Shakespeare’s speaker hands a young person a mirror, a sundial, and a book of blank pages, but these objects are gentle nudges about mortality. The mirror will show wrinkles forming, the clock will measure minutes slipping away, and the empty book waits to receive the thoughts that memory might lose. There’s no panic in the voice—just a calm, affectionate realism. The speaker knows that beauty fades and hours vanish, but the mind’s “children”—ideas and reflections—can be delivered onto paper and later met again like familiar friends. The mood is intimate and quietly encouraging, as if the speaker is saying: time will take much, but you can keep a part of yourself alive by writing. The repeated care suggested by “so oft as thou wilt look” turns the book into a companionable record, growing richer with each return. It’s a sonnet that transforms blank pages into a personal victory over oblivion.
Sonnet 77: Thy glass will show thee how thy beauties wear — Summary
Thy glass will show thee how thy beauties wear, Thy dial how thy precious minutes waste; These vacant leaves thy mind's imprint will bear, And of this book, this learning mayst thou taste. The wrinkles which thy glass will truly show Of mouthed graves will give thee memory; Thou by thy dial's shady stealth mayst know Time's thievish progress to eternity. Look! what thy memory cannot contain, Commit to these waste blanks, and thou shalt find Those children nursed, deliver'd from thy brain, To take a new acquaintance of thy mind. These offices, so oft as thou wilt look, Shall profit thee and much enrich thy book.