I did 106 as a monologue once, and liked it:

When in the chronicle of wasted time
I see descriptions of the fairest wights,
And beauty making beautiful old rhyme
In praise of ladies dead and lovely knights,
Then, in the blazon of sweet beauty's best,
Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow,
I see their antique pen would have express'd
Even such a beauty as you master now.
So all their praises are but prophecies
Of this our time, all you prefiguring;
And, for they look'd but with divining eyes,
They had not skill enough your worth to sing:
For we, which now behold these present days,
Had eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise.

But it's a little over-sweet to my ears now (I was a sophomore in high school then, and competing in a pageant, in the South, so there were some sweetness-and-light considerations), and so I'd probably choose 138 now, because I think it would really fun to do out loud -- bitter ironic Shakespearian scorned lovers are fun; you get to be very arch and double entendre-y:

When my love swears that she is made of truth
I do believe her, though I know she lies,
That she might think me some untutor'd youth,
Unlearned in the world's false subtleties.
Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me young,
Although she knows my days are past the best,
Simply I credit her false speaking tongue:
On both sides thus is simple truth suppress'd.
But wherefore says she not she is unjust?
And wherefore say not I that I am old?
O, love's best habit is in seeming trust,
And age in love loves not to have years told:
Therefore I lie with her and she with me,
And in our faults by lies we flatter'd be.

meta-shakespeare love :-)

LXXI

No longer mourn for me when I am dead
Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell
Give warning to the world that I am fled
From this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell.
Nay, if you read this line, remember not
The hand that writ it; for I love you so
That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot
If thinking on me then should make you woe.
O, if, I say, you look upon this verse
When I, perhaps compounded am with clay,
Do not so much as my poor name rehearse,
But let your love even with my life decay,
Lest the wise world should look into your moan
And mock you with me after I am gone.

I had to do a reading of this one for an acting class:

When in disgrace with Fortune and men's eyes,
I all alone beweep my outcast state,
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,
And look upon my self and curse my fate,
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featured like him, like him with friends possessed,
Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least,
Yet in these thoughts my self almost despising,
Haply I think on thee, and then my state,
(Like to the lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth) sings hymns at heaven's gate,
For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings,
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.

It's tricky beacuse it's all one sentence. You have to sneak in a breath where you can

Sonnet 20 is a fun look at gender roles, a homosexual paean which subverts the usual expectations of a sonnet. For good measure, there's some wonderful bawdiness toward the end. You might not like the listing of womens' faults, in the first few lines, but equally it could lead to an interesting discussion of Shakespeare's attitude toward women.

A woman's face with nature's own hand painted,
Hast thou, the master mistress of my passion;
A woman's gentle heart, but not acquainted
With shifting change, as is false women's fashion:
An eye more bright than theirs, less false in rolling,
Gilding the object whereupon it gazeth;
A man in hue all hues in his controlling,
Which steals men's eyes and women's souls amazeth.
And for a woman wert thou first created;
Till Nature, as she wrought thee, fell a-doting,
And by addition me of thee defeated,
By adding one thing to my purpose nothing.
But since she prick'd thee out for women's pleasure,
Mine be thy love and thy love's use their treasure.

Even better, try 130 — a fabulous skewering of clichéd metaphors, that's somehow still an unironic declaration of love.

My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips' red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damask'd, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.

occhiblu. . .pagent. . .South. . .*asploding boom is my head*

I don't have a good answer. One that I connected with. Read one that speaks to you. Have fun.

130? Let somebody else choose that one (rest assured, somebody will). The sonnets' romantic vision is one that modern readers can have a hard time wrapping our heads around. And, worse, the most well-known ones threaten to become greeting-card cliche. How about 27? It's about loneliness and insomnia. Now, there's something a modern reader can relate to.

Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed,
The dear repose for limbs with travel tired;
But then begins a journey in my head
To work my mind, when body's work's expired:
For then my thoughts--from far where I abide--
Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee,
And keep my drooping eyelids open wide,
Looking on darkness which the blind do see:
Save that my soul's imaginary sight
Presents thy shadow to my sightless view,
Which, like a jewel hung in ghastly night,
Makes black night beauteous, and her old face new.
Lo! thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind,
For thee, and for myself, no quiet find.

Read one that speaks to you

Oh, I will. I just wondered what others here would choose.

In revisiting the ones I loved when I first read them in high school, I found a lot of them felt sophomoric, too - in sentiment, certainly not in composition.

occhiblu. . .pagent. . .South. . .*asploding boom is my head*

Yeah, turns out that a good way of getting me to do something, and do something well, is telling me that you're sure I wouldn't want to do it. I ended up being a finalist.

I just watched the episode of Arrested Development where Maeby competes in a pageant because her parents essentially dare her to. :)

So, how did it go and which sonnet(s) did you end up doing?

I cannot believe I missed this.

I would have read Sonnet 143, for the sake of its vivid descriptive language and it humor:

Lo! as a careful housewife runs to catch
One of her feather'd creatures broke away,
Sets down her babe and makes an swift dispatch
In pursuit of the thing she would have stay,
Whilst her neglected child holds her in chase,
Cries to catch her whose busy care is bent
To follow that which flies before her face,
Not prizing her poor infant's discontent;
So runn'st thou after that which flies from thee,
Whilst I thy babe chase thee afar behind;
But if thou catch thy hope, turn back to me,
And play the mother's part, kiss me, be kind:
So will I pray that thou mayst have thy 'Will,'
If thou turn back, and my loud crying still.

I just love the image of love as a big recalcitrant goose or duck or chicken, squawking and flapping out of reach.

p.s. I am writing on Antony and Cleopatra at this very moment, and last week we put out a newsletter (for the local videostore) of modern films inspired by Shakespeare's texts. When I have a moment to breathe and/or format it with HTML, I'll link to it. Shakespeare is in the air aroud my house, even more than usual.

Want to hear how it went, Miko!