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

by William Shakespeare

  My heart claims that that your image lies inside of him—

  Inside a closet never viewed with glittering eyes—

  But my eye plays the defendant and denies this,

  Saying that only in him does your beautiful image lie.

  To decide who gets the right a court has been assembled,

  And my thoughts serve as jurors, although they are loyal to the heart.

  They have determined a verdict regarding

  The clear eye’s portion and the dear heart’s part:

  So it is that my eye is due the appearance of you

  And my heart has the right to what is within your heart.

  Betwixt mine eye and heart a league is took,

  And each doth good turns now unto the other:

  When that mine eye is famish'd for a look,

  Or heart in love with sighs himself doth smother,

  With my love's picture then my eye doth feast

  And to the painted banquet bids my heart;

  Another time mine eye is my heart's guest

  And in his thoughts of love doth share a part:

  So, either by thy picture or my love,

  Thyself away art resent still with me;

  For thou not farther than my thoughts canst move,

  And I am still with them and they with thee;

  Or, if they sleep, thy picture in my sight

  Awakes my heart to heart's and eye's delight.

  An agreement has been made between my eye and my heart,

  And each now does the other favors.

  When my eye is hungry for a look at you,

  Or my heart sighs heavy, smothering sighs of love,

  My eye then feasts upon your picture

  And invites my heart to join in and gaze, as well.

  Another time, my eye may be the heart’s guest,

  And listen as he shares his thoughts of love for you.

  So, either by your picture or by thoughts of love,

  You are still present with me even when you are away.

  You are never farther than my thoughts can move,

  And I am always with them, and they are always with you.

  Or, if they sleep, your picture is in my sight,

  And it awakes both my heart and eye to delight.

  How careful was I, when I took my way,

  Each trifle under truest bars to thrust,

  That to my use it might unused stay

  From hands of falsehood, in sure wards of trust!

  But thou, to whom my jewels trifles are,

  Most worthy of comfort, now my greatest grief,

  Thou, best of dearest and mine only care,

  Art left the prey of every vulgar thief.

  Thee have I not lock'd up in any chest,

  Save where thou art not, though I feel thou art,

  Within the gentle closure of my breast,

  From whence at pleasure thou mayst come and part;

  And even thence thou wilt be stol'n, I fear,

  For truth proves thievish for a prize so dear.

  How careful I used to be when I traveled

  To keep every item I own under sturdy locks

  So that it would remain with me when not in use

  And not be stolen—they were such good locks!

  But you, whom makes my greatest jewels seem like nothing,

  And is most worthy of keeping safe, is now my greatest worry.

  You are the dearest thing to me and all I care about,

  And you are wide open to be taken by any common thief.

  I have not locked you up in any chest

  Except for where you aren’t, although I feel you are:

  Within my own chest close to my heart,

  Where, as you choose, you may come and go,

  And even then you will be stolen, I fear, because

  Honest men would become thieves to gain a prize like you.

  Against that time, if ever that time come,

  When I shall see thee frown on my defects,

  When as thy love hath cast his utmost sum,

  Call'd to that audit by advised respects;

  Against that time when thou shalt strangely pass

  And scarcely greet me with that sun thine eye,

  When love, converted from the thing it was,

  Shall reasons find of settled gravity,--

  Against that time do I ensconce me here

  Within the knowledge of mine own desert,

  And this my hand against myself uprear,

  To guard the lawful reasons on thy part:

  To leave poor me thou hast the strength of laws,

  Since why to love I can allege no cause.

  In anticipation of the time, if ever the time comes,

  When I see you frown at my faults,

  When your love has played itself out

  And you are taking everything about me into account;

  In anticipation of that time when we pass as strangers

  And you do not greet me with a light in your eye,

  When love, changed from the thing it was,

  Is reasoned away by maturity and wisdom;

  In anticipation of that time I want to firmly establish

  My full knowledge of all that I lack.

  I raise my hand to give testimony against myself,

  And to defend every justifiable reason you will have

  To leave pitiful me based on good reasons,

  Since I can find no reason at all why you love me.

  How heavy do I journey on the way,

  When what I seek, my weary travel's end,

  Doth teach that ease and that repose to say

  'Thus far the miles are measured from thy friend!'

  The beast that bears me, tired with my woe,

  Plods dully on, to bear that weight in me,

  As if by some instinct the wretch did know

  His rider loved not speed, being made from thee:

  The bloody spur cannot provoke him on

  That sometimes anger thrusts into his hide;

  Which heavily he answers with a groan,

  More sharp to me than spurring to his side;

  For that same groan doth put this in my mind;

  My grief lies onward and my joy behind.

  I feel so sad as I embark on this journey,

  Because where I am heading—my weary journey’s end—

  Will only give me the leisure and rest to say,

  ‘I’m so many miles away from my friend!’

  The horse that bears me is tired of my sadness,

  And plods on dully, bearing the weight in me.

  As if by some instinct he seems to know

  His rider is not in a hurry to get away from you.

  The bloody spur I use to drive him on does no good

  When I sometimes, in anger, thrust it into his side.

  He responds to the thrust with such a groan,

  Which is more painful to hear that the spur to his side feels,

  Because it is the sound of that groan that makes me realize:

  My grief lies ahead of me and my joy, behind.

  Thus can my love excuse the slow offence

  Of my dull bearer when from thee I speed:

  From where thou art why should I haste me thence?

  Till I return, of posting is no need.

  O, what excuse will my poor beast then find,

  When swift extremity can seem but slow?

  Then should I spur, though mounted on the wind;

  In winged speed no motion shall I know:

  Then can no horse with my desire keep pace;

  Therefore desire of perfect'st love being made,

  Shall neigh--no dull flesh--in his fiery race;

  But love, for love, thus shall excuse my jade;

  Since from thee going he went wilful-slow,

  Towards thee I'll run, and give him leave to go.

  And so my love for you can forgive the slowness

 
Of my dull horse when I rode away from you:

  I mean, why would I want to leave from where you are in a hurry?

  So, until I return, no hurry is necessary.

  What excuse will my poor horse find then,

  When—no matter how fast it goes—it will seem slow?

  I will use the spurs even if it seems to ride the wind.

  If it seems to fly, it will not be moving forward fast enough for me.

  No horse will be able to keep up with my desire,

  Because my desire will be made of perfect love,

  And the horse I ride must neigh—without dull flesh—in a fiery race to you.

  But my love, out of love, I will excuse my tired horse

  Since he went away from you so slowly.

  I will run on my own toward you, and let him go free.

  So am I as the rich, whose blessed key

  Can bring him to his sweet up-locked treasure,

  The which he will not every hour survey,

  For blunting the fine point of seldom pleasure.

  Therefore are feasts so solemn and so rare,

  Since, seldom coming, in the long year set,

  Like stones of worth they thinly placed are,

  Or captain jewels in the carcanet.

  So is the time that keeps you as my chest,

  Or as the wardrobe which the robe doth hide,

  To make some special instant special blest,

  By new unfolding his imprison'd pride.

  Blessed are you, whose worthiness gives scope,

  Being had, to triumph, being lack'd, to hope.

  So, I’m like the wealthy man, whose blessed key

  Can bring him to his sweet locked-up treasure,

  Which he will resist looking at every hour,

  Because it will dull the pleasure when he looks at it.

  So, the feasts of looking are formal and rare,

  Since, as they come so infrequently, they are set in the year

  Like stones of value are just barely placed,

  Like the main jewels set in a necklace.

  In the same way, the time that keeps you away from me is a chest

  Or a wardrobe that holds the robe in which you hide,

  Making some small moment especially blessed,

  When it unfolds to reveal what has been contained within.

  You are blessed with a great worth that ranges wide:

  Those who have you feel triumphant, while others hope to have you.

  What is your substance, whereof are you made,

  That millions of strange shadows on you tend?

  Since every one hath, every one, one shade,

  And you, but one, can every shadow lend.

  Describe Adonis, and the counterfeit

  Is poorly imitated after you;

  On Helen's cheek all art of beauty set,

  And you in Grecian tires are painted new:

  Speak of the spring and foison of the year;

  The one doth shadow of your beauty show,

  The other as your bounty doth appear;

  And you in every blessed shape we know.

  In all external grace you have some part,

  But you like none, none you, for constant heart.

  What are you made of—of what substance?

  That millions of reflections tend to look like you?

  While everyone has—everyone!—one image,

  You seem to look like every image.

  Try to paint Adonis, and the painting will be

  A poor imitation of you.

  And if Helen’s cheek and her beauty were painted,

  It would be you again in Greek clothes.

  Mention spring and the abundance of fall—

  Spring is only a shadow of your beauty,

  And fall can not match your great generosity.

  We see you in every blessed image we know.

  You are like everything beautiful in an image,

  But nothing can match the constancy of your heart.

  O, how much more doth beauty beauteous seem

  By that sweet ornament which truth doth give!

  The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem

  For that sweet odour which doth in it live.

  The canker-blooms have full as deep a dye

  As the perfumed tincture of the roses,

  Hang on such thorns and play as wantonly

  When summer's breath their masked buds discloses:

  But, for their virtue only is their show,

  They live unwoo'd and unrespected fade,

  Die to themselves. Sweet roses do not so;

  Of their sweet deaths are sweetest odours made:

  And so of you, beauteous and lovely youth,

  When that shall fade, my verse distills your truth.

  Oh, how much more beautiful does beauty appear,

  When its sweetness is matched with truth and honesty!

  The rose looks beautiful, but we say it is more beautiful

  For the sweet scent that it carries.

  Wild roses have a full and deep color,

  The same as the perfumed roses have.

  Their thorns are the same and they display as playfully

  When the warm summer air opens their blooms.

  But their only good point is in their appearance,

  They live unloved and have little value as they fade,

  And so they die alone. Fragrant roses do not do this:

  As they fade, they produce the sweetest scent possible.

  And so will you, beautiful and lovely youth, because

  When you fade, my verse will hold your essence.

  Not marble, nor the gilded monuments

  Of princes, shall outlive this powerful rhyme;

  But you shall shine more bright in these contents

  Than unswept stone besmear'd with sluttish time.

  When wasteful war shall statues overturn,

  And broils root out the work of masonry,

  Nor Mars his sword nor war's quick fire shall burn

  The living record of your memory.

  'Gainst death and all-oblivious enmity

  Shall you pace forth; your praise shall still find room

  Even in the eyes of all posterity

  That wear this world out to the ending doom.

  So, till the judgment that yourself arise,

  You live in this, and dwell in lover's eyes.

  Neither marble nor the gold-plated monuments

  Of princes will outlive this powerful poem,

  You will shine more brightly in these lines

  Than abandoned stone discolored with filthy time.

  When wasteful wars overturn statues

  And battles tear up stonework and floors,

  Neither War’s fierce sword nor his quick fire will burn

  The living record of your memory.

  Avoiding death and forgetful hostility,

  You will walk forward and your praise will still find room

  In the eyes of a long line of descendants,

  Lasting until the end of the world.

  So, until Judgment Day when you are raised again

  You live in this poem and in the eyes of lovers.

  Sweet love, renew thy force; be it not said

  Thy edge should blunter be than appetite,

  Which but to-day by feeding is allay'd,

  To-morrow sharpen'd in his former might:

  So, love, be thou; although to-day thou fill

  Thy hungry eyes even till they wink with fullness,

  To-morrow see again, and do not kill

  The spirit of love with a perpetual dullness.

  Let this sad interim like the ocean be

  Which parts the shore, where two contracted new

  Come daily to the banks, that, when they see

  Return of love, more blest may be the view;

  Else call it winter, which being full of care

  Makes summer's welcome thrice more wis
h'd, more rare.

  Sweet love, renew your strength. They say

  The edge of love is blunter than desire’s,

  Which is easily satisfied today

  Only to be as sharp and strong again tomorrow.

  So, love, be like that: although today you look on your lover

  With hungry eyes until you want to close them because they feel full,

  Look again tomorrow, and do not kill

  The spirit of love with a constant dullness.

  Let this sad break between us be like an ocean

  Which parts the shores where two newly engaged lovers

  Come to the banks every day, and when they see

  Their love again on the other side, the view is blessed.

  Or let it be like winter, which is so full of trouble

  It makes summer three times more welcome and rare.

  Being your slave, what should I do but tend

  Upon the hours and times of your desire?

  I have no precious time at all to spend,

  Nor services to do, till you require.

  Nor dare I chide the world-without-end hour

  Whilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for you,

  Nor think the bitterness of absence sour

  When you have bid your servant once adieu;

  Nor dare I question with my jealous thought

  Where you may be, or your affairs suppose,

  But, like a sad slave, stay and think of nought

  Save, where you are how happy you make those.

  So true a fool is love that in your will,

  Though you do any thing, he thinks no ill.

  Since I am your slave, what can I do except attend

  To the hours and times of your desire?

  I have no precious time of my own to spend at all,

  Or services to do, until you require me.

  I don’t dare to complain about the endless hours

  While I wait for you, my king, watching the clock,

  Or think about how bitter and sour your absence is

  Once you have bid your servant goodbye.

  I certainly don’t dare to voice my jealous thoughts

  About where you might be, or what you are up to,

  But, like a sad slave, I wait and think about nothing

  Except how happy you must be making someone, wherever you are.

  Love makes a person such a loyal fool