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

by William Shakespeare

For to no other pass my verses tend

  Than of your graces and your gifts to tell;

  And more, much more, than in my verse can sit

  Your own glass shows you when you look in it.

  Alas, my Muse brings forth only poverty,

  Since even with a big subject to show off her skill,

  The subject, which is you, is worth more

  Than when I have not added my praise to it!

  Oh, don’t blame me, if I can’t write anymore!

  Look in your mirror, and there you will see a face

  That exceeds my blunt and limited inventions,

  Making my lines dull and causing me disgrace.

  Wouldn’t it be a sin if—while trying to improve—

  I messed up a subject that was already quite well?

  I write about nothing else in my poems except you,

  Describing your graces and your gifts;

  And more, much more, than my poems can contain

  Your own mirror shows when you look into it.

  To me, fair friend, you never can be old,

  For as you were when first your eye I eyed,

  Such seems your beauty still. Three winters cold

  Have from the forests shook three summers' pride,

  Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn turn'd

  In process of the seasons have I seen,

  Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burn'd,

  Since first I saw you fresh, which yet are green.

  Ah! yet doth beauty, like a dial-hand,

  Steal from his figure and no pace perceived;

  So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand,

  Hath motion and mine eye may be deceived:

  For fear of which, hear this, thou age unbred;

  Ere you were born was beauty's summer dead.

  You’ll never be old to me, fair friend—

  The way you looked when I first eyed your eye—

  That is how you still look. Three cold winters

  Have shook three summers’ worth of leaves from the forests,

  And three beautiful springs have turned to autumn’s yellow

  In the passing of the seasons I have seen;

  Three perfumed Aprils have burned into three hot Junes,

  Since I first saw you fresh, and you’re still green and new.

  Oh! Still, beauty, like a clock’s hand,

  Steals from his figure with a pace so slow it is not perceived;

  So your sweet complexion, which seems to me to stand still,

  Has motion, and my eye may be deceived.

  For fear that it is, hear this, future generations not yet conceived:

  Before you were born, the greatest beauty was already dead.

  Let not my love be call'd idolatry,

  Nor my beloved as an idol show,

  Since all alike my songs and praises be

  To one, of one, still such, and ever so.

  Kind is my love to-day, to-morrow kind,

  Still constant in a wondrous excellence;

  Therefore my verse to constancy confined,

  One thing expressing, leaves out difference.

  'Fair, kind and true' is all my argument,

  'Fair, kind, and true' varying to other words;

  And in this change is my invention spent,

  Three themes in one, which wondrous scope affords.

  'Fair, kind, and true,' have often lived alone,

  Which three till now never kept seat in one.

  Let no one call my love idolatry,

  Or say that my beloved is an idol show,

  Since my songs and praises are all alike

  And are to one, of one, have been, and will always be.

  My love is kind today, and kind tomorrow.

  And is constant in an extraordinary excellence;

  So my poems are confined to that constancy,

  Expressing one thing, and leaving out anything different.

  ‘Fair, kind, and true’ is the entire subject of my poems.

  ‘Fair, kind, and true’ is what I write about in various ways,

  And it is in this variation that I spend my creativity.

  These three themes are contained in one, providing a broad subject.

  ‘Fair, kind, and true’ are traits often found alone,

  But the three traits were never all in one person until now.

  When in the chronicle of wasted time

  I see descriptions of the fairest wights,

  And beauty making beautiful old rhyme

  In praise of ladies dead and lovely knights,

  Then, in the blazon of sweet beauty's best,

  Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow,

  I see their antique pen would have express'd

  Even such a beauty as you master now.

  So all their praises are but prophecies

  Of this our time, all you prefiguring;

  And, for they look'd but with divining eyes,

  They had not skill enough your worth to sing:

  For we, which now behold these present days,

  Had eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise.

  When I read accounts about times past

  And I see descriptions of the most favorable people,

  And read beautiful poems inspired by their beauty,

  That praise the ladies who are dead and the lovely knights,

  When I read the accounts of their best features—

  Their hands, their feet, their lips, their eyes, their foreheads—

  I see how their antique poet would have expressed

  Even such a beauty as you have now.

  All of their praises where just prophecies

  Of our time, and they prefigure you;

  And, even though they see with foretelling eyes,

  They did not have enough skill to sing your worth:

  Just like we, who now look at these present days,

  Have the eyes to wonder, but lack the words to praise.

  Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul

  Of the wide world dreaming on things to come,

  Can yet the lease of my true love control,

  Supposed as forfeit to a confined doom.

  The mortal moon hath her eclipse endured

  And the sad augurs mock their own presage;

  Incertainties now crown themselves assured

  And peace proclaims olives of endless age.

  Now with the drops of this most balmy time

  My love looks fresh, and death to me subscribes,

  Since, spite of him, I'll live in this poor rhyme,

  While he insults o'er dull and speechless tribes:

  And thou in this shalt find thy monument,

  When tyrants' crests and tombs of brass are spent.

  Neither my own fears or the collective predictions

  Of the wide world dreaming about things to come,

  Can keep me from owning my true love,

  Who was supposed to have remained confined.

  The mortal moon has endured her eclipse

  And the sad fortune tellers ridicule their own forecasts;

  Things that were uncertain can now be crowned as certain,

  And peace proclaims itself to stay for an endless amount of time.

  Now, sprinkled with the drops of this healing time,

  My love looks fresh again, and death yields to me,

  Since, in spite of death, I’ll live on in this poor poem,

  While he triumphs over ignorant and speechless people:

  And you will find in this poem your monument,

  When tyrants’ crests and tombs of brass have wasted away.

  What's in the brain that ink may character

  Which hath not figured to thee my true spirit?

  What's new to speak, what new to register,

  That may express my love or thy dear merit?

  Nothing, sweet boy; but yet, like prayers divine,

  I must, e
ach day say o'er the very same,

  Counting no old thing old, thou mine, I thine,

  Even as when first I hallow'd thy fair name.

  So that eternal love in love's fresh case

  Weighs not the dust and injury of age,

  Nor gives to necessary wrinkles place,

  But makes antiquity for aye his page,

  Finding the first conceit of love there bred

  Where time and outward form would show it dead.

  What’s in the brain that ink may form into characters,

  Which I haven’t written to show you of my faithful spirit?

  What’s new to say, what’s new to record

  That may express my love or your great merit?

  Nothing, sweet boy, and still, like divine prayers,

  I must say the same thing over and over,

  Counting nothing old as old; you are mine, and I am yours

  In the same way as when I first honored your fair name.

  Eternal love dressed in fresh love’s suit

  Does not take into consideration the dust and injury of age,

  Nor does it acknowledge your wrinkles,

  But makes old age forever his servant,

  Finding the original inspiration for love where it was born,

  Even though time and outward appearance would make it appear to be dead.

  O, never say that I was false of heart,

  Though absence seem'd my flame to qualify.

  As easy might I from myself depart

  As from my soul, which in thy breast doth lie:

  That is my home of love: if I have ranged,

  Like him that travels I return again,

  Just to the time, not with the time exchanged,

  So that myself bring water for my stain.

  Never believe, though in my nature reign'd

  All frailties that besiege all kinds of blood,

  That it could so preposterously be stain'd,

  To leave for nothing all thy sum of good;

  For nothing this wide universe I call,

  Save thou, my rose; in it thou art my all.

  Oh, never say that I was unfaithful to you in my heart,

  Even though absence made it seem my flame had weakened.

  I may as easily depart myself from myself

  As from my soul, which lies inside my breast:

  Your love is my home, and if I had wandered,

  Like one who travels, I would return again,

  Exactly on time, with nothing changed,

  Bringing my own water to cleanse my disgrace.

  Don’t ever believe, just because in my nature I have

  The weaknesses that trouble all kinds of blood,

  That my nature could be so ridiculously dishonored,

  That I would leave all of your good for nothing;

  There is nothing in the entire universe I visit

  Except for you, my rose. You are everything to me.

  Alas, 'tis true I have gone here and there

  And made myself a motley to the view,

  Gored mine own thoughts, sold cheap what is most dear,

  Made old offences of affections new;

  Most true it is that I have look'd on truth

  Askance and strangely: but, by all above,

  These blenches gave my heart another youth,

  And worse essays proved thee my best of love.

  Now all is done, have what shall have no end:

  Mine appetite I never more will grind

  On newer proof, to try an older friend,

  A god in love, to whom I am confined.

  Then give me welcome, next my heaven the best,

  Even to thy pure and most most loving breast.

  Alas, it is true that I have gone here and there,

  And made myself look like a fool,

  I’ve wounded my own thoughts, made cheap what is of value,

  And have committed old wrongs with my new friends;

  It’s entirely true that I’ve looked at truth

  Scornfully, as if it were strange, but, I swear by heaven,

  Theses turns made my heart young again,

  And the worst tests have proved that I love you best.

  Now I’m done with all of that, and I want what will have no end:

  I will never again sharpen my appetite,

  On new proof to test my feelings for an old friend,

  The god of love to whom I am bound.

  So give me welcome, you are the next best thing to heaven,

  Allow me into your pure and most loving heart.

  O, for my sake do you with Fortune chide,

  The guilty goddess of my harmful deeds,

  That did not better for my life provide

  Than public means which public manners breeds.

  Thence comes it that my name receives a brand,

  And almost thence my nature is subdued

  To what it works in, like the dyer's hand:

  Pity me then and wish I were renew'd;

  Whilst, like a willing patient, I will drink

  Potions of eisel 'gainst my strong infection

  No bitterness that I will bitter think,

  Nor double penance, to correct correction.

  Pity me then, dear friend, and I assure ye

  Even that your pity is enough to cure me.

  Oh, I know you curse my bad luck for my sake—

  The guilty goddess of my hurtful deeds—

  For not having a better way to make a living

  Than by being in front of the public, which bred public manners.

  So it is that my name has received a bad mark,

  And it has brought down my very nature,

  To what it works in, like the dyer’s hand covered with ink:

  So, take pity on me and hope that I can be renewed,

  While I, like a willing patient, will drink

  Potions made with vinegar to clear up my infection,

  And I will not think any bitterness is bitter,

  Not will I protest a double penance to try to correct things.

  Pity me, dear friend, and I assure you

  That even your pity is enough to cure me.

  Your love and pity doth the impression fill

  Which vulgar scandal stamp'd upon my brow;

  For what care I who calls me well or ill,

  So you o'er-green my bad, my good allow?

  You are my all the world, and I must strive

  To know my shames and praises from your tongue:

  None else to me, nor I to none alive,

  That my steel'd sense or changes right or wrong.

  In so profound abysm I throw all care

  Of others' voices, that my adder's sense

  To critic and to flatterer stopped are.

  Mark how with my neglect I do dispense:

  You are so strongly in my purpose bred

  That all the world besides methinks are dead.

  Your love and pity fill in the indentation

  That vulgar scandal has stamped onto my forehead.

  What do I care who calls me good or bad,

  As long as you gloss over my bad, and allow for my good?

  You are my entire world, and I must strive

  To learn about my shames and praises from you:

  No one else matters to me, and I matter to no one alive,

  You can change my hardened sense whether it is right or wrong.

  Into a deep chasm I throw all care

  Regarding the opinions of others, and my snake-like awareness

  Of criticism and flattery no longer works.

  Notice how I disregard the neglect I am shown:

  You are so strongly the main purpose of my life,

  That it seems to me that the rest of the world is dead.

  Since I left you, mine eye is in my mind;

  And that which governs me to go about

  Doth part his function and is partly blind,

  Seems se
eing, but effectually is out;

  For it no form delivers to the heart

  Of bird of flower, or shape, which it doth latch:

  Of his quick objects hath the mind no part,

  Nor his own vision holds what it doth catch:

  For if it see the rudest or gentlest sight,

  The most sweet favour or deformed'st creature,

  The mountain or the sea, the day or night,

  The crow or dove, it shapes them to your feature:

  Incapable of more, replete with you,

  My most true mind thus makes mine eye untrue.

  Since I left you, my vision is turned inward,

  And the part of me that controls my movement

  Is half working and is half blind;

  It sees things but it doesn’t register them,

  And it doesn’t recognize the forms it sends to my heart,

  Such as birds or flowers or any shape it latches onto;

  The mind plays no part in recognizing these objects,

  And does not see what vision catches sight of,

  Whether it’s the crudest or gentlest sight,

  The sweetest appearing or the most deformed creature,

  The mountain or the sea, the day or night,

  The crow or dove—it makes them all look like you.

  Incapable of seeing anything else and full of you,

  My mind is faithful but is causing me to see everything wrong.

  Or whether doth my mind, being crown'd with you,

  Drink up the monarch's plague, this flattery?

  Or whether shall I say, mine eye saith true,

  And that your love taught it this alchemy,

  To make of monsters and things indigest

  Such cherubins as your sweet self resemble,

  Creating every bad a perfect best,

  As fast as objects to his beams assemble?

  O,'tis the first; 'tis flattery in my seeing,

  And my great mind most kingly drinks it up:

  Mine eye well knows what with his gust is 'greeing,

  And to his palate doth prepare the cup:

  If it be poison'd, 'tis the lesser sin

  That mine eye loves it and doth first begin.

  Does my mind, being invested with you,

  Drink in the kingly affliction of flattery and delusion?

  Or is it that what my eye sees is real,