The Complete Works of William Shakespeare In Plain and Simple English (Translated)

by William Shakespeare

  I should show you now, but I'm worried

  that some pox-filled tart would be upset.

  Until then I'll try and sweat to find a cure,

  and at that time I'll pass on my diseases.

  THE END

  From fairest creatures we desire increase,

  That thereby beauty's rose might never die,

  But as the riper should by time decease,

  His tender heir might bear his memory:

  But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,

  Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,

  Making a famine where abundance lies,

  Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.

  Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament

  And only herald to the gaudy spring,

  Within thine own bud buriest thy content

  And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.

  Pity the world, or else this glutton be,

  To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.

  We want beautiful people to reproduce,

  So their beauty will never die,

  And as the parent grows older and his looks decrease,

  His beautiful child will bear the memory of his youth,

  But you, caught up with your own sparkling eyes,

  Feed upon your own beauty and burn it out,

  Making very little where a lot should be.

  You are your own worst enemy and cruel in your sweetness.

  You are, for the time being, a good looking young person,

  and a messenger of the brilliance of spring itself,

  But you keep your loveliness to yourself,

  And—young and ungracious—you waste it by hoarding it.

  Take pity on the world or you will be seen as greedy,

  Having taken all of your beauty to the grave with you.

  When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,

  And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,

  Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,

  Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:

  Then being ask'd where all thy beauty lies,

  Where all the treasure of thy lusty days,

  To say, within thine own deep-sunken eyes,

  Were an all-eating shame and thriftless praise.

  How much more praise deserved thy beauty's use,

  If thou couldst answer 'This fair child of mine

  Shall sum my count and make my old excuse,'

  Proving his beauty by succession thine!

  This were to be new made when thou art old,

  And see thy blood warm when thou feel'st it cold.

  When forty years have overtaken your brow,

  And have dug deep wrinkles in its smooth beauty,

  The proud costume of your youth viewed now,

  Will be a tattered weed that is worthless.

  And when you are asked where is your beauty—

  What happened to the prize of your younger days?

  If you were to say it’s within your deep sunken eyes,

  It would be a shameful and useless praise.

  How much better if your beauty had been spent having a child,

  So that you could answer ‘This child of mine

  Accounts for why I look so old.’

  Your beauty would be passed on through him!

  This would make you appear new when you are old,

  And his blood would still be warm when yours cools.

  Look in thy glass, and tell the face thou viewest

  Now is the time that face should form another;

  Whose fresh repair if now thou not renewest,

  Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother.

  For where is she so fair whose unear'd womb

  Disdains the tillage of thy husbandry?

  Or who is he so fond will be the tomb

  Of his self-love, to stop posterity?

  Thou art thy mother's glass, and she in thee

  Calls back the lovely April of her prime:

  So thou through windows of thine age shall see

  Despite of wrinkles this thy golden time.

  But if thou live, remember'd not to be,

  Die single, and thine image dies with thee.

  Look in your mirror and tell the face looking back at you

  That now is the time to bear a child with the same face.

  Your face is fresh and young now, but if you don’t regenerate it

  You will cheat the world and deprive a mother.

  Who out there is so beautiful that her womb

  Would refuse to take the seed of your child?

  And who is so foolish that he will be the death,

  Due to his self-obsession, of his own line of descendants?

  Your own face is your mother’s mirror, and she sees in it

  The lovely springtime of her youth.

  You will also be able to look back in your old age

  And see your youth in your child’s face despite your wrinkles.

  But if you live without having children, you will not be remembered.

  You will die alone, and your image will die with you.

  Unthrifty loveliness, why dost thou spend

  Upon thyself thy beauty's legacy?

  Nature's bequest gives nothing but doth lend,

  And being frank she lends to those are free.

  Then, beauteous niggard, why dost thou abuse

  The bounteous largess given thee to give?

  Profitless usurer, why dost thou use

  So great a sum of sums, yet canst not live?

  For having traffic with thyself alone,

  Thou of thyself thy sweet self dost deceive.

  Then how, when nature calls thee to be gone,

  What acceptable audit canst thou leave?

  Thy unused beauty must be tomb'd with thee,

  Which, used, lives th' executor to be.

  Wasteful beautiful person, why do you spend

  All of your beauty on yourself?

  Nature gives nothing but she lends a lot,

  And, being generous, she lends most to those who are carefree.

  So, you miserly hoarder, why do you abuse

  The open-hearted gift given to you?

  You make no profit, so why do you use

  So much of your gift when you can’t live on forever?

  Your dealings are with yourself alone,

  And only you alone receive the sweet gift of yourself.

  When nature calls you to die,

  What account of your life will you leave behind?

  Your unused beauty will go to the grave with you,

  And, if it had been used, it could carry on.

  Those hours, that with gentle work did frame

  The lovely gaze where every eye doth dwell,

  Will play the tyrants to the very same

  And that unfair which fairly doth excel:

  For never-resting time leads summer on

  To hideous winter and confounds him there;

  Sap cheque'd with frost and lusty leaves quite gone,

  Beauty o'ersnow'd and bareness every where:

  Then, were not summer's distillation left,

  A liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass,

  Beauty's effect with beauty were bereft,

  Nor it nor no remembrance what it was:

  But flowers distill'd though they with winter meet,

  Leese but their show; their substance still lives sweet.

  The same process of time that gently works to create

  The beauty of the face that holds everyone’s gaze,

  Will do cruel work to the same face

  And make it ugly even though it is now so beautiful.

  Time never rests and it leads summer on

  Into frightful winter and destroys it there,

  Freezing its sap and taking away its vigourous leaves,

  Covering it over with snow and bareness everywhere.<
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  If summer’s essence had not been left behind

  As a liquid perfume contained in glass,

  There would be nothing left of its beauty,

  And no memory of what it had been.

  But flowers made into perfume before winter arrives,

  Lose only their appearance: their sweet scent remains.

  Then let not winter's ragged hand deface

  In thee thy summer, ere thou be distill'd:

  Make sweet some vial; treasure thou some place

  With beauty's treasure, ere it be self-kill'd.

  That use is not forbidden usury,

  Which happies those that pay the willing loan;

  That's for thyself to breed another thee,

  Or ten times happier, be it ten for one;

  Ten times thyself were happier than thou art,

  If ten of thine ten times refigured thee:

  Then what could death do, if thou shouldst depart,

  Leaving thee living in posterity?

  Be not self-will'd, for thou art much too fair

  To be death's conquest and make worms thine heir.

  Don’t allow winter’s rough hand to disfigure

  The summer beauty in you before it is distilled—

  Make it into something sweet that can be contained

  Like a treasure before you ruin it.

  It is not a forbidden use of interest—

  A willing woman would be happy to repay the loan

  And produce a child for you,

  Or ten times happier, if there were ten children.

  You yourself would be ten times happier

  If you had ten children who looked like you.

  What can death do to you then, if you should die

  Leaving yourself living on in your descendants?

  Don’t be selfish—you are too beautiful

  To allow death to conquer you and leave you to the worms.

  Lo! in the orient when the gracious light

  Lifts up his burning head, each under eye

  Doth homage to his new-appearing sight,

  Serving with looks his sacred majesty;

  And having climb'd the steep-up heavenly hill,

  Resembling strong youth in his middle age,

  yet mortal looks adore his beauty still,

  Attending on his golden pilgrimage;

  But when from highmost pitch, with weary car,

  Like feeble age, he reeleth from the day,

  The eyes, 'fore duteous, now converted are

  From his low tract and look another way:

  So thou, thyself out-going in thy noon,

  Unlook'd on diest, unless thou get a son.

  Look! When the gracious light of the sun

  rises in the east, everyone looks

  And acknowledges its newness with respect,

  Watching it like a king.

  Once it has climbed the high and heavenly hill of noon,

  It still looks like a strong young man in his prime

  And people still admire its beauty,

  And pay attention to its golden passage.

  But when the weary chariot begins to fall from the highest point,

  And becomes unsteady and reels like an old man,

  Then the eyes, which were dutiful before, look away

  From it at this low point into another direction.

  You too, who is beginning to leave your youth behind,

  Will not be looked at when you die, unless you father a son.

  Music to hear, why hear'st thou music sadly?

  Sweets with sweets war not, joy delights in joy.

  Why lovest thou that which thou receivest not gladly,

  Or else receivest with pleasure thine annoy?

  If the true concord of well-tuned sounds,

  By unions married, do offend thine ear,

  They do but sweetly chide thee, who confounds

  In singleness the parts that thou shouldst bear.

  Mark how one string, sweet husband to another,

  Strikes each in each by mutual ordering,

  Resembling sire and child and happy mother

  Who all in one, one pleasing note do sing:

  Whose speechless song, being many, seeming one,

  Sings this to thee: 'thou single wilt prove none.'

  Why does listening to music make you feel so sad?

  Sweetness usually finds peace with sweetness, and joy delights in joy.

  Why do you love that which makes you unhappy,

  And enjoy the things that bring you trouble?

  If the harmony of music that’s in tune

  And played well offends you,

  It is because it scolds you for challenging it

  By not taking the part you should take.

  Listen to how one string, when sweetly married to another,

  Strikes in well-matched order and harmony,

  Like a father and child and happy mother,

  Who sing one pleasing note together.

  Their wordless song, being many but seeming as one,

  Sings to you: ‘you’ll have nothing if you stay alone.’

  Is it for fear to wet a widow's eye

  That thou consumest thyself in single life?

  Ah! if thou issueless shalt hap to die.

  The world will wail thee, like a makeless wife;

  The world will be thy widow and still weep

  That thou no form of thee hast left behind,

  When every private widow well may keep

  By children's eyes her husband's shape in mind.

  Look, what an unthrift in the world doth spend

  Shifts but his place, for still the world enjoys it;

  But beauty's waste hath in the world an end,

  And kept unused, the user so destroys it.

  No love toward others in that bosom sits

  That on himself such murderous shame commits.

  Is it because you fear to make a widow cry

  That you continue to live the single life?

  Oh! But if you happen to die childless,

  The world will cry for you like a husbandless wife;

  The world will be your widow and will cry,

  Because you will not have left a likeness of yourself behind,

  As is the case with every other widow who can see

  Her husband’s image in her children’s eyes.

  Look, when a spendthrift wastes money

  It just changes hands, but it is still here for the world to enjoy.

  But if beauty is wasted, it leaves the world—

  By not using it, the user destroys it.

  There is no love for others in the heart

  Of someone who commits such a murderous disgrace.

  For shame! deny that thou bear'st love to any,

  Who for thyself art so unprovident.

  Grant, if thou wilt, thou art beloved of many,

  But that thou none lovest is most evident;

  For thou art so possess'd with murderous hate

  That 'gainst thyself thou stick'st not to conspire.

  Seeking that beauteous roof to ruinate

  Which to repair should be thy chief desire.

  O, change thy thought, that I may change my mind!

  Shall hate be fairer lodged than gentle love?

  Be, as thy presence is, gracious and kind,

  Or to thyself at least kind-hearted prove:

  Make thee another self, for love of me,

  That beauty still may live in thine or thee.

  It’s a disgrace that you refuse to admit love for anyone

  It’s thoughtless and won’t provide for the future.

  It’s true, admit it, that many people love you,

  And that you love no one is obvious.

  You are so full of murderous hate

  That you don’t even hesitate to plot against yourself.

  You seek to destroy the beautiful roof over your head

  When its repair is w
hat you should be seeking.

  Oh, change your way of thinking so that I may change my mind!

  Should hate be cared for better than gentle love?

  Be like you appear to be—gracious and kind,

  Or at least be kind-hearted to yourself:

  Have a child, out of love for me,

  So that your beauty may still live on in your children.

  As fast as thou shalt wane, so fast thou growest

  In one of thine, from that which thou departest;

  And that fresh blood which youngly thou bestowest

  Thou mayst call thine when thou from youth convertest.

  Herein lives wisdom, beauty and increase:

  Without this, folly, age and cold decay:

  If all were minded so, the times should cease

  And threescore year would make the world away.

  Let those whom Nature hath not made for store,

  Harsh featureless and rude, barrenly perish:

  Look, whom she best endow'd she gave the more;

  Which bounteous gift thou shouldst in bounty cherish:

  She carved thee for her seal, and meant thereby

  Thou shouldst print more, not let that copy die.

  As quickly as you decline, you could grow just as quickly

  In one of your children, although you depart.

  The fresh blood you passed on in your youth

  You could call your own when you are no longer young.

  Having children brings wisdom, beauty and descendants.

  Not having children only brings lewdness, old age and decay.

  If everyone thought as you do, society would stop,

  And in sixty years, the world would end.

  Let those who Nature made unfit for reproduction—

  The rough, ugly and offensive—go childless.

  Look, the ones Nature gave the most to have more,

  And the generous gift should be well looked after.

  She carved her seal in you and meant for you

  To reproduce and make copies so the original does not die.

  When I do count the clock that tells the time,

  And see the brave day sunk in hideous night;

  When I behold the violet past prime,

  And sable curls all silver'd o'er with white;

  When lofty trees I see barren of leaves