In this day and age of app dating, ghosting, lack of communication and the ever present dick pic, it’s not uncommon for those seeking romance to lose hope. I mean, when a breakup can be just a text away, and your next date is a finger swipe away, it’s no surprise that things have gotten a little shallow in 2016, and I’m not just talking about the dating pool. So I thought on this sunny saturday, I’d remind myself and you lovely readers of what romance was once like, with a little help from an expert. That expert? None other than William Shakespeare.
Now I know what your thinking. What does a very old, very white, and more importantly very dead man have to to with modern romance? Well despite his many faults, being old, white and dead being the least of them, Shakespeare knew his way around the written word. He tackled the subject of love creatively and repeatedly in his writings, and while many a romance took a tragic turn with a swipe of a quill, it only takes reading some of his poetry to remember that he really was a true romantic.
So as I wonder again why boys are so strange these days and if romance really is dead, I turn to an expert to remind me of what love really should be about. Not how great someone’s Tinder profile picture looks, not that he pays for everything all the time, and not because she seems super chill. It’s about finding someone you really connect with, that goes past the superficial, and is strong enough to stand the test of time. Does it still exist anymore? Who knows. But today, reading Sonnet by Shakespeare, I find myself hoping that it still does.
Sonnet 116 by William Shakespeare
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O, no! it is an ever-fixed mark,
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken.
Love ’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle’s compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error, and upon me prov’d,
I never writ, nor no man ever lov’d.