The speaker in Shakespeare’s Sonnet 122 has been given a notebook or writing tablets, but he decides to give them away. He isn’t being ungrateful—he argues that the beloved’s image is already inscribed in his brain, a memory so complete it will outlast any physical object and even survive beyond time into eternity. As long as his mind and body function, that record can never vanish. There’s a self-assured warmth in his reasoning: a mere external token could never hold enough, and he has no need to keep a tally of love. By parting with the gift, he places all his trust in the far richer reception of his own mind. The mood is affectionate yet quietly bold, even a touch playful. The closing couplet seals the paradox—keeping a physical keepsake would just betray a tendency to forget. This is a poem about the confidence of true memory, where love is so deeply internalized that no object could strengthen it.
Sonnet 122: Thy gift, thy tables, are within my brain — Summary
Thy gift, thy tables, are within my brain Full character'd with lasting memory, Which shall above that idle rank remain, Beyond all date; even to eternity: Or, at the least, so long as brain and heart Have faculty by nature to subsist; Till each to raz'd oblivion yield his part Of thee, thy record never can be miss'd. That poor retention could not so much hold, Nor need I tallies thy dear love to score; Therefore to give them from me was I bold, To trust those tables that receive thee more: To keep an adjunct to remember thee Were to import forgetfulness in me.