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

by William Shakespeare

  Thou blind fool, Love, what dost thou to mine eyes,

  That they behold, and see not what they see?

  They know what beauty is, see where it lies,

  Yet what the best is take the worst to be.

  If eyes corrupt by over-partial looks

  Be anchor'd in the bay where all men ride,

  Why of eyes' falsehood hast thou forged hooks,

  Whereto the judgment of my heart is tied?

  Why should my heart think that a several plot

  Which my heart knows the wide world's common place?

  Or mine eyes seeing this, say this is not,

  To put fair truth upon so foul a face?

  In things right true my heart and eyes have erred,

  And to this false plague are they now transferr'd.

  Love, you blind fool, what are you doing to my eyes,

  That they look at something and don’t see what it is they see?

  They know what beauty is and can see where it lies,

  And yet they see the best when they are looking at the worst.

  If my eyes distort things by seeing them with too much bias,

  And are fixed in the common bay where all men ride,

  Why have you used my eye’s inaccurate vision as a hook

  To catch the favorable opinion of my heart?

  Why should my heart think that it has a separate place with her

  When it knows that she belongs to the wide world as common?

  Why do my eyes, when seeing this, say it is not so

  And put a fair appearance upon such an ugly face?

  My heart and eyes have made mistakes regarding the truth here

  And now they are both caught up in this false illness.

  When my love swears that she is made of truth

  I do believe her, though I know she lies,

  That she might think me some untutor'd youth,

  Unlearned in the world's false subtleties.

  Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me young,

  Although she knows my days are past the best,

  Simply I credit her false speaking tongue:

  On both sides thus is simple truth suppress'd.

  But wherefore says she not she is unjust?

  And wherefore say not I that I am old?

  O, love's best habit is in seeming trust,

  And age in love loves not to have years told:

  Therefore I lie with her and she with me,

  And in our faults by lies we flatter'd be.

  When my love swears that she is made of truth,

  I believe her, even though I know she lies,

  And that she might think me some uneducated youth,

  Unlearned in the false ways of the world.

  Although she knows I am past my best days,

  I simply give credit to her lying tongue:

  On both sides, then, the simple truth is not told.

  But what if she were to say that she is not a liar?

  And what if I were that that I am not old?

  Oh, love’s best habit is in seeming to trust each other,

  And loves prefers not to have its age told:

  Therefore I lie with her and she with me,

  And we flatter each other with lies despite our faults.

  O, call not me to justify the wrong

  That thy unkindness lays upon my heart;

  Wound me not with thine eye but with thy tongue;

  Use power with power and slay me not by art.

  Tell me thou lovest elsewhere, but in my sight,

  Dear heart, forbear to glance thine eye aside:

  What need'st thou wound with cunning when thy might

  Is more than my o'er-press'd defense can bide?

  Let me excuse thee: ah! my love well knows

  Her pretty looks have been mine enemies,

  And therefore from my face she turns my foes,

  That they elsewhere might dart their injuries:

  Yet do not so; but since I am near slain,

  Kill me outright with looks and rid my pain.

  Oh, don’t ask me to justify the wrong,

  That your unkindness lays upon my heart;

  Don’t injure me with your eye, but do it with your tongue;

  Use your power with power and do not slay me by using subtlety.

  Tell me you love someone somewhere else, but when you are in my sight,

  Dear heart, please hold off from glancing at others:

  Why would you need to wound me with cunning when your power

  Over me is more than I can possibly defend myself against?

  Let me excuse you: oh, my love knows very well

  Her pretty looks have been my enemies,

  And, therefore, she turns my enemies away from my face,

  So that they might aim their injuries somewhere else:

  Yet, don’t do this, since I am very near slain,

  Kill me outright with your looks and rid me of my pain.

  Be wise as thou art cruel; do not press

  My tongue-tied patience with too much disdain;

  Lest sorrow lend me words and words express

  The manner of my pity-wanting pain.

  If I might teach thee wit, better it were,

  Though not to love, yet, love, to tell me so;

  As testy sick men, when their deaths be near,

  No news but health from their physicians know;

  For if I should despair, I should grow mad,

  And in my madness might speak ill of thee:

  Now this ill-wresting world is grown so bad,

  Mad slanderers by mad ears believed be,

  That I may not be so, nor thou belied,

  Bear thine eyes straight, though thy proud heart go wide.

  Be as wise as you are cruel; do not test

  My speechless patience with too much distain;

  Otherwise, my sorrow might give me words and the words will express

  The nature of my pain, which wants pity.

  If you allow me to give you some advice, it would be better

  If you do not tell me, love, if you do not love me;

  In the same way that sick men who are short-tempered and whose deaths are near,

  Are not told about the state of their health even though their doctors know;

  Because if I should feel despair, I will go crazy,

  And in my craziness, I might speak badly of you,

  And now that this world that twists the truth has grown so bad,

  Crazy slanderers are believed by crazy people who hear them,

  So that I may not be like that and lie about you—

  Keep your eyes directly on me, even though your proud heart may widely stray.

  In faith, I do not love thee with mine eyes,

  For they in thee a thousand errors note;

  But 'tis my heart that loves what they despise,

  Who in despite of view is pleased to dote;

  Nor are mine ears with thy tongue's tune delighted,

  Nor tender feeling, to base touches prone,

  Nor taste, nor smell, desire to be invited

  To any sensual feast with thee alone:

  But my five wits nor my five senses can

  Dissuade one foolish heart from serving thee,

  Who leaves unsway'd the likeness of a man,

  Thy proud hearts slave and vassal wretch to be:

  Only my plague thus far I count my gain,

  That she that makes me sin awards me pain.

  To be sure, I do not love you with my eyes,

  Because they see a thousand errors in you;

  It is my heart that loves what they despise,

  Who, in despite of the view, is pleased to be a fool;

  My ears are not very delighted by the sound of your voice,

  And I don’t necessarily have tender feelings when touching you,

  Neither my sense of taste nor smell desire to be invited

  To any sensual fe
ast with you alone:

  But neither my mind nor my five senses can

  Persuade my foolish heart from serving you,

  My heart leaves my body to stand here alone looking like a man,

  While it goes off to be the wretched slave to your heart:

  I only gain one thing from this illness

  And that is that the one who makes me sin awards me with pain.

  Love is my sin and thy dear virtue hate,

  Hate of my sin, grounded on sinful loving:

  O, but with mine compare thou thine own state,

  And thou shalt find it merits not reproving;

  Or, if it do, not from those lips of thine,

  That have profaned their scarlet ornaments

  And seal'd false bonds of love as oft as mine,

  Robb'd others' beds' revenues of their rents.

  Be it lawful I love thee, as thou lovest those

  Whom thine eyes woo as mine importune thee:

  Root pity in thy heart, that when it grows

  Thy pity may deserve to pitied be.

  If thou dost seek to have what thou dost hide,

  By self-example mayst thou be denied!

  Love of you is my sin and your best virtue is hate,

  You hate my sin that is grounded in sinful loving:

  Oh, but compare your state to my own state,

  And you will find my state is not in need of rebuke;

  Or, if it is, not from those lips of yours,

  That have abused their red ornamentation of lipstick,

  By sealing false bonds of love with a kiss as often as mine,

  And have robbed others’ beds and lovers of what is due to them.

  It is right that I love you as you love those

  Whom your eyes woo in the same way that mine beg you:

  Plant pity in your heart for me, so that it grows

  So that if you need pity, you may deserve to be pitied, as well.

  If you seek to have what you yourself do not show,

  By your example, you may not receive it, either!

  Lo! as a careful housewife runs to catch

  One of her feather'd creatures broke away,

  Sets down her babe and makes an swift dispatch

  In pursuit of the thing she would have stay,

  Whilst her neglected child holds her in chase,

  Cries to catch her whose busy care is bent

  To follow that which flies before her face,

  Not prizing her poor infant's discontent;

  So runn'st thou after that which flies from thee,

  Whilst I thy babe chase thee afar behind;

  But if thou catch thy hope, turn back to me,

  And play the mother's part, kiss me, be kind:

  So will I pray that thou mayst have thy 'Will,'

  If thou turn back, and my loud crying still.

  Listen! In the same way that a careful housewife runs to catch

  One of her hens that has broken away,

  And sets down her baby to make a quick run

  In pursuit of the thing she does not want to get away,

  While her neglected child chases after her,

  And cries to catch the attention of the busy mother who is focused

  To follow after the thing that flies before her face,

  With no awareness of her poor baby’s unhappiness;

  In the same way, you run after that which flies away from you,

  While I, like the baby, chase far behind after you;

  But if you catch the one you’re hoping for, then turn back to me,

  And play the mother’s role—kiss me and be kind:

  And I will pray that you may have your ‘Will,’

  If you turn back and silence my noisy crying.

  Two loves I have of comfort and despair,

  Which like two spirits do suggest me still:

  The better angel is a man right fair,

  The worser spirit a woman colour'd ill.

  To win me soon to hell, my female evil

  Tempteth my better angel from my side,

  And would corrupt my saint to be a devil,

  Wooing his purity with her foul pride.

  And whether that my angel be turn'd fiend

  Suspect I may, but not directly tell;

  But being both from me, both to each friend,

  I guess one angel in another's hell:

  Yet this shall I ne'er know, but live in doubt,

  Till my bad angel fire my good one out.

  I love someone who comforts me, and someone who makes me despair,

  They are like two angels who make constant suggestions to me:

  The better angel is a man who is right and fair,

  And the worse angel is a woman who is colored ill.

  To win me over toward hell, the evil female

  Tempted my better angel from my side,

  And will corrupt my saint until he is a devil,

  Wooing his purity with her foul confidence.

  And whether my angel has turned into a fiend—

  I suspect it to be true, but I can’t directly tell;

  But since they are both away from me and being friendly with each other,

  I guess one angel is in another’s hell:

  Still, I will never really know, but live in doubt,

  Until my bad angel burns my good one out of hell.

  Those lips that Love's own hand did make

  Breathed forth the sound that said 'I hate'

  To me that languish'd for her sake;

  But when she saw my woeful state,

  Straight in her heart did mercy come,

  Chiding that tongue that ever sweet

  Was used in giving gentle doom,

  And taught it thus anew to greet:

  'I hate' she alter'd with an end,

  That follow'd it as gentle day

  Doth follow night, who like a fiend

  From heaven to hell is flown away;

  'I hate' from hate away she threw,

  And saved my life, saying 'not you.'

  Those lips that Love’s own hand created

  Breathed out the sound that said ‘I hate’

  To me that wasted away for her sake;

  But when she saw my sorry state,

  Mercy came into her heart right away,

  Scolding that tongue that is always sweet

  But was used in delivering a gentle judgment,

  And she taught it how to say something new:

  She altered the phrase ‘I hate’ with an ending,

  That followed the words like a gentle day

  Follows night, who like a devil

  Is thrown away from heaven into hell;

  ‘I hate’ she threw away from hate,

  And saved my life by adding ‘not you.’

  Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth,

  [ ] these rebel powers that thee array;

  Why dost thou pine within and suffer dearth,

  Painting thy outward walls so costly gay?

  Why so large cost, having so short a lease,

  Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend?

  Shall worms, inheritors of this excess,

  Eat up thy charge? is this thy body's end?

  Then soul, live thou upon thy servant's loss,

  And let that pine to aggravate thy store;

  Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross;

  Within be fed, without be rich no more:

  So shalt thou feed on Death, that feeds on men,

  And Death once dead, there's no more dying then.

  Poor soul, that lives in the center of my sinful body,

  [ ] these rebel powers that dress you up.

  Why do you feel longing inside and suffer shortage,

  While painting your outward appearance with such expensive things?

  Why do you put out such a large amount of money when you have such a short lease,

  And spend it upon your fading mansion?
/>   Will worms, the inheritors of this excess,

  Eat up your outlay? Is this how your body will end?

  Then, soul, you should live upon your servant’s loss,

  And let the body long while you build up your supplies;

  Buy time in heaven by selling hours of rubbish,

  And feed your inside, not allowing the outside to be so rich:

  In this way, you will feed on Death, which feeds on men,

  And once Death is dead, there will be no more dying then.

  My love is as a fever, longing still

  For that which longer nurseth the disease,

  Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill,

  The uncertain sickly appetite to please.

  My reason, the physician to my love,

  Angry that his prescriptions are not kept,

  Hath left me, and I desperate now approve

  Desire is death, which physic did except.

  Past cure I am, now reason is past care,

  And frantic-mad with evermore unrest;

  My thoughts and my discourse as madmen's are,

  At random from the truth vainly express'd;

  For I have sworn thee fair and thought thee bright,

  Who art as black as hell, as dark as night.

  My love is like a fever, longing still

  For that thing that makes the disease last longer,

  And feeding upon what will make the illness stay,

  With an uncertain and sickly appetite to satisfy.

  My reason, which is the doctor to my love,

  Is angry that his prescriptions are not being kept,

  And has left me, and, desperate now, I confirm

  That desire is death, which medical science expected.

  I am past cure and my reason is past care,

  And I am frantic-mad with constant unrest;

  My thoughts and conversation are like a madman’s,

  Uselessly expressing random truths;

  I would have sworn you were beautiful and I thought you were bright,

  But you are as black as hell, and as dark as night.

  O me, what eyes hath Love put in my head,

  Which have no correspondence with true sight!

  Or, if they have, where is my judgment fled,

  That censures falsely what they see aright?

  If that be fair whereon my false eyes dote,

  What means the world to say it is not so?