The Complete Works of William Shakespeare In Plain and Simple English (Translated) (1116 page)

Unthrifty loveliness, why dost thou spend

Upon thyself thy beauty's legacy?

Nature's bequest gives nothing but doth lend,

And being frank she lends to those are free.

Then, beauteous niggard, why dost thou abuse

The bounteous largess given thee to give?

Profitless usurer, why dost thou use

So great a sum of sums, yet canst not live?

For having traffic with thyself alone,

Thou of thyself thy sweet self dost deceive.

Then how, when nature calls thee to be gone,

What acceptable audit canst thou leave?

Thy unused beauty must be tomb'd with thee,

Which, used, lives th' executor to be.

Wasteful beautiful person, why do you spend

All of your beauty on yourself?

Nature gives nothing but she lends a lot,

And, being generous, she lends most to those who are carefree.

So, you miserly hoarder, why do you abuse

The open-hearted gift given to you?

You make no profit, so why do you use

So much of your gift when you can’t live on forever?

Your dealings are with yourself alone,

And only you alone receive the sweet gift of yourself.

When nature calls you to die,

What account of your life will you leave behind?

Your unused beauty will go to the grave with you,

And, if it had been used, it could carry on.

Those hours, that with gentle work did frame

The lovely gaze where every eye doth dwell,

Will play the tyrants to the very same

And that unfair which fairly doth excel:

For never-resting time leads summer on

To hideous winter and confounds him there;

Sap cheque'd with frost and lusty leaves quite gone,

Beauty o'ersnow'd and bareness every where:

Then, were not summer's distillation left,

A liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass,

Beauty's effect with beauty were bereft,

Nor it nor no remembrance what it was:

But flowers distill'd though they with winter meet,

Leese but their show; their substance still lives sweet.

The same process of time that gently works to create

The beauty of the face that holds everyone’s gaze,

Will do cruel work to the same face

And make it ugly even though it is now so beautiful.

Time never rests and it leads summer on

Into frightful winter and destroys it there,

Freezing its sap and taking away its vigourous leaves,

Covering it over with snow and bareness everywhere.

If summer’s essence had not been left behind

As a liquid perfume contained in glass,

There would be nothing left of its beauty,

And no memory of what it had been.

But flowers made into perfume before winter arrives,

Lose only their appearance: their sweet scent remains.

Then let not winter's ragged hand deface

In thee thy summer, ere thou be distill'd:

Make sweet some vial; treasure thou some place

With beauty's treasure, ere it be self-kill'd.

That use is not forbidden usury,

Which happies those that pay the willing loan;

That's for thyself to breed another thee,

Or ten times happier, be it ten for one;

Ten times thyself were happier than thou art,

If ten of thine ten times refigured thee:

Then what could death do, if thou shouldst depart,

Leaving thee living in posterity?

Be not self-will'd, for thou art much too fair

To be death's conquest and make worms thine heir.

Don’t allow winter’s rough hand to disfigure

The summer beauty in you before it is distilled—

Make it into something sweet that can be contained

Like a treasure before you ruin it.

It is not a forbidden use of interest—

A willing woman would be happy to repay the loan

And produce a child for you,

Or ten times happier, if there were ten children.

You yourself would be ten times happier

If you had ten children who looked like you.

What can death do to you then, if you should die

Leaving yourself living on in your descendants?

Don’t be selfish—you are too beautiful

To allow death to conquer you and leave you to the worms.

Lo! in the orient when the gracious light

Lifts up his burning head, each under eye

Doth homage to his new-appearing sight,

Serving with looks his sacred majesty;

And having climb'd the steep-up heavenly hill,

Resembling strong youth in his middle age,

yet mortal looks adore his beauty still,

Attending on his golden pilgrimage;

But when from highmost pitch, with weary car,

Like feeble age, he reeleth from the day,

The eyes, 'fore duteous, now converted are

From his low tract and look another way:

So thou, thyself out-going in thy noon,

Unlook'd on diest, unless thou get a son.

Look! When the gracious light of the sun

rises in the east, everyone looks

And acknowledges its newness with respect,

Watching it like a king.

Once it has climbed the high and heavenly hill of noon,

It still looks like a strong young man in his prime

And people still admire its beauty,

And pay attention to its golden passage.

But when the weary chariot begins to fall from the highest point,

And becomes unsteady and reels like an old man,

Then the eyes, which were dutiful before, look away

From it at this low point into another direction.

You too, who is beginning to leave your youth behind,

Will not be looked at when you die, unless you father a son.

Music to hear, why hear'st thou music sadly?

Sweets with sweets war not, joy delights in joy.

Why lovest thou that which thou receivest not gladly,

Or else receivest with pleasure thine annoy?

If the true concord of well-tuned sounds,

By unions married, do offend thine ear,

They do but sweetly chide thee, who confounds

In singleness the parts that thou shouldst bear.

Mark how one string, sweet husband to another,

Strikes each in each by mutual ordering,

Resembling sire and child and happy mother

Who all in one, one pleasing note do sing:

Whose speechless song, being many, seeming one,

Sings this to thee: 'thou single wilt prove none.'

Why does listening to music make you feel so sad?

Sweetness usually finds peace with sweetness, and joy delights in joy.

Why do you love that which makes you unhappy,

And enjoy the things that bring you trouble?

If the harmony of music that’s in tune

And played well offends you,

It is because it scolds you for challenging it

By not taking the part you should take.

Listen to how one string, when sweetly married to another,

Strikes in well-matched order and harmony,

Like a father and child and happy mother,

Who sing one pleasing note together.

Their wordless song, being many but seeming as one,

Sings to you: ‘you’ll have nothing if you stay alone.’

Is it for fear to wet a widow's eye