The speaker begins by admitting that earlier poems lied when they claimed he could not love his beloved more. In the past, he truly believed his affection had peaked, but now he sees that time constantly reshapes everything—vows, beauty, intentions—so why should love be fixed? He recalls how he once clung to the certainty of the present moment, afraid of time’s power to alter things. The poem’s mood is tender and self-aware, tinged with gentle regret. Yet the final couplet shifts into something more hopeful: if love is like a baby, then of course it can keep growing. Saying “I love you best now” would actually limit something that gains fullness as it matures. It’s a quiet, honest reflection on how deep love isn’t a finished statement but an unfolding process.
Sonnet 115: Those lines that I before have writ do lie — Summary
Those lines that I before have writ do lie, Even those that said I could not love you dearer: Yet then my judgment knew no reason why My most full flame should afterwards burn clearer. But reckoning Time, whose million'd accidents Creep in 'twixt vows, and change decrees of kings, Tan sacred beauty, blunt the sharp'st intents, Divert strong minds to the course of altering things; Alas! why fearing of Time's tyranny, Might I not then say, 'Now I love you best,' When I was certain o'er incertainty, Crowning the present, doubting of the rest? Love is a babe, then might I not say so, To give full growth to that which still doth grow?