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

by William Shakespeare

  And so it seems the strength of my love makes me decline,

  And I am overburdened with the weight of it.

  So let the words in my books be eloquent—

  Let them be silent interpreters of what is in my heart,

  And they can plead for love and look for reward,

  More than what my tongue can express.

  Learn to read what silent love has written,

  And to hear with your eyes love’s exquisitely formed thoughts.

  Mine eye hath play'd the painter and hath stell'd

  Thy beauty's form in table of my heart;

  My body is the frame wherein 'tis held,

  And perspective it is the painter's art.

  For through the painter must you see his skill,

  To find where your true image pictured lies;

  Which in my bosom's shop is hanging still,

  That hath his windows glazed with thine eyes.

  Now see what good turns eyes for eyes have done:

  Mine eyes have drawn thy shape, and thine for me

  Are windows to my breast, where-through the sun

  Delights to peep, to gaze therein on thee;

  Yet eyes this cunning want to grace their art;

  They draw but what they see, know not the heart.

  My eyes have been like a painter and have portrayed

  The shape of your beauty in the notebook of my heart.

  My body is the frame that holds your image,

  And I keep it in perspective like an artist.

  The painter’s skill will help you to see,

  Where your true image resides,

  Which hangs in my heart’s workshop,

  As your eyes stare into me.

  Look what good our eyes have done for each other:

  My eyes have drawn your shape, and your eyes

  Have looked into my heart, where the sun

  Also likes to look, and gaze upon you.

  Still, my cunning eyes lack grace in their art:

  They draw what they see, but they do not know your heart.

  Let those who are in favour with their stars

  Of public honour and proud titles boast,

  Whilst I, whom fortune of such triumph bars,

  Unlook'd for joy in that I honour most.

  Great princes' favourites their fair leaves spread

  But as the marigold at the sun's eye,

  And in themselves their pride lies buried,

  For at a frown they in their glory die.

  The painful warrior famoused for fight,

  After a thousand victories once foil'd,

  Is from the book of honour razed quite,

  And all the rest forgot for which he toil'd:

  Then happy I, that love and am beloved

  Where I may not remove nor be removed.

  Let those who are lucky

  Have public honor and titles they can brag about,

  While I, who am not fortunate enough to have the glory,

  Have found joy in an honor I did not expect.

  The favorites of great princes spread their leaves,

  And flower like a marigold in the hot sun—

  Their pride lies buried within them,

  But their glory will die at a simple frown.

  The warrior who has endured pain and is famous for his fights,

  Defeated only once after a thousand victories,

  Is completely cut from the book of honor,

  And all of the battles he won are forgotten.

  I am happy, then, to love and be loved,

  And to be in a place I will not leave or be removed from.

  Lord of my love, to whom in vassalage

  Thy merit hath my duty strongly knit,

  To thee I send this written embassage,

  To witness duty, not to show my wit:

  Duty so great, which wit so poor as mine

  May make seem bare, in wanting words to show it,

  But that I hope some good conceit of thine

  In thy soul's thought, all naked, will bestow it;

  Till whatsoever star that guides my moving

  Points on me graciously with fair aspect

  And puts apparel on my tatter'd loving,

  To show me worthy of thy sweet respect:

  Then may I dare to boast how I do love thee;

  Till then not show my head where thou mayst prove me.

  My noble love, I am in service to you—

  Your worth has tied me to you in duty.

  I’m sending you this message

  To show my duty to you, not my intelligence,

  A duty that is great, although my lack of intelligence

  May make it seem simple without the right words to show it.

  But I hope you will be able to get a good idea,

  Somewhere in your soul, of what I mean.

  When the star that guides my movement,

  Shines on me with divine grace and favorable influence,

  And dresses up my ragged way of loving,

  And shows me worthy of your sweet respect:

  Then will I be able to boast how much I love you.

  Until then, I will not show my face where you might test me.

  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.

  Weary from work, I hurry to my bed—

  The precious place of rest for legs tired with travel.

  But then a journey begins in my head,

  That stirs my mind when my body’s work is done:

  And then my thoughts go far from where I am,

  And take a direct and enthusiastic journey to you.

  I keep my drooping eyelids wide open,

  Staring into the darkness like a blind person.

  Except the heart of my imagination

  Shows your image to my sightless view,

  And it hangs like a jewel in the terrible night,

  Making black night beautiful and her old face fresh.

  So it is, by day my legs and by night my mind

  Seek you and find no peace.

  How can I then return in happy plight,

  That am debarr'd the benefit of rest?

  When day's oppression is not eased by night,

  But day by night, and night by day, oppress'd?

  And each, though enemies to either's reign,

  Do in consent shake hands to torture me;

  The one by toil, the other to complain

  How far I toil, still farther off from thee.

  I tell the day, to please them thou art bright

  And dost him grace when clouds do blot the heaven:

  So flatter I the swart-complexion'd night,

  When sparkling stars twire not thou gild'st the even.

  But day doth daily draw my sorrows longer

  And night doth nightly make grief's strength seem stronger.

  How can I return happy and in good shape

  When I am deprived from getting any rest?

  When the burdens of the day are not eased at night,

  But, instead, day burdens night and night burdens day?

  And each of them, although enemies to each other,

  Decide to agree to torture me together—

  The one by tiring me out and the other spent complaining


  About how tired I am, and still so far away from you.

  I tell the day to please it that you are bright

  And make the day good when clouds cover the sun:

  And I flatter the dark complexioned night by saying

  That when the sparkling stars do not twinkle you still brighten the evening.

  But day does daily make my sadness longer

  And night does nightly make my grief seem stronger.

  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 myself and curse my fate,

  Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,

  Featured like him, like him with friends possess'd,

  Desiring this man's art and that man's scope,

  With what I most enjoy contented least;

  Yet in these thoughts myself 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 remember'd such wealth brings

  That then I scorn to change my state with kings.

  When I feel unfortunate and am seen as a disgrace by others,

  I cry by myself about being an outcast

  And disturb the deaf heavens with my useless cries,

  And look at myself and curse my luck,

  Wishing myself to be more like one who is hopeful,

  And wishing I looked like him and had his friends.

  I wish I had this man’s skill and that man’s opportunities,

  And am unhappy with what usually makes me glad.

  Still, when I have these thoughts and despise myself,

  I happen to think of you and then my sense of well-being

  Rises like a lark at the break of day

  From the gloomy earth, singing hymns at heaven’s gate.

  The thought of your sweet love brings such wealth

  That I would refuse to change places with kings.

  When to the sessions of sweet silent thought

  I summon up remembrance of things past,

  I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,

  And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste:

  Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow,

  For precious friends hid in death's dateless night,

  And weep afresh love's long since cancell'd woe,

  And moan the expense of many a vanish'd sight:

  Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,

  And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er

  The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan,

  Which I new pay as if not paid before.

  But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,

  All losses are restored and sorrows end.

  When I’m alone with my sweet silent thoughts,

  And I call up the memory of things from the past,

  I sigh about not having gotten the things I tried to find,

  And I cry about all the time I’ve wasted.

  Then I can drown my eyes that are unused to tears

  For friends who have passed into death’s eternal night,

  And weep again about loves I was sad about losing before,

  And cry about how much the things that are gone have cost me.

  I can sob heavily while I go over every sadness I’ve ever had,

  Taking account of my previous sadnesess all over again,

  And I cry about them as if I had not cried before.

  But if I think about you while doing this, dear friend,

  Then my losses are returned and my sadness ends.

  Thy bosom is endeared with all hearts,

  Which I by lacking have supposed dead,

  And there reigns love and all love's loving parts,

  And all those friends which I thought buried.

  How many a holy and obsequious tear

  Hath dear religious love stol'n from mine eye

  As interest of the dead, which now appear

  But things removed that hidden in thee lie!

  Thou art the grave where buried love doth live,

  Hung with the trophies of my lovers gone,

  Who all their parts of me to thee did give;

  That due of many now is thine alone:

  Their images I loved I view in thee,

  And thou, all they, hast all the all of me.

  You have the hearts of everyone in your heart

  Who I viewed as good as dead since I no longer have them.

  And there you have power over love and all its qualities,

  And all those friends I thought I had buried.

  Many virtuous and dutiful tears

  Have been stolen from my eye by dear, religious love

  And cried for the dead, who now appear

  As things that were removed and hidden in you!

  You are the grave where buried love lies,

  And in it hangs the trophies of all my departed lovers,

  Who gave all of themselves to you.

  What was due to me is now yours alone.

  I can see everyone I’ve loved in you,

  And you, who have everyone I’ve ever loved, also has all of me.

  If thou survive my well-contented day,

  When that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover,

  And shalt by fortune once more re-survey

  These poor rude lines of thy deceased lover,

  Compare them with the bettering of the time,

  And though they be outstripp'd by every pen,

  Reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme,

  Exceeded by the height of happier men.

  O, then vouchsafe me but this loving thought:

  'Had my friend's Muse grown with this growing age,

  A dearer birth than this his love had brought,

  To march in ranks of better equipage:

  But since he died and poets better prove,

  Theirs for their style I'll read, his for his love.'

  If you live on after I am gone

  After Death has covered my bones with dust,

  And you should happen to re-read

  These poor, rough lines written by your dead lover,

  You will compare them with the better poems of the time.

  Although the poems written by the pens of those poets will be better,

  Look at mine for the love contained within them, not their rhyme,

  Which more fortunate poets will have the skill to do better.

  Just please grant me this loving thought:

  “If my friend’s inspiration was still in existence today,

  He would have written better poems than these,

  To equal the poems written by those with better equipment.

  But since he is dead and poets today are better,

  I’ll read theirs for the style, and his for his love.”

  Full many a glorious morning have I seen

  Flatter the mountain-tops with sovereign eye,

  Kissing with golden face the meadows green,

  Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy;

  Anon permit the basest clouds to ride

  With ugly rack on his celestial face,

  And from the forlorn world his visage hide,

  Stealing unseen to west with this disgrace:

  Even so my sun one early morn did shine

  With all triumphant splendor on my brow;

  But out, alack! he was but one hour mine;

  The region cloud hath mask'd him from me now.

  Yet him for this my love no whit disdaineth;

  Suns of the world may stain when heaven's sun staineth.

  I’ve seen many glorious mornings when the full sun

  Makes the mountains look beautiful under its excellent eye,

  And kisses the green meadows with its golden face,

  And turns th
e pale streams gold using divine magic,

  Only to permit the most unworthy clouds

  To cross its heavenly face,

  Hiding it from the wretched world,

  Then creeping away unseen to the west in disgrace.

  Just like this my sun shone one morning

  In triumphant brilliance upon my face,

  But—too bad!—he was only mine for an hour,

  And the clouds have hidden him from me now.

  Still, my love is not corrupt because of this.

  Men who are like the sun can disgrace themselves like it does.

  Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day,

  And make me travel forth without my cloak,

  To let base clouds o'ertake me in my way,

  Hiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke?

  'Tis not enough that through the cloud thou break,To dry the rain on my storm-beaten face,

  For no man well of such a salve can speak

  That heals the wound and cures not the disgrace:

  Nor can thy shame give physic to my grief;

  Though thou repent, yet I have still the loss:

  The offender's sorrow lends but weak relief

  To him that bears the strong offence's cross.

  Ah! but those tears are pearl which thy love sheds,

  And they are rich and ransom all ill deeds.

  Why did you promise such a beautiful day,

  And cause me to go out without my coat,

  Only to let dark clouds overtake me on the way,

  Hiding your splendor in their corrupt mist?

  It’s not enough that you broke through the clouds

  To dry the rain from my storm-beaten face,

  Because no man can speak highly of a remedy

  That heals the wound but does nothing for the disgrace.

  Your sense of shame does not heal my grief—

  Even though you are sorry, I still have the loss:

  The offender’s sorrow offers little relief

  To the one who suffers the damage.

  Oh, but those tears you shed out of love are like pearls—

  They are great and make up for all bad deeds.

  No more be grieved at that which thou hast done:

  Roses have thorns, and silver fountains mud;

  Clouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun,

  And loathsome canker lives in sweetest bud.