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

by William Shakespeare

Which erst from heat did canopy the herd,

  And summer's green all girded up in sheaves

  Borne on the bier with white and bristly beard,

  Then of thy beauty do I question make,

  That thou among the wastes of time must go,

  Since sweets and beauties do themselves forsake

  And die as fast as they see others grow;

  And nothing 'gainst Time's scythe can make defence

  Save breed, to brave him when he takes thee hence.

  When I look at the clock and see time passing,

  And watch as the splendid day sinks into terrifying night,

  When I see the violets fade,

  And black curls turn to gray,

  When tall trees become bare

  That once provided shade during heat for the herds,

  And summer’s crops are tied up in sheaves,

  And carried away like a white bearded old man in a coffin,

  Then I wonder about your beauty,

  That you are allowing to go to waste with time.

  Sweet and beautiful things all decline

  And die as quickly as they watch others grow.

  There’s nothing you can do to avoid Time cutting you down,

  Except to bear children to carry on after you die.

  O, that you were yourself! but, love, you are

  No longer yours than you yourself here live:

  Against this coming end you should prepare,

  And your sweet semblance to some other give.

  So should that beauty which you hold in lease

  Find no determination: then you were

  Yourself again after yourself's decease,

  When your sweet issue your sweet form should bear.

  Who lets so fair a house fall to decay,

  Which husbandry in honour might uphold

  Against the stormy gusts of winter's day

  And barren rage of death's eternal cold?

  O, none but unthrifts! Dear my love, you know

  You had a father: let your son say so.

  Oh, if only you were yourself! But, my love, you are

  only yourself for as long as you live.

  You should prepare for the inevitable end

  By having a child to carry on your sweet appearance

  So that the beauty you have for the time being

  Does not end. Then you would be

  Yourself again, after you yourself decrease,

  Since your child would have your good looks.

  Who lets a beautiful house fall to ruin,

  That careful management might maintain

  Against the stormy winds of a winter day,

  And the empty violence of death’s eternal cold?

  Nobody but a spendthrift! My dear, you know

  You had a father. Let your son be able to say the same.

  Not from the stars do I my judgment pluck;

  And yet methinks I have astronomy,

  But not to tell of good or evil luck,

  Of plagues, of dearths, or seasons' quality;

  Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell,

  Pointing to each his thunder, rain and wind,

  Or say with princes if it shall go well,

  By oft predict that I in heaven find:

  But from thine eyes my knowledge I derive,

  And, constant stars, in them I read such art

  As truth and beauty shall together thrive,

  If from thyself to store thou wouldst convert;

  Or else of thee this I prognosticate:

  Thy end is truth's and beauty's doom and date.

  I don’t draw knowledge from the stars,

  And yet I think I do know a little about astrology.

  Not enough to predict good or bad luck,

  Or to be able to foresee plagues, famines, or the way a season will be,

  And I can’t see to the minute what will happen—

  Predicting every thunder, rain and wind,

  Nor am I able to tell princes how things will go

  By looking at the heavens.

  I gain my knowledge from looking in your eyes,

  And—like steady stars—I can read in them

  That beauty and truth will thrive together

  If you should decide to have children.

  Otherwise, all I can foretell for you is:

  Your truth and beauty will die with you.

  When I consider every thing that grows

  Holds in perfection but a little moment,

  That this huge stage presenteth nought but shows

  Whereon the stars in secret influence comment;

  When I perceive that men as plants increase,

  Cheered and cheque'd even by the self-same sky,

  Vaunt in their youthful sap, at height decrease,

  And wear their brave state out of memory;

  Then the conceit of this inconstant stay

  Sets you most rich in youth before my sight,

  Where wasteful Time debateth with Decay,

  To change your day of youth to sullied night;

  And all in war with Time for love of you,

  As he takes from you, I engraft you new.

  When I consider how everything that grows,

  Is only perfect for a brief time,

  And that this world is like a huge stage presenting nothing but shows

  That are secretly influenced by the stars,

  When I think about how men grow just like plants—

  Encouraged and restrained under the same sky

  Proud in their vital youth but decreasing as they reach their highest point,

  Keeping nothing of their excellence that eventually is forgotten.

  Then the thought of this inconstant state of things

  Makes you seem so rich with youth in my eyes.

  I see wasteful Time debating with Death

  About how to change your youth into old age;

  Out of love, I am in war with Time for you,

  And as he takes from you, I try to divide you anew.

  But wherefore do not you a mightier way

  Make war upon this bloody tyrant, Time?

  And fortify yourself in your decay

  With means more blessed than my barren rhyme?

  Now stand you on the top of happy hours,

  And many maiden gardens yet unset

  With virtuous wish would bear your living flowers,

  Much liker than your painted counterfeit:

  So should the lines of life that life repair,

  Which this, Time's pencil, or my pupil pen,

  Neither in inward worth nor outward fair,

  Can make you live yourself in eyes of men.

  To give away yourself keeps yourself still,

  And you must live, drawn by your own sweet skill.

  But why don’t you find a mightier way

  To make war upon this bloody tyrant, Time?

  And strengthen yourself as you age

  With ways happier than my stupid poems?

  You are at the height of your happy youth,

  And many fertile and young women

  Of virtue would love to marry you and bear your children

  That would look more like you than a painting.

  And the lines of your life would be restored,

  Which neither Time itself nor my apprentice pen

  In inner worth or outward beauty,

  Can do like you can do yourself by having children.

  Giving yourself away allows you to keep yourself,

  And you will live on, carried by your own pleasing common sense.

  Who will believe my verse in time to come,

  If it were fill'd with your most high deserts?

  Though yet, heaven knows, it is but as a tomb

  Which hides your life and shows not half your parts.

  If I could write the beauty of your eyes

  And in fresh numbers number all your graces,

  The age
to come would say 'This poet lies:

  Such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces.'

  So should my papers yellow'd with their age

  Be scorn'd like old men of less truth than tongue,

  And your true rights be term'd a poet's rage

  And stretched metre of an antique song:

  But were some child of yours alive that time,

  You should live twice; in it and in my rhyme.

  Who will believe my poems in years to come,

  If I write about your highest merits?

  As it is, heaven knows, my poems are like a tomb

  That hide your life and do not show the half of you.

  If I could capture how beautiful your eyes are in words,

  And manage to list all of your good qualities,

  The time would come when people say ‘This poet lies:

  There’s no way such heavenly things were seen in human faces.’

  And so my poems, their pages yellowed with age,

  Would be scorned like old men who talk a lot but don’t speak true,

  And your rightful claim would be called a poet’s madness,

  The false lines of an old song.

  But if you had a child still alive at that time,

  You would live twice: in your child and in my rhymes.

  Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?

  Thou art more lovely and more temperate:

  Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,

  And summer's lease hath all too short a date:

  Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,

  And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;

  And every fair from fair sometime declines,

  By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd;

  But thy eternal summer shall not fade

  Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest;

  Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,

  When in eternal lines to time thou growest:

  So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,

  So long lives this and this gives life to thee.

  Should I compare you to a summer day?

  You are lovelier and calmer:

  Rough winds shake the precious buds of May,

  And summer does not last very long.

  Sometimes the sun overhead is too hot,

  And often its golden light is dimmed,

  And every thing that is beautiful loses its beauty,

  Either by accident or simply because of the due course of Nature.

  But your eternal summer will not fade,

  And you will not lose possession of your beauty.

  Death will not brag that you are wandering in his underworld,

  When in these eternal lines you exist.

  As long as men can breathe or eyes can see,

  As long as this poem exists, you will live.

  Devouring Time, blunt thou the lion's paws,

  And make the earth devour her own sweet brood;

  Pluck the keen teeth from the fierce tiger's jaws,

  And burn the long-lived phoenix in her blood;

  Make glad and sorry seasons as thou fleets,

  And do whate'er thou wilt, swift-footed Time,

  To the wide world and all her fading sweets;

  But I forbid thee one most heinous crime:

  O, carve not with thy hours my love's fair brow,

  Nor draw no lines there with thine antique pen;

  Him in thy course untainted do allow

  For beauty's pattern to succeeding men.

  Yet, do thy worst, old Time: despite thy wrong,

  My love shall in my verse ever live young.

  Devouring Time, you can blunt the lion’s paws,

  And make the earth readily consume her children.

  You can create joyful and sorrowful times as you pass,

  And do whatever you will, swift-footed Time,

  To the whole world and all its fading delights,

  But I forbid you to commit the one most terrible crime:

  Do not carve your hours into my love’s beautiful forehead,

  Or draw any lines there with your antique pen.

  Let him to go unmarked by you and allow

  Him to serve as a pattern of beauty for men to come.

  Still, do your worst, old Time, and despite your doing so

  My love will be forever young in my poetry.

  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,

  Much 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.

  Nature has painted a woman’s face with her own hand

  On you, the master and mistress of my passion.

  And she gave you a woman’s gentle heart, but it does not

  Change quickly, as a disloyal woman’s tends to do.

  Your eyes are brighter than a woman’s, with no unfaithful expression,

  And everything you look at becomes more beautiful.

  Your appearance as a man who has mastered his looks,

  Stealthily captures the glances of men and amazes the souls of women.

  You were first created as a woman

  Until Nature, seeing what she created, fell for you

  And she added something to defeat my having you

  By giving you one thing I have no use for.

  So since she gave you a prick in order to please women,

  I will have your love and they can love your treasure.

  So is it not with me as with that Muse

  Stirr'd by a painted beauty to his verse,

  Who heaven itself for ornament doth use

  And every fair with his fair doth rehearse

  Making a couplement of proud compare,

  With sun and moon, with earth and sea's rich gems,

  With April's first-born flowers, and all things rare

  That heaven's air in this huge rondure hems.

  O' let me, true in love, but truly write,

  And then believe me, my love is as fair

  As any mother's child, though not so bright

  As those gold candles fix'd in heaven's air:

  Let them say more than like of hearsay well;

  I will not praise that purpose not to sell.

  It is not like me to be like the poet who,

  Inspired to write poetry by a woman wearing make-up,

  Says she has the quality of heaven

  And then compares her with every beautiful thing by

  Joining her with them in splendid similes.

  She is like the sun, the moon, and all the treasures of earth and sea,

  Like April’s first flowers and all things rare

  That are contained within heaven and on earth.

  Let me, since I’m truly in love, write faithfully,

  And then you can believe—my love is as beautiful

  As any child is to its mother, although not as bright

  As the golden stars fixed in the sky.

  Let those who like that sort of thing say more.

  It is not my intention to sell, so I won’t overpraise.

  My glass shall not persuade me I am old,

  So long as youth and thou are of one date;

  But when in thee time's furrows I behold,

  Then look I death my days should expiate.

/>   For all that beauty that doth cover thee

  Is but the seemly raiment of my heart,

  Which in thy breast doth live, as thine in me:

  How can I then be elder than thou art?

  O, therefore, love, be of thyself so wary

  As I, not for myself, but for thee will;

  Bearing thy heart, which I will keep so chary

  As tender nurse her babe from faring ill.

  Presume not on thy heart when mine is slain;

  Thou gavest me thine, not to give back again.

  My mirror will not convince me I am old,

  As long as you look youthful.

  But when I see time’s furrows unfold in you,

  Then I know my death is approaching.

  All of the beauty that covers you

  Is the clothing I wear close to my heart:

  It lives inside me, as you live inside me.

  How could I ever be older than you?

  Oh, therefore, my love, watch over yourself

  As carefully as I do, which I do

  Because I have your heart. I keep it as dearly

  As a nurse keeps her baby from harm.

  Don’t expect to get your heart back when mine is destroyed.

  You gave it to me, and I can’t give it back.

  As an unperfect actor on the stage

  Who with his fear is put besides his part,

  Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage,

  Whose strength's abundance weakens his own heart.

  So I, for fear of trust, forget to say

  The perfect ceremony of love's rite,

  And in mine own love's strength seem to decay,

  O'ercharged with burden of mine own love's might.

  O, let my books be then the eloquence

  And dumb presagers of my speaking breast,

  Who plead for love and look for recompense

  More than that tongue that more hath more express'd.

  O, learn to read what silent love hath writ:

  To hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit.

  Like an unskilled actor on the stage,

  Who can’t remember his part due to fear,

  Or like some wild thing filled with too much rage,

  Whose abundance of strength weakens his heart,

  So I, out of fear of trusting myself, forget to express

  The perfect words to symbolize love’s ceremony.