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

by William Shakespeare

They forgo simple scents in an attempt to gain combined scents—

  Tender wannabes who spend so much time in an expectant stance.

  No, let me be dutiful to your heart,

  And please take my gift, which is humble but freely given,

  And not of inferior quality, and knows of nothing

  But mutual surrender—me to you.

  So, go away, you paid informer! A faithful soul

  Like me is not in your control when accused.

  O thou, my lovely boy, who in thy power

  Dost hold Time's fickle glass, his sickle, hour;

  Who hast by waning grown, and therein show'st

  Thy lovers withering as thy sweet self grow'st;

  If Nature, sovereign mistress over wrack,

  As thou goest onwards, still will pluck thee back,

  She keeps thee to this purpose, that her skill

  May time disgrace and wretched minutes kill.

  Yet fear her, O thou minion of her pleasure!

  She may detain, but not still keep, her treasure:

  Her audit, though delay'd, answer'd must be,

  And her quietus is to render thee.

  Oh you, my lovely boy, who holds in your power

  Time’s fickle mirror, his sickle and the hour;

  Who has diminished in size, and in doing so,

  Reveal how much I’ve withered while you continue to grow sweet;

  If Nature, the royal mistress over ruin,

  Keeps you from aging as you move forward,

  She does so to show off her skill,

  Which time will disgrace as its wretched minutes kill.

  Still, you should fear her, oh you favorite of her pleasures!

  She may hold you back, but will not keep you as her treasure:

  Her accounting, although delayed, needs to be answered,

  And she will discharge of her debts with you.

  In the old age was not counted fair,

  Or if it were, it bore not beauty's name;

  But now is black beauty's successive heir,

  And beauty slander'd with a bastard shame:

  For since each hand hath put on nature's power,

  Fairing the foul with art's false borrow'd face,

  Sweet beauty hath no name, no holy bower,

  But is profaned, if not lives in disgrace.

  Therefore my mistress' brows are raven black,

  Her eyes so suited, and they mourners seem

  At such who, not born fair, no beauty lack,

  Slandering creation with a false esteem:

  Yet so they mourn, becoming of their woe,

  That every tongue says beauty should look so.

  In the old days, dark complexions were not considered beautiful,

  Or, if they were, no one gave them beauty’s name;

  But these days, dark is considered rightfully beautiful,

  And beauty is slandered with an illegitimate shame:

  Because every hand has taken on nature’s power,

  And is beautifying the foul with false painted faces,

  Authentic beauty no longer has a name or sacred place to be,

  But is abused, if it doesn’t already live in disgrace.

  My mistress’ eyebrows are black as ravens,

  And her eyes are so dark, they seem like mourners,

  As they sadly look on those who, while not born fair, do not lack beauty,

  And who give beauty a bad reputation by using false means:

  Yet her black eyes are so attractive in their sadness,

  That now everyone says beauty should look that way.

  How oft, when thou, my music, music play'st,

  Upon that blessed wood whose motion sounds

  With thy sweet fingers, when thou gently sway'st

  The wiry concord that mine ear confounds,

  Do I envy those jacks that nimble leap

  To kiss the tender inward of thy hand,

  Whilst my poor lips, which should that harvest reap,

  At the wood's boldness by thee blushing stand!

  To be so tickled, they would change their state

  And situation with those dancing chips,

  O'er whom thy fingers walk with gentle gait,

  Making dead wood more blest than living lips.

  Since saucy jacks so happy are in this,

  Give them thy fingers, me thy lips to kiss.

  How often when you, who are my music, play music

  Upon the blessed wood whose notes sound

  Under your sweet fingers—when you gently sway

  The wiry tunefulness that amazes my ear—

  I envy those keys of the harpsichord that leap up nimbly

  To kiss the tender inside of your hand,

  While my poor lips, which should reap that harvest,

  Stand blushing at the wood’s boldness toward you!

  To be so tickled, my lips would change their position

  And situation with those dancing keys,

  Over whom your fingers walk with such a gentle gait,

  Making the dead wood more blessed than living lips.

  Since saucy keys are so happy in doing this,

  Give them your fingers, and give me your lips to kiss.

  The expense of spirit in a waste of shame

  Is lust in action; and till action, lust

  Is perjured, murderous, bloody, full of blame,

  Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust,

  Enjoy'd no sooner but despised straight,

  Past reason hunted, and no sooner had

  Past reason hated, as a swallow'd bait

  On purpose laid to make the taker mad;

  Mad in pursuit and in possession so;

  Had, having, and in quest to have, extreme;

  A bliss in proof, and proved, a very woe;

  Before, a joy proposed; behind, a dream.

  All this the world well knows; yet none knows well

  To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell.

  Spending the spirit in a waste of shame by having sex

  Is lust in action; and until it acts, lust

  Gives false testimony, is murderous, rude, cruel, and not to be trusted,

  And is no sooner enjoyed than it is immediately despised;

  Hunted past reason, sex is no sooner had

  Than past reason it is hated, like a swallowed bait

  Laid on purpose to make its taker crazy,

  They are crazy in pursuit and in possession, as well;

  Had, having, and in quest of sex—they are crazy the entire time;

  Sex is ecstasy in the proving and—once proved—a sadness;

  Beforehand, it is an imagined joy; but afterward, it is only a dream.

  All of this, the world knows very well, yet no one knows well enough

  To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell.

  My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;

  Coral is far more red than her lips' red;

  If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;

  If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.

  I have seen roses damask'd, red and white,

  But no such roses see I in her cheeks;

  And in some perfumes is there more delight

  Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.

  I love to hear her speak, yet well I know

  That music hath a far more pleasing sound;

  I grant I never saw a goddess go;

  My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:

  And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare

  As any she belied with false compare.

  My mistress’s eyes are not like the sun at all;

  Coral is much more red than the red of her lips;

  If snow is white, well, then her breasts are grey-brown;

  If hair is like fine wire, then black wires grow on her head.

  I’ve seen roses that are pink, red and white,

  But I don’
t see those colors in her cheeks;

  And there is more delight in artificial perfumes

  Than in the reek of the breath of my mistress.

  I love to hear her speak, even though I know well

  That music sounds much better than her voice;

  I admit I never saw a goddess move;

  My mistress, when she walks, tramples the ground:

  And still, I swear to heaven, I think my love is as rare

  As any that has been lied about through false comparisons.

  Thou art as tyrannous, so as thou art,

  As those whose beauties proudly make them cruel;

  For well thou know'st to my dear doting heart

  Thou art the fairest and most precious jewel.

  Yet, in good faith, some say that thee behold

  Thy face hath not the power to make love groan:

  To say they err I dare not be so bold,

  Although I swear it to myself alone.

  And, to be sure that is not false I swear,

  A thousand groans, but thinking on thy face,

  One on another's neck, do witness bear

  Thy black is fairest in my judgment's place.

  In nothing art thou black save in thy deeds,

  And thence this slander, as I think, proceeds.

  You are as much like a tyrant as you are

  Like those proud women whose beauty makes them cruel;

  Because you know very well that in my foolish heart,

  You are the fairest and most precious jewel.

  Still, in all honesty, some people who look at you say

  Your face does not have the power to make a lover groan.

  I am not so bold as to say that they are wrong,

  Although I swear it to myself to be true.

  And, to prove it is not false, I swear

  I made a thousand groans just thinking about your face,

  A face on another’s neck bears witness

  That your dark complexion is the most beautiful as far as I’m concerned.

  There is nothing dark about you except your actions,

  And I think that is why people spread slander.

  Thine eyes I love, and they, as pitying me,

  Knowing thy heart torments me with disdain,

  Have put on black and loving mourners be,

  Looking with pretty ruth upon my pain.

  And truly not the morning sun of heaven

  Better becomes the grey cheeks of the east,

  Nor that full star that ushers in the even

  Doth half that glory to the sober west,

  As those two mourning eyes become thy face:

  O, let it then as well beseem thy heart

  To mourn for me, since mourning doth thee grace,

  And suit thy pity like in every part.

  Then will I swear beauty herself is black

  And all they foul that thy complexion lack.

  I love your eyes as they seem to pity me,

  Knowing that the distain in your heart torments me.

  They have put on black like loyal mourners,

  And look with pretty sympathy upon my pain.

  And, honestly, the morning sun of heaven does not

  Flatter the grey cheeks of the east as well,

  Nor does the full star that brings in the evening,

  Do half the glory to the sober west,

  As those two mourning eyes do to enhance your face:

  Oh, so then it is fitting to your heart

  To mourn for me, since mourning favors your looks,

  And it would suit you as well to pity me with every other part of you.

  Then I will swear that beauty herself is black,

  And everyone who does not have your complexion is ugly.

  Beshrew that heart that makes my heart to groan

  For that deep wound it gives my friend and me!

  Is't not enough to torture me alone,

  But slave to slavery my sweet'st friend must be?

  Me from myself thy cruel eye hath taken,

  And my next self thou harder hast engross'd:

  Of him, myself, and thee, I am forsaken;

  A torment thrice threefold thus to be cross'd.

  Prison my heart in thy steel bosom's ward,

  But then my friend's heart let my poor heart bail;

  Whoe'er keeps me, let my heart be his guard;

  Thou canst not then use rigor in my gaol:

  And yet thou wilt; for I, being pent in thee,

  Perforce am thine, and all that is in me.

  Curse you for causing my heart to groan

  And for the deep wound you give to both my friend and me!

  Isn’t it enough to torture me alone,

  Why should my friend also be brought into slavery to you?

  Your cruel eye has taken me away from myself,

  And my friend, who is like my second self, has fallen even harder:

  By him, myself, and you, I’ve been abandoned;

  Making a torment threefold unfold three times by being so deceived.

  Imprison my heart in the steel cell of your bosom,

  And let my poor heart serve as bail for my friend;

  Whoever keeps an eye on me, let my heart be his guard;

  That way you won’t be able to be harsh in my jail:

  And still, you will be, because I, being shut up inside you,

  Of necessity am yours, and all that is in me is also yours.

  So, now I have confess'd that he is thine,

  And I myself am mortgaged to thy will,

  Myself I'll forfeit, so that other mine

  Thou wilt restore, to be my comfort still:

  But thou wilt not, nor he will not be free,

  For thou art covetous and he is kind;

  He learn'd but surety-like to write for me

  Under that bond that him as fast doth bind.

  The statute of thy beauty thou wilt take,

  Thou usurer, that put'st forth all to use,

  And sue a friend came debtor for my sake;

  So him I lose through my unkind abuse.

  Him have I lost; thou hast both him and me:

  He pays the whole, and yet am I not free.

  So, now that I have confessed that he is yours,

  And that I, myself, am mortgaged to your will,

  I will give up myself if you give up my friend,

  And return him to me so that he will still be my comfort:

  But you will not, and he doesn’t want to be set free,

  Because you are possessive and he is kind;

  He was wise and was backing me up with his name

  And now that bond binds him just as firmly.

  You will use the bond of your beauty to secure us,

  You lender, that puts forth all to use,

  And sues a friend who became a debtor for my sake;

  So I have lost him through my unkind abuse.

  I have lost him, and you have both him and me:

  He pays for all of it, and still I am not free.

  Whoever hath her wish, thou hast thy 'Will,'

  And 'Will' to boot, and 'Will' in overplus;

  More than enough am I that vex thee still,

  To thy sweet will making addition thus.

  Wilt thou, whose will is large and spacious,

  Not once vouchsafe to hide my will in thine?

  Shall will in others seem right gracious,

  And in my will no fair acceptance shine?

  The sea all water, yet receives rain still

  And in abundance addeth to his store;

  So thou, being rich in 'Will,' add to thy 'Will'

  One will of mine, to make thy large 'Will' more.

  Let no unkind, no fair beseechers kill;

  Think all but one, and me in that one 'Will.'

  While other women have their desire, you have your ‘Will,’

  And ‘Will,’ to boot, and ‘Will’ in excess;

  I am more t
han enough to trouble you still,

  And I will be adding another sweet thing to it all.

  Will you, whose lust is large and spacious,

  Not even allow me to hide my will in you just once?

  Will the will of others seem true and good,

  And on my will you will not even shine acceptance?

  The sea is full of water, and yet it still receives rain,

  And adds the abundance to its store;

  And so you, being rich in ‘Will,’ can add to your ‘Will’

  My own will, to make your large ‘Will’ even larger.

  Don’t kill a courteous suitor by being unkind;

  Think of all of us as one, and accept me as one ‘Will.’

  If thy soul cheque thee that I come so near,

  Swear to thy blind soul that I was thy 'Will,'

  And will, thy soul knows, is admitted there;

  Thus far for love my love-suit, sweet, fulfil.

  'Will' will fulfil the treasure of thy love,

  Ay, fill it full with wills, and my will one.

  In things of great receipt with ease we prove

  Among a number one is reckon'd none:

  Then in the number let me pass untold,

  Though in thy stores' account I one must be;

  For nothing hold me, so it please thee hold

  That nothing me, a something sweet to thee:

  Make but my name thy love, and love that still,

  And then thou lovest me, for my name is 'Will.'

  If your soul stops you because I come so near,

  Promise your blind soul that I am your ‘Will,’

  And will, or lust, as your soul knows, is admitted there.

  So far, for love, my wooing is sweetly fulfilled,

  ‘Will’ will satisfy the treasure of your love,

  Yes, and it will fill it with will, and my will is only one.

  In things that can hold a lot easily,

  Then one of anything is the same as none:

  So, in the numbers you know, let me pass uncounted,

  Even though in the record of your holding, I must be one;

  Hold me for nothing, and may it please you to hold

  The nothing that is me, a something sweet to you:

  Make my name your love, and love it still,

  And then you will love me, because my name is ‘Will.’