While his is tall as a building and something to be proud of:
So if he thrives and I am cast away,
The worst of it will be that my love for you was the cause of my ruin.
Or I shall live your epitaph to make,
Or you survive when I in earth am rotten;
From hence your memory death cannot take,
Although in me each part will be forgotten.
Your name from hence immortal life shall have,
Though I, once gone, to all the world must die:
The earth can yield me but a common grave,
When you entombed in men's eyes shall lie.
Your monument shall be my gentle verse,
Which eyes not yet created shall o'er-read,
And tongues to be your being shall rehearse
When all the breathers of this world are dead;
You still shall live--such virtue hath my pen--
Where breath most breathes, even in the mouths of men.
I may outlive you to write your epitaph,
Or you may survive me when I am in the earth rotting:
Death cannot take your memory away,
Although it will cause my part to be forgotten.
Your name will have immortal life,
Even though I, once gone, will be dead to the world.
The earth will give me a common grave,
While you will be entombed for all mens’ eyes to see.
Your monument will be my gentle poems,
Which the eyes of those not yet born will read,
And tongues to come will talk about your essence,
When all those who breathe now are dead;
You will still live—that is the virtue of my pen—
In the place where life is: in the breath in the mouths of men.
I grant thou wert not married to my Muse
And therefore mayst without attaint o'erlook
The dedicated words which writers use
Of their fair subject, blessing every book
Thou art as fair in knowledge as in hue,
Finding thy worth a limit past my praise,
And therefore art enforced to seek anew
Some fresher stamp of the time-bettering days
And do so, love; yet when they have devised
What strained touches rhetoric can lend,
Thou truly fair wert truly sympathized
In true plain words by thy true-telling friend;
And their gross painting might be better used
Where cheeks need blood; in thee it is abused.
I admit you are not married to my poetry,
And so you may look without doing wrong
At the words other writers have written
About you, their fair subject, who blesses every book,
Since you are as knowledgeable as your complexion is beautiful,
And you will find your worth is just beyond my praise,
And so you will be forced to seek a newer
And fresher account written in the style of the times.
So go ahead and do so, love, and yet when they have created
Whatever they can with a strained touch of modern rhetoric,
Know that you were truly matched
With a friend who could tell the truth about you in plain words;
The other poets’ extreme methods might be of more use
Where color is needed in cheeks: to use it for you would be wrong.
I never saw that you did painting need
And therefore to your fair no painting set;
I found, or thought I found, you did exceed
The barren tender of a poet's debt;
And therefore have I slept in your report,
That you yourself being extant well might show
How far a modern quill doth come too short,
Speaking of worth, what worth in you doth grow.
This silence for my sin you did impute,
Which shall be most my glory, being dumb;
For I impair not beauty being mute,
When others would give life and bring a tomb.
There lives more life in one of your fair eyes
Than both your poets can in praise devise.
I never saw that you required beautifying,
And so I did not try to beautify your beauty;
I saw, or thought I saw, that you exceed
The empty words of a poet’s obligation;
And, because of this, I paid no attention to the description
That you yourself, being in existence, will show.
A modern pen will come up too short,
When speaking of your worth, and the worth that grows in you.
You called me to account for my silence in this regard,
Even though I feel my silence is my brilliance—
I do not dishonor your beauty by being silent.
Others bring you to life while burying you.
More life exists in one of your beautiful eyes
Than both of your poets could ever begin to describe.
Who is it that says most? which can say more
Than this rich praise, that you alone are you?
In whose confine immured is the store
Which should example where your equal grew.
Lean penury within that pen doth dwell
That to his subject lends not some small glory;
But he that writes of you, if he can tell
That you are you, so dignifies his story,
Let him but copy what in you is writ,
Not making worse what nature made so clear,
And such a counterpart shall fame his wit,
Making his style admired every where.
You to your beauteous blessings add a curse,
Being fond on praise, which makes your praises worse.
Which poet says the most? Which can say more
Than to give the rich praise that you alone are you?
In whose domain is the treasure confined
Which is the example of what you equal?
A poverty-stricken writer will
Not be able to lend glory to his subject,
But anyone who writes about you, if he can simply tell
Who you are, will find his writing has dignity.
Let him copy down what is written in you,
And not make worse what nature has made so clear,
And he will have created a copy that will make him famous
And cause his style to be admired everywhere.
You add a curse to your beautiful blessings,
By being fond of praise, which only makes your praises worse.
My tongue-tied Muse in manners holds her still,
While comments of your praise, richly compiled,
Reserve their character with golden quill
And precious phrase by all the Muses filed.
I think good thoughts whilst other write good words,
And like unletter'd clerk still cry 'Amen'
To every hymn that able spirit affords
In polish'd form of well-refined pen.
Hearing you praised, I say ''Tis so, 'tis true,'
And to the most of praise add something more;
But that is in my thought, whose love to you,
Though words come hindmost, holds his rank before.
Then others for the breath of words respect,
Me for my dumb thoughts, speaking in effect.
My Muse politely stays quiet
While comments praising you are created in abundance,
Retaining their distinctive style in golden words
And precious phrases made smoother by all the Muses.
I think good thoughts while others write good words,
And like an uneducated clerk still cry ‘Amen!’
To every poem that stronger poets offer
In the polished form of a well-refined style.
Hearing you praised, I say ‘It
is so, it is true,’
And to even the most praise, I add something more,
But it is in my thoughts, where love for you,
Comes first before the words.
Respect others who praise you in breath and words,
And me for doing so in my silent thoughts, speaking what is true.
Was it the proud full sail of his great verse,
Bound for the prize of all too precious you,
That did my ripe thoughts in my brain inhearse,
Making their tomb the womb wherein they grew?
Was it his spirit, by spirits taught to write
Above a mortal pitch, that struck me dead?
No, neither he, nor his compeers by night
Giving him aid, my verse astonished.
He, nor that affable familiar ghost
Which nightly gulls him with intelligence
As victors of my silence cannot boast;
I was not sick of any fear from thence:
But when your countenance fill'd up his line,
Then lack'd I matter; that enfeebled mine.
Was it the way his poem sailed like a ship in full sail,
Headed for the prize of the all too precious you,
That buried the fully prepared thoughts in my head,
Making a grave of the womb where they grew?
Was it his energy, the way he was taught by dead poets
To write like no living man can, that struck me dead?
No, it wasn’t him, or his associates that came in the night
To give him help that struck me dumb.
Neither he or that friendly and familiar ghost
That deceives him with false information
Can boast to have have silenced me;
I was not sickened by fear of them:
But when you looked favorably on his poems,
I suddenly lacked subject-matter and my poems became weak.
Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing,
And like enough thou know'st thy estimate:
The charter of thy worth gives thee releasing;
My bonds in thee are all determinate.
For how do I hold thee but by thy granting?
And for that riches where is my deserving?
The cause of this fair gift in me is wanting,
And so my patent back again is swerving.
Thyself thou gavest, thy own worth then not knowing,
Or me, to whom thou gavest it, else mistaking;
So thy great gift, upon misprision growing,
Comes home again, on better judgment making.
Thus have I had thee, as a dream doth flatter,
In sleep a king, but waking no such matter.
Goodbye! You are too valuable for me to have,
And likely enough, you are aware of your worth.
The privilege of your worth gives you the right to let me go;
My ties to you have been terminated.
How could I hold onto unless you granted it?
And how could I even possibly deserve to do so?
I have nothing in me that shows I am entitled to this gift,
And you must have given me the right to it in error.
Perhaps when you gave it to me, you did not know its worth,
Or else you were mistaken about me when you gave it.
So the great gift, given based on an error you are now seeing,
Goes back to you, now that your judgment is better.
And so I had you, and it was like dreaming
In my sleep I was a king, only to wake to find this is not the case.
When thou shalt be disposed to set me light,
And place my merit in the eye of scorn,
Upon thy side against myself I'll fight,
And prove thee virtuous, though thou art forsworn.
With mine own weakness being best acquainted,
Upon thy part I can set down a story
Of faults conceal'd, wherein I am attainted,
That thou in losing me shalt win much glory:
And I by this will be a gainer too;
For bending all my loving thoughts on thee,
The injuries that to myself I do,
Doing thee vantage, double-vantage me.
Such is my love, to thee I so belong,
That for thy right myself will bear all wrong.
When you feel inclined to place in me little value
And make my worthlessness an object of scorn,
I will take your side against myself,
And prove your virtue, even though you will be lying.
I am well acquainted with my weaknesses,
And, supporting your story, I can tell a story
About my hidden faults and say I am tainted,
And that you were right in leaving me:
By doing this I will find a gain,
Because by turning all of my loving thoughts toward you,
The harm that I do to myself,
Since it is to your advantage, is to my advantage, as well.
My love is so strong and I belong to you so completely
That I will carry everything that’s wrong so that you may be right.
Say that thou didst forsake me for some fault,
And I will comment upon that offence;
Speak of my lameness, and I straight will halt,
Against thy reasons making no defence.
Thou canst not, love, disgrace me half so ill,
To set a form upon desired change,
As I'll myself disgrace: knowing thy will,
I will acquaintance strangle and look strange,
Be absent from thy walks, and in my tongue
Thy sweet beloved name no more shall dwell,
Lest I, too much profane, should do it wrong
And haply of our old acquaintance tell.
For thee against myself I'll vow debate,
For I must ne'er love him whom thou dost hate.
Say that you left me for some fault of mine,
And I will elaborate on whatever you say I did wrong.
If you say I am lame, I will begin to limp immediately,
And will not defend myself against your reasons.
You cannot, love, disgrace me half as badly,
As you find the reasons for having left me,
As I will disgrace myself, as soon as I know what you need.
I will stop my acquaintance with you and act like a stranger,
I won’t be in the places where you walk, and on my tongue
Your sweet, beloved name will no longer live,
Because I may say it in the wrong tone
And reveal how close we once were.
I vow to argue against myself for your sake,
Because I cannot love myself if that is whom you hate.
Then hate me when thou wilt; if ever, now;
Now, while the world is bent my deeds to cross,
Join with the spite of fortune, make me bow,
And do not drop in for an after-loss:
Ah, do not, when my heart hath 'scoped this sorrow,
Come in the rearward of a conquer'd woe;
Give not a windy night a rainy morrow,
To linger out a purposed overthrow.
If thou wilt leave me, do not leave me last,
When other petty griefs have done their spite
But in the onset come; so shall I taste
At first the very worst of fortune's might,
And other strains of woe, which now seem woe,
Compared with loss of thee will not seem so.
So, hate me when you will; and if ever, now;
Now, while the world seems determined to mess up my life,
You should join in the streak of bad luck and cause me to collapse.
Don’t drop it on me after all of my other losses are done:
Oh, do not do it when my heart has healed from this sorrow,
Do not come back again after I’
ve gotten over my sadness.
Don’t give a rainy tomorrow to my windy night,
Drawing out the sense of defeat I’ve had.
If you are going to leave me, don’t wait to do it last,
When all of the other little sorrows have done their damage,
But do it no, so that I may taste
The worst of my bad fortune right away.
And all of the other sadness, which now seem so awful,
Will not seem so when compared to the loss of you.
Some glory in their birth, some in their skill,
Some in their wealth, some in their bodies' force,
Some in their garments, though new-fangled ill,
Some in their hawks and hounds, some in their horse;
And every humour hath his adjunct pleasure,
Wherein it finds a joy above the rest:
But these particulars are not my measure;
All these I better in one general best.
Thy love is better than high birth to me,
Richer than wealth, prouder than garments' cost,
Of more delight than hawks or horses be;
And having thee, of all men's pride I boast:
Wretched in this alone, that thou mayst take
All this away and me most wretched make.
Some people take pride in their birth, and some in their skill,
Some in their wealth, and some in their physical strength,
Some take pride in their clothes, though they are badly new-fangled,
Some in their hawks and their hounds, some in their horse;
And every personality has something extra it takes pleasure in,
That it finds joy in above everything else.
But I do not measure my life by these sorts of details,
I have something that is better than all of this.
Your love is better than high birth to me,
Richer than wealth, prouder than expensive clothes,
More delightful than hawks or horses could be,
And, having you, I boast the pride of all men:
I’m only miserable in one regard—you might take
All of this away and leave me miserable.
But do thy worst to steal thyself away,
For term of life thou art assured mine,
And life no longer than thy love will stay,
For it depends upon that love of thine.
The Complete Works of William Shakespeare In Plain and Simple English (Translated) Page 687