The speaker faces Time head-on, refusing to let it brag that he changes or grows obsolete. Even grand, newly built pyramids don’t impress him—he sees them as mere copies of old patterns, nothing truly original. Because our own days are short, he argues, we’re easy to fool: Time serves up stale things and we eagerly treat them as fresh, preferring to imagine they were made just for us rather than admit we’ve simply forgotten earlier versions. The speaker won’t play along. He dismisses both Time’s written records and Time itself as liars, constantly distorting past and present with their rushing pace. There’s a steady, almost stubborn defiance here—a refusal to be wowed by novelty that isn’t real. That resolve tightens into a personal vow: no matter how threateningly Time swings its scythe, he will remain constant. The mood feels bold and quietly triumphant, as if staying true is its own victory.
Sonnet 123: No, Time, thou shalt not boast that I do change — Summary
No, Time, thou shalt not boast that I do change: Thy pyramids built up with newer might To me are nothing novel, nothing strange; They are but dressings of a former sight. Our dates are brief, and therefore we admire What thou dost foist upon us that is old; And rather make them born to our desire Than think that we before have heard them told. Thy registers and thee I both defy, Not wondering at the present nor the past, For thy records and what we see doth lie, Made more or less by thy continual haste. This I do vow and this shall ever be; I will be true despite thy scythe and thee.