces.'
So should my papers, yellow'd with their age,
Be scorn'd, like old men of less truth than tongue,
And your true rights be term'd a poet's rage
And stretched metre of an antique song:
But were some child of yours alive that time,
You should live twice, in it, and in my rhyme.
|
Who will me choose to trust some future day
If I your vivid blossoms bright survey?
God sees I tinge thee thus: pale, wilted, grey -
O shining hues blurred, of thy rich bouquet.
Could I but tell how wanton, sweet, how gay
Your carefree, stunning, childlike features, they
Who'll hear me, found one future age, will say
'There's such strained shine! No female looks that way.'
So lest this true poem wither in decay,
And in contempt, as verses that display
The bard's mirage, be scorned which themes convey
Out of some tune from times remote, we may
Behold thine heir thy radiant face portray,
And you'll live doubly, much to their dismay!
|
|
Who that my quill truth teaches could agree,
If it transcribes thy bloom abundant? He
Who rules above knows it lays down one wee
Slight clause of your true beauties, youthful, free.
Should it depict to wit's utmost degree
Your native grace, nay your sublimity,
One future epoch you might hear decree
'False Muse! Earth will this splendor never see.'
So if my rhyming verse maligned should be,
This hand's myth known, lies that were voiced by me,
And each line which doth mimic charms of thee
They style that darned bard's wrong distortion spree,
Then if from you would issue progeny,
Oh, that two times you'll live, as I foresee.
|
Ah who, years hence, these bold words will deny,
If I would raise thine ensign brilliant high?
Sure, even though God sees that it falls shy
Of thine eyes' glow, outbeaming noontime sky,
That blue shine of those rare orbs makes me sigh,
And to rehearse their praise I'm wont to try.
The future will accuse my rhymes 'They lie;
Such charm could to no mortal frame apply.'
But my true brave words, void are touted by
Those twisted caustic critics, who rule my
Outdated love-mad cause went quite awry.
Then to such rude tongues would be this reply
'If offspring come of thee, then should you die
You'll live in them, and in my verse, for aye.'
|
|
Will earth on this rhyme eulogies bestow,
If it surveys all your blithe graces? Oh
That I your beauties shroud does Heaven know,
Purveying an amount that's far too low.
Could I your youthful look tell, say your glow;
Your charms but name in much speech apropos,
This edict will succeeding times breathe 'No,
These blest charms grace no damsel here below.'
Then if deemed strained my choicest lines faint grow,
Dissatisfied they'd sneer 'Believe this show?' -
Your unmatched beauty deemed my fraud - 'Truth? So
To that quaint rhymester this untruth we owe.'
If of thee progeny did ever flow,
In them, and my verse, on thy life will go.
|
Who'll cheer my tune's strains ages hence 'They're true!'
If I compose this symphony of you?
Heaven ill impressed my brief duet sees through -
Marred monophonic fugue, with parts too few.
Could I well adumbrate your youth - with new
Fresh vivid modulations measure you,
Those ages' sentence will be 'We eschew
As quite devoid of truth that ill scored view.'
O if my music, faint, and breathless too,
They think deranged, these lying aesthetes who
My lyrics to your ideal brilliance do
That bard's berserk, rhymed wanting rant construe,
If yet a daughter fair should come through you,
The times you'll live shall be, not one, but two.
|
