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

by William Shakespeare

  And that your love has magically taught it how to alter things?

  It has the ability to make monsters and deformed creatures

  Into angels that sweetly resemble you,

  And of creating every bad thing into a perfect best,

  As soon as it comes into my line of vision.

  Oh, it must be the first: my vision is full of delusions,

  And my mind drinks it up like a king wanting flattery.

  My eye knows well what my mind wants to see,

  And prepares a cup the mind will relish:

  If the cup is poisoned with falsehood, there is no harm,

  My eye loves the false visions, too, and tastes them first.

  Those lines that I before have writ do lie,

  Even those that said I could not love you dearer:

  Yet then my judgment knew no reason why

  My most full flame should afterwards burn clearer.

  But reckoning time, whose million'd accidents

  Creep in 'twixt vows and change decrees of kings,

  Tan sacred beauty, blunt the sharp'st intents,

  Divert strong minds to the course of altering things;

  Alas, why, fearing of time's tyranny,

  Might I not then say 'Now I love you best,'

  When I was certain o'er incertainty,

  Crowning the present, doubting of the rest?

  Love is a babe; then might I not say so,

  To give full growth to that which still doth grow?

  Those lines I wrote before tell lies,

  Even those that said I could not love you more:

  Then my judgment knew of no reason why

  My fullest flame for you could ever burn clearer.

  But time has passed, with a million accidents

  Having crept in between our values that are capable of changing the decrees of kings,

  Darkening sacred beauty, making the sharpest intentions dull,

  And forcing strong minds to adjust to a changing course;

  Alas, why then, fearful of time’s tyranny,

  Did I not say then, ‘Now I love you best,’

  When I was more certain than uncertain,

  And I believed the present was complete, despite doubts about the future?

  Love is a baby, so couldn’t I say

  That even full grown, it will still continue to grow?

  Let me not to the marriage of true minds

  Admit impediments. Love is not love

  Which alters when it alteration finds,

  Or bends with the remover to remove:

  O no! it is an ever-fixed mark

  That looks on tempests and is never shaken;

  It is the star to every wandering bark,

  Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.

  Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks

  Within his bending sickle's compass come:

  Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,

  But bears it out even to the edge of doom.

  If this be error and upon me proved,

  I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

  When it comes to the marriage of true minds,

  I hope I will never admit there are obstacles. Love is not love

  If it changes when it sees change in the loved one,

  Or if it turns in a new direction when the lover leaves:

  Oh, no! It is a constant and fixed mark

  That looks upon storms and is not shaken;

  It is like the star that guides the way of every wandering ship,

  And whose worth is unknown, although its actual height can be measured.

  Love is not Time’s fool, even though rosy lips and cheeks

  Come within the compass of Time’s altering sickle:

  Love does not change with the passing of brief hours and weeks,

  But will last even past the end of time.

  If I am wrong and you can prove it,

  Then I never wrote, and no man ever loved.

  Accuse me thus: that I have scanted all

  Wherein I should your great deserts repay,

  Forgot upon your dearest love to call,

  Whereto all bonds do tie me day by day;

  That I have frequent been with unknown minds

  And given to time your own dear-purchased right

  That I have hoisted sail to all the winds

  Which should transport me farthest from your sight.

  Book both my wilfulness and errors down

  And on just proof surmise accumulate;

  Bring me within the level of your frown,

  But shoot not at me in your waken'd hate;

  Since my appeal says I did strive to prove

  The constancy and virtue of your love.

  Accuse me in this way: say that I have withheld

  When I should have been repaying what was greatly due to you,

  And I forgot to call upon your dearest love,

  Even though I am bound to you every day;

  Say that I’ve spent too much time with people you don’t know

  And have given away the time you have purchased by right,

  And that I have hoisted my sail and rode all the winds

  That could transport me the farthest away from your sight.

  Write and list my stubborn ways and all the errors I’ve committed,

  And guess about all the things I’ve done you have no proof of.

  Bring me to the level of your frown

  But don’t shoot at me because I’ve awakened your hatred;

  I only did it in an effort to test

  The constancy and honesty of your love for me.

  Like as, to make our appetites more keen,

  With eager compounds we our palate urge,

  As, to prevent our maladies unseen,

  We sicken to shun sickness when we purge,

  Even so, being tuff of your ne'er-cloying sweetness,

  To bitter sauces did I frame my feeding

  And, sick of welfare, found a kind of meetness

  To be diseased ere that there was true needing.

  Thus policy in love, to anticipate

  The ills that were not, grew to faults assured

  And brought to medicine a healthful state

  Which, rank of goodness, would by ill be cured:

  But thence I learn, and find the lesson true,

  Drugs poison him that so fell sick of you.

  In the same way that we make our appetites sharper,

  By eating bitter combinations of food,

  And, in order to prevent unknown illnesses,

  We force ourselves to vomit and purge,

  In the same way, being full of your sweetness,

  I turned to feed on bitter sauces.

  Tired of feeling well, I found myself ready

  To make myself sick before I needed to be sick.

  With this policy in place, I anticipated

  Problems that didn’t exist and faults that were not there,

  And brought medicine to a healthy state of being,

  Which was abundant in goodness, and I tried to cure it with bad:

  But what I learned from doing this—and I find this lesson to be true—

  Is that the drugs poisoned me because I am so lovesick over you.

  What potions have I drunk of Siren tears,

  Distill'd from limbecks foul as hell within,

  Applying fears to hopes and hopes to fears,

  Still losing when I saw myself to win!

  What wretched errors hath my heart committed,

  Whilst it hath thought itself so blessed never!

  How have mine eyes out of their spheres been fitted

  In the distraction of this madding fever!

  O benefit of ill! now I find true

  That better is by evil still made better;

  And ruin'd love, when it is built anew,

  Grows fairer than at first, more strong, far greater.
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br />   So I return rebuked to my content

  And gain by ill thrice more than I have spent.

  I’ve drank potions that seemed sweet, like a Siren’s tears,

  Which were distilled and foul as hell inside;

  I’ve applied fears to hopes and hopes to fears,

  Always losing when I imagined I would win!

  My heart has made so many awful mistakes,

  While it was thinking it had never been so blessed!

  My eyes have rolled out of their sockets

  Due to the distraction of this maddening fever!

  Oh, the benefits of illness! Now I see it’s true

  That good is made better by evil;

  Ruined love, when it is made new again,

  Grows more beautiful than it originally was, and stronger and far greater.

  And so I return after being shamed by the one who makes me happy,

  And find I have gained by my bad actions three times more than I spent.

  That you were once unkind befriends me now,

  And for that sorrow which I then did feel

  Needs must I under my transgression bow,

  Unless my nerves were brass or hammer'd steel.

  For if you were by my unkindness shaken

  As I by yours, you've pass'd a hell of time,

  And I, a tyrant, have no leisure taken

  To weigh how once I suffered in your crime.

  O, that our night of woe might have remember'd

  My deepest sense, how hard true sorrow hits,

  And soon to you, as you to me, then tender'd

  The humble slave which wounded bosoms fits!

  But that your trespass now becomes a fee;

  Mine ransoms yours, and yours must ransom me.

  The fact that you were once unkind to me is helpful to me now,

  And because of the sorrow I felt then,

  I have to bow down out of shame for the wrong I’ve done,

  Otherwise my nerves would be made of brass or steel.

  Because if you were shaken by my unkindness

  In the same way as I have been by yours, then you had a hell of a time,

  And I, like a tyrant, have not taken the time

  To consider how I once suffered the same way due to your crime against me.

  Oh, how I wish I had remembered our earlier night of sadness,

  So that I would have sensed how hard sorrow can hit,

  And I would have apologized sooner, as you had to me,

  Since it is the humble slave that best attends to wounded hearts.

  So, your earlier wrong against me becomes a fee,

  And mine cancels out yours, as yours cancels out mine.

  'Tis better to be vile than vile esteem'd,

  When not to be receives reproach of being,

  And the just pleasure lost which is so deem'd

  Not by our feeling but by others' seeing:

  For why should others false adulterate eyes

  Give salutation to my sportive blood?

  Or on my frailties why are frailer spies,

  Which in their wills count bad what I think good?

  No, I am that I am, and they that level

  At my abuses reckon up their own:

  I may be straight, though they themselves be bevel;

  By their rank thoughts my deeds must not be shown;

  Unless this general evil they maintain,

  All men are bad, and in their badness reign.

  It’s better to be vile than thought to be vile,

  Since if you are not you get the blame for being so,

  And you don’t even get to experience the pleasure

  Of being the thing that others think is so vile:

  Why should others who have false and adulterous eyes

  Get to address my amorous blood so knowingly?

  And why should people weaker than me get to spy on my weaknesses,

  And get to say that what I think is good is bad?

  No, I am what I am, and they that charge

  Me for my wrongs are counting up their own:

  It may be that I am straight while they are crooked;

  You can’t gauge my actions by their thoughts;

  Unless they are willing to defend

  That all men are bad and have power in their badness.

  Thy gift, thy tables, are within my brain

  Full character'd with lasting memory,

  Which shall above that idle rank remain

  Beyond all date, even to eternity;

  Or at the least, so long as brain and heart

  Have faculty by nature to subsist;

  Till each to razed oblivion yield his part

  Of thee, thy record never can be miss'd.

  That poor retention could not so much hold,

  Nor need I tallies thy dear love to score;

  Therefore to give them from me was I bold,

  To trust those tables that receive thee more:

  To keep an adjunct to remember thee

  Were to import forgetfulness in me.

  The gift you gave me—the notebooks—are already full in my mind

  Written in characters that stay in my memory,

  Which will remain longer than the books themselves,

  Beyond all dates and into eternity.

  Or, at the very least, as long as my brain and heart

  Have their full power and live on;

  Until each is erased into forgetfulness and gives up part

  Of you, the record cannot be missed.

  The humble method of retaining information could not hold much,

  And I don’t need to keep notes to keep my account of you, anyway,

  So I was bold enough to give them away,

  Trusting my own memory to remember more about you:

  To use an aid to help remember you,

  Would seem to suggest I am forgetful.

  No, Time, thou shalt not boast that I do change:

  Thy pyramids built up with newer might

  To me are nothing novel, nothing strange;

  They are but dressings of a former sight.

  Our dates are brief, and therefore we admire

  What thou dost foist upon us that is old,

  And rather make them born to our desire

  Than think that we before have heard them told.

  Thy registers and thee I both defy,

  Not wondering at the present nor the past,

  For thy records and what we see doth lie,

  Made more or less by thy continual haste.

  This I do vow and this shall ever be;

  I will be true, despite thy scythe and thee.

  No, Time, I will not allow you to boast that I change:

  The pillars built up to be stronger and higher

  Are nothing new or strange to me;

  They are simply new versions of an old sight.

  Our lives are brief, and so we admire

  When you pass off old things on us

  And make us think they are newly made just for us

  Instead of admitting we have heard of them before.

  I defy both you and your records,

  I do not wonder about the present or the past,

  Because both your records and what we see lie

  As they are raised up and destroyed in constant haste.

  I vow that this will always be the case:

  I will be faithful, despite you and what you are capable of doing.

  If my dear love were but the child of state,

  It might for Fortune's bastard be unfather'd'

  As subject to Time's love or to Time's hate,

  Weeds among weeds, or flowers with flowers gather'd.

  No, it was builded far from accident;

  It suffers not in smiling pomp, nor falls

  Under the blow of thralled discontent,

  Whereto the inviting time our fashion calls:

  It fears not policy, that heretic,

  Wh
ich works on leases of short-number'd hours,

  But all alone stands hugely politic,

  That it nor grows with heat nor drowns with showers.

  To this I witness call the fools of time,

  Which die for goodness, who have lived for crime.

  If my love for you were simply the child of circumstance,

  It might be claimed to be illegitimate

  Since it would be subject to the favor or destruction of Time,

  And could end up either as a weed among weeds, or a flower picked from flowers.

  But my love for you was made in a place where accidents don’t happen;

  It does not have to be approved by nobility, or worry about falling

  Under the blows of the enslaved and discontent,

  Although the conventions of our times could invite either.

  It does not have to fear shifts in policy brought about by disagreement,

  Which only come about for short periods of time.

  It stands alone, crafty and discrete,

  And neither grows during heat nor drowns from showers.

  I will call on the fools of time to be my witness, those

  Who died good after living lives of crime.

  Were 't aught to me I bore the canopy,

  With my extern the outward honouring,

  Or laid great bases for eternity,

  Which prove more short than waste or ruining?

  Have I not seen dwellers on form and favour

  Lose all, and more, by paying too much rent,

  For compound sweet forgoing simple savour,

  Pitiful thrivers, in their gazing spent?

  No, let me be obsequious in thy heart,

  And take thou my oblation, poor but free,

  Which is not mix'd with seconds, knows no art,

  But mutual render, only me for thee.

  Hence, thou suborn'd informer! a true soul

  When most impeach'd stands least in thy control.

  Would it be anything to me if I carried the veil in a royal procession,

  Honored outwardly in appearance by doing so?

  Of if I laid important foundations that are supposed to last for eternity,

  But which will only last until they are ravaged and ruined?

  Haven’t I seen those who focus on appearance and favor

  Lose everything, and more, by paying too much for them?