Sonnet 23

As an unperfect actor on the stage,

Who with his fear is put beside his part,

Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage,

Whose strength’s abundance weakens his own heart,

So I, for fear of trust, forget to say

The perfect ceremony of love’s rite,

And in mine own love’s strength seem to decay,

O’er-charged with burden of mine own love’s might.

O, let my books be then the eloquence

And dumb presagers of my speaking breast,

Who plead for love and look for recompense

More than that tongue that more hath more express’d.

O learn to read what silent love hath writ:

To hear with eyes belongs to love’s fine wit.

Like an actor with so much stage fright

He can’t keep up his part,

Or an animal in the midst of a fight

So fierce he has no heart,

I sometimes, in awe of the task,

Love without speaking it well.

I forget to wear love’s right mask

For being so caught in its swell.

So look to my acts for eloquence.

Take them as my heart’s diplomats.

They seek love under no pretense,

As much if not more than sharp wits.

Feel what is spoken in silence:

Something deep which needs no defense.