William Shakespeare's Sonnet 66

The other day I had the idea of arbitrarily choosing a Shakespeare Sonnet to contemplate. This post is the result of that endeavor. For no particular reason, other then the fact that I like the number, I choose Sonnet Number 66.

In the future, should I have the time and inclination I may set my sights upon additional randomly selected sonnets.

Tired with all these, for restful death I cry,

As, to behold desert a beggar born,

And needy nothing trimm'd in jollity,

And purest faith unhappily forsworn,

And guilded honour shamefully misplaced,

And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted,

And right perfection wrongfully disgraced,

And strength by limping sway disabled,

And art made tongue-tied by authority,

And folly doctor-like controlling skill,

And simple truth miscall'd simplicity,

And captive good attending captain ill:

Tired with all these, from these would I be gone,

Save that, to die, I leave my love alone.

This is a dark view of life. Things are   somewhat redeemed however by the last line, which is a declaration that the object of the writer’s love makes life worth living, despite the despair inherent in existence. There is question that bears asking however: what are these horrific aspects of life that lead the writer to cry for death and rest?

Lines two through twelve are a catalogue of frustrations and disappointments. 

Beginning with,

And needy nothing trimm'd in jollity,

We are presented with a list of maddening injuries, rooted in  the corruption of virtue. Faith is abandoned, strength is hobbled, skill is negated as folly triumphs, etc.

I think that Shakespeare gets to the heart of some of the most soul shattering aspects of the human condition here. That is, when the finest parts of us are betrayed, all seems lost. There are indeed villains out there, but when the good are subverted by the vile, the result is a special kind of perversion.

Drilling down further I ponder the following line,

And art made tongue-tied by authority,

Oppressors, both large and small have a long history of stifling expression. Not just governments, but organizations of all types, public figures, even teachers and family members have used all kinds of authority, from the emotional, to the social, to the deadly, to manipulate artists. Censorship and suppression of expression are one thing, but worst of all, aesthetic works are often twisted and contrived to serve those who hold power. Beauty is thus subverted in a particularly nasty way.

I can really relate to disgust over these wrongs that would lead one to question the validity of life. Unsurprisingly an analytical summery of these ills packs little of the emotional power that the Bard infused into the sonnet. Of course expressing ideas in this way is one of the reasons that art exists. When such ideas are expressed by someone with the abilities of Shakespeare, the results are sublime.