I recently sampled a number of Shakespeare's sonnets. My favorite was numero 57, that's LVII for those of you who don't know. (My internet was down while I did my reading, so I had to quickly reteach myself roman numerals by counting and finding the pattern. I loathe roman numerals.) I'll just paste it in here, thank you Public Domain.
Being your slave, what should I do but tend
Upon the hours and times of your desire?
I have no precious time at all to spend
Nor services to do, till you require.
Nor dare I chide the world-without-end hour
Whilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for you,
Nor think the bitterness of absence sour
When you have bid your servant once adieu;
Nor dare I question with my jealous thought
Where you may be, or your affairs suppose,
But, like a sad slave, stay and think of nought
Save, where you are how happy you make those
So true a fool in love that in your will,
Though you do any thing, he thinks no ill.
I enjoyed how he plays with the theme of love, almost mocking how foolish men in love can be by trusting without reservation and "enslaving" themselves to their lover, but it also seems relatively true to how I understand men to love. (I'd qualify "men" with the adjective "good," except that I don't believe the actions of those who call themselves men to be manly at all when they are not good, nor can I understand how they can call their perverse actions "love"). Men love deeply and wholly. I believe that men would do anything for their wives within reason (the "within reason" part of this is why women get so frustrated with men. We often think with emotion. They think with logic. Our reasoning powers differ and so persuading the other takes creativity and makes for an adventure). This poem takes this tendency in men to an extreme by impoverishing the man of any purpose of his own except to live for the other. That's where the humor comes from.
