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

by William Shakespeare

  Then need I not to fear the worst of wrongs,

  When in the least of them my life hath end.

  I see a better state to me belongs

  Than that which on thy humour doth depend;

  Thou canst not vex me with inconstant mind,

  Since that my life on thy revolt doth lie.

  O, what a happy title do I find,

  Happy to have thy love, happy to die!

  But what's so blessed-fair that fears no blot?

  Thou mayst be false, and yet I know it not.

  Go ahead and do the worst and leave me,

  I live as long as you are mine,

  And will not live any longer than you stay,

  For my life depends upon your love.

  So, I do not need to fear the worst of wrongs,

  When, if you hurt me the least little bit, my life will end.

  I see now that I’m in a better position

  Than if I depended on your feelings for me;

  You can’t trouble me with a fickle mind,

  Since my life would end if you had a change of heart.

  Oh, what a happy situation I have found myself in:

  Happy to have your love, and happy to die!

  But what position could be so blessed that I’d have no worries?

  You may be unfaithful to me, and I will not know it.

  So shall I live, supposing thou art true,

  Like a deceived husband; so love's face

  May still seem love to me, though alter'd new;

  Thy looks with me, thy heart in other place:

  For there can live no hatred in thine eye,

  Therefore in that I cannot know thy change.

  In many's looks the false heart's history

  Is writ in moods and frowns and wrinkles strange,

  But heaven in thy creation did decree

  That in thy face sweet love should ever dwell;

  Whate'er thy thoughts or thy heart's workings be,

  Thy looks should nothing thence but sweetness tell.

  How like Eve's apple doth thy beauty grow,

  if thy sweet virtue answer not thy show!

  So I will live as if you are faithful,

  In the same way a deceived husband does, so that your face

  Will still seem to hold love for me, even though that has changed.

  Your loving looks will be with me, but your heart will be somewhere else:

  And because no hatred could exist in your expression,

  I will never be able to see the change.

  In the looks of many, the story of an unfaithful heart

  Is written in moodiness and frowns and strange wrinkles,

  But when heaven created you, you were given

  A face on which only sweetness and love could live.

  Whatever you think or feel in your heart,

  Your looks will express nothing but sweetness.

  Your face is very much like Eve’s apple, in that way,

  If you should ever stray from being sweet and virtuous, it will not show!

  They that have power to hurt and will do none,

  That do not do the thing they most do show,

  Who, moving others, are themselves as stone,

  Unmoved, cold, and to temptation slow,

  They rightly do inherit heaven's graces

  And husband nature's riches from expense;

  They are the lords and owners of their faces,

  Others but stewards of their excellence.

  The summer's flower is to the summer sweet,

  Though to itself it only live and die,

  But if that flower with base infection meet,

  The basest weed outbraves his dignity:

  For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds;

  Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds.

  Those that have the power to hurt others and do not,

  That do not do the thing their looks say they could do,

  Who, while moving others, are themselves like stone—

  Unmoved, cold and slow to tempt—

  They will rightfully inherit heaven’s graces

  And will keep nature’s riches from being used up.

  They are their own lord and own their appearance,

  While everyone else is simply controlling their talents.

  The summer’s flower is sweet in the summer,

  Though it sees itself only as living and dying,

  But if that flower were infected with something wretched,

  The lowest weed would have more dignity:

  The sweetest things turn sourest by their actions;

  Rotting lilies smell far worse than weeds.

  How sweet and lovely dost thou make the shame

  Which, like a canker in the fragrant rose,

  Doth spot the beauty of thy budding name!

  O, in what sweets dost thou thy sins enclose!

  That tongue that tells the story of thy days,

  Making lascivious comments on thy sport,

  Cannot dispraise but in a kind of praise;

  Naming thy name blesses an ill report.

  O, what a mansion have those vices got

  Which for their habitation chose out thee,

  Where beauty's veil doth cover every blot,

  And all things turn to fair that eyes can see!

  Take heed, dear heart, of this large privilege;

  The hardest knife ill-used doth lose his edge.

  You make shame look so sweet and lovely

  While, like a canker in a fragrant rose,

  It stains the beauty of your name!

  Oh, you cover up your sins with such sweet covers!

  The tongue that tells yours story

  And makes lustful comments about your sexual recreation,

  Cannot help but turn criticism into a kind of praise;

  Mentioning your name makes a bad thing look good.

  Oh, what a grand place those vices of yours

  Get to live in, having chosen you,

  Where your beauty covers every fault,

  And turns everything that eyes can see to good!

  Be careful, dear heart, of this great privilege:

  The hardest knife, when used badly, will lose its edge.

  Some say thy fault is youth, some wantonness;

  Some say thy grace is youth and gentle sport;

  Both grace and faults are loved of more and less;

  Thou makest faults graces that to thee resort.

  As on the finger of a throned queen

  The basest jewel will be well esteem'd,

  So are those errors that in thee are seen

  To truths translated and for true things deem'd.

  How many lambs might the stem wolf betray,

  If like a lamb he could his looks translate!

  How many gazers mightst thou lead away,

  If thou wouldst use the strength of all thy state!

  But do not so; I love thee in such sort

  As, thou being mine, mine is thy good report.

  Some say your fault is your youth, while others say it is your promiscuity;

  Some say your virtue is in your youth and playfulness,

  And your faults and virtues are more or less loved by all;

  You are capable of turning your faults into virtues.

  In the same way the finger of a queen on a throne

  Will make the lowest jewel seem vaulable,

  So are the errors in you seen

  As good things and regarded as good.

  How many lambs might the prowling wolf betray,

  If he could make himself look like a lamb!

  How many viewers you could lead away,

  If you would use the power at your disposal!

  But don’t do that; I love you in such a way

  That, since you are mine, your reputation reflects on me.

  How like a winter hath my absence been

  From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting
year!

  What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen!

  What old December's bareness every where!

  And yet this time removed was summer's time,

  The teeming autumn, big with rich increase,

  Bearing the wanton burden of the prime,

  Like widow'd wombs after their lords' decease:

  Yet this abundant issue seem'd to me

  But hope of orphans and unfather'd fruit;

  For summer and his pleasures wait on thee,

  And, thou away, the very birds are mute;

  Or, if they sing, 'tis with so dull a cheer

  That leaves look pale, dreading the winter's near.

  It has felt like winter since I’ve been away

  From you, since you give pleasure to the passing year!

  I have felt so cold and have seen such dark days!

  Old December’s bareness was everywhere!

  Despite the fact that our time apart was during the summer,

  And then into the overfull autumn, big with abundance,

  With harvest-time bearing the fruits of its prime,

  Like a widow bears a child after her lord dies.

  These abundant crops seemed to me

  Like orphans and unfathered fruit;

  The pleasure of summer depends on you,

  And, when you are away, the birds are quiet,

  Or, if they sing, they do it so dully,

  That the leaves tune pale, dreading winter’s approach.

  From you have I been absent in the spring,

  When proud-pied April dress'd in all his trim

  Hath put a spirit of youth in every thing,

  That heavy Saturn laugh'd and leap'd with him.

  Yet nor the lays of birds nor the sweet smell

  Of different flowers in odour and in hue

  Could make me any summer's story tell,

  Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew;

  Nor did I wonder at the lily's white,

  Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose;

  They were but sweet, but figures of delight,

  Drawn after you, you pattern of all those.

  Yet seem'd it winter still, and, you away,

  As with your shadow I with these did play.

  I have been absent from you throughout the spring,

  When splendid and colorful April dressed in all his finery

  Put the spirit of youth into everything so much,

  That even heavy old Saturn laughed and leaped with him.

  Still, neither the songs of the birds nor the sweet scent

  Of the different odors of colored flowers

  Could make me feel like it was summer,

  Or inspire me to pick them from where they grew.

  I did not wonder at the white of the lily,

  Or praise the deep red in the rose;

  They were simply sweet figures of delight

  That looked as if they have been drawn to your pattern.

  It seemed like it was still winter with you away,

  And I played with the flowers as if they were your ghost.

  The forward violet thus did I chide:

  Sweet thief, whence didst thou steal thy sweet that smells,

  If not from my love's breath? The purple pride

  Which on thy soft cheek for complexion dwells

  In my love's veins thou hast too grossly dyed.

  The lily I condemned for thy hand,

  And buds of marjoram had stol'n thy hair:

  The roses fearfully on thorns did stand,

  One blushing shame, another white despair;

  A third, nor red nor white, had stol'n of both

  And to his robbery had annex'd thy breath;

  But, for his theft, in pride of all his growth

  A vengeful canker eat him up to death.

  More flowers I noted, yet I none could see

  But sweet or colour it had stol'n from thee.

  I scolded the precocious violet:

  ‘Sweet thief, where did you steal that scent that smells

  Exactly like my love’s breath? The purple color

  Which is on your soft cheek for color lives

  In my love’s veins, and you have grossly dyed yourself in it.’

  I condemned the lily for stealing the whiteness of your hand,

  And the buds of marjoram for stealing your hair.

  The roses trembled in fear, standing on their thorns,

  With one blushing red in shame and another white in despair;

  A third, neither red nor white, had stolen both colors,

  And to his robbery added your breath.

  And, because of his theft, when he was in the pride of his growth

  A terrible parasite ate him to death.

  I saw more flowers, and there were none I could see

  That hadn’t stolen their scent or color from you.

  Where art thou, Muse, that thou forget'st so long

  To speak of that which gives thee all thy might?

  Spend'st thou thy fury on some worthless song,

  Darkening thy power to lend base subjects light?

  Return, forgetful Muse, and straight redeem

  In gentle numbers time so idly spent;

  Sing to the ear that doth thy lays esteem

  And gives thy pen both skill and argument.

  Rise, resty Muse, my love's sweet face survey,

  If Time have any wrinkle graven there;

  If any, be a satire to decay,

  And make Time's spoils despised every where.

  Give my love fame faster than Time wastes life;

  So thou prevent'st his scythe and crooked knife.

  Where are you, Muse, that you have forgotten for so long

  To speak of the subject that gives you all your strength?

  Have you been spending your fierce passion on some worthless song,

  And depriving your power by lending low subjects light?

  Come back, forgetful Muse, and redeem yourself

  And make up for your idle time by inspiring some gentle poems;

  Sing into the ear that values you

  And which provides your pen with both skill and a subject.

  Rise, lazy Muse, and look at my love’s sweet face,

  If Time has carved any wrinkles there,

  Compose a satire to decay,

  And make Time’s ruins despised everywhere.

  Give my love fame faster than Time can waste life;

  And in that way you can prevent his scythe and crooked knife.

  O truant Muse, what shall be thy amends

  For thy neglect of truth in beauty dyed?

  Both truth and beauty on my love depends;

  So dost thou too, and therein dignified.

  Make answer, Muse: wilt thou not haply say

  'Truth needs no colour, with his colour fix'd;

  Beauty no pencil, beauty's truth to lay;

  But best is best, if never intermix'd?'

  Because he needs no praise, wilt thou be dumb?

  Excuse not silence so; for't lies in thee

  To make him much outlive a gilded tomb,

  And to be praised of ages yet to be.

  Then do thy office, Muse; I teach thee how

  To make him seem long hence as he shows now.

  So, truant Muse, how are you going to make amends

  For neglecting truth that is colored in beauty?

  Both truth and beauty depend on my love,

  And you do, too, and are dignified in that way.

  Answer me, Muse: perhaps you will say

  ‘Truth needs no color, since his color is already fixed to beauty;

  And beauty needs no fine-pointed paintbrush; beauty is layered in truth;

  Is whatever is best the best when not mixed with anything?’

  Because he requires no praise, will you be silent?

  There is no excuse for the silence, since it lies within you

&nbs
p; To make him live beyond a golden tomb,

  And to be praised for ages to come.

  So, do your job, Muse; I will teach you how

  To make him appear as he appears now in the future.

  My love is strengthen'd, though more weak in seeming;

  I love not less, though less the show appear:

  That love is merchandized whose rich esteeming

  The owner's tongue doth publish every where.

  Our love was new and then but in the spring

  When I was wont to greet it with my lays,

  As Philomel in summer's front doth sing

  And stops her pipe in growth of riper days:

  Not that the summer is less pleasant now

  Than when her mournful hymns did hush the night,

  But that wild music burthens every bough

  And sweets grown common lose their dear delight.

  Therefore like her I sometime hold my tongue,

  Because I would not dull you with my song.

  My love is stronger, although is seems to be weaker;

  I don’t love you less; I just show it less often.

  Love is turned into merchandise by the high praise

  That the owner announces everywhere.

  Our love was new and in its spring

  When I was inclined to greet it with poems

  In the way Philomela sings songs at the beginning of summer

  Then stops singing so much as the days grow ripe;

  It’s not because summer is less pleasant then

  Than when she sang her mournful tunes in the quiet of night,

  But that wild music and songs now burden every bough

  And sweets that have grown common lose their delight.

  So, like her, I sometimes hold my tongue,

  Because I do not want to bore you with my song.

  Alack, what poverty my Muse brings forth,

  That having such a scope to show her pride,

  The argument all bare is of more worth

  Than when it hath my added praise beside!

  O, blame me not, if I no more can write!

  Look in your glass, and there appears a face

  That over-goes my blunt invention quite,

  Dulling my lines and doing me disgrace.

  Were it not sinful then, striving to mend,

  To mar the subject that before was well?