The Complete Works of William Shakespeare In Plain and Simple English (Translated) (1128 page)

When I have seen by Time's fell hand defaced

The rich proud cost of outworn buried age;

When sometime lofty towers I see down-razed

And brass eternal slave to mortal rage;

When I have seen the hungry ocean gain

Advantage on the kingdom of the shore,

And the firm soil win of the watery main,

Increasing store with loss and loss with store;

When I have seen such interchange of state,

Or state itself confounded to decay;

Ruin hath taught me thus to ruminate,

That Time will come and take my love away.

This thought is as a death, which cannot choose

But weep to have that which it fears to lose.

Now that I have seen Time’s cruel hand disfigure

The expensive and proud monuments of men buried long ago;

And now that I have seen high towers torn to the ground,

And brass that was supposed to be eternal ruined by human rage;

Now that I have seen the hungry ocean gain advantage

And overtake the kingdom of the shore,

And firm soil overtake the water,

So that each one’s increase is the other’s loss;

Now that I have seen everything changing into something else,

Or being destroyed or left to decay,

I have learned to think about the fact

That Time will come and take my love away.

This thought feels like death, and I cannot help

But weep about what I have and fear to lose.

Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea,

But sad mortality o'er-sways their power,

How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea,

Whose action is no stronger than a flower?

O, how shall summer's honey breath hold out

Against the wreckful siege of battering days,

When rocks impregnable are not so stout,

Nor gates of steel so strong, but Time decays?

O fearful meditation! where, alack,

Shall Time's best jewel from Time's chest lie hid?

Or what strong hand can hold his swift foot back?

Or who his spoil of beauty can forbid?

O, none, unless this miracle have might,

That in black ink my love may still shine bright.

Since neither brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless seas

Are powerful enough to withstand being taken over by mortality,

How could beauty possibly stand a chance,

When it is no stronger than a flower?

How will the sweet breath of summer hold out

Against the destructive hold of battering days,

When even the hardest rocks are not sturdy enough,

And gates of steel are not strong enough to avoid being decayed by Time?

Oh, these thoughts make me fearful! Where, tell me,

Can Time’s best jewel be hidden from Time?

What hand is strong enough to hold back Time?

Who can forbid that he spoil beauty?

No one can, unless by a strong miracle

My love shines bright in these black, inked lines.

Tired with all these, for restful death I cry,

As, to behold desert a beggar born,

And needy nothing trimm'd in jollity,

And purest faith unhappily forsworn,

And guilded honour shamefully misplaced,

And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted,

And right perfection wrongfully disgraced,

And strength by limping sway disabled,

And art made tongue-tied by authority,

And folly doctor-like controlling skill,

And simple truth miscall'd simplicity,

And captive good attending captain ill:

Tired with all these, from these would I be gone,

Save that, to die, I leave my love alone.

Tired of all of this, I wish for a restful death.

I’m tired of seeing deserving people become beggars,

And unworthy people dressed up in fine clothes,

And vows made in faith broken,

And gold-plated honors given to shameful people,

And virtuous maidens violently made into whores,

And people who are right wrongfully humiliated,

And the strong disabled by the weak that hold power,

And art censored by authority,

And fools controlling those with knowledge like doctors control the ill,

And common sense misnamed as foolishness,

And good held captive to evil.

I am tired of all of this and would go

Except that—if I die—I would have to leave my love alone.

Ah! wherefore with infection should he live,

And with his presence grace impiety,

That sin by him advantage should achieve

And lace itself with his society?

Why should false painting imitate his cheek

And steal dead seeing of his living hue?

Why should poor beauty indirectly seek

Roses of shadow, since his rose is true?

Why should he live, now Nature bankrupt is,

Beggar'd of blood to blush through lively veins?

For she hath no exchequer now but his,

And, proud of many, lives upon his gains.

O, him she stores, to show what wealth she had

In days long since, before these last so bad.

Why should he live with rottenness

And grace wickedness with his presence

So that sinners can take advantage of him

And make themselves look better by being in his company?

Why should inadequate portrait painters paint his likeness

And steal lifeless images of his living complexion?

Why should those not as beautiful as him seek

To be images of a rose, when he is the authentic rose?

And why should he live, now that Nature is so spent

That she has to beg for blood to blush living veins?

She has no resources now except for his,

And—swelling with the many she needs to provide for—she borrows his gains.

Oh, she keeps him in store to show what wealth she once had

In days long gone, before these recent bad days arrived.

Thus is his cheek the map of days outworn,

When beauty lived and died as flowers do now,

Before the bastard signs of fair were born,

Or durst inhabit on a living brow;

Before the golden tresses of the dead,

The right of sepulchres, were shorn away,

To live a second life on second head;

Ere beauty's dead fleece made another gay:

In him those holy antique hours are seen,

Without all ornament, itself and true,

Making no summer of another's green,

Robbing no old to dress his beauty new;

And him as for a map doth Nature store,

To show false Art what beauty was of yore.

So, in his face is the image of how things were in former days,

When beauty lived and died as easily as flowers do now.

This was before the inferior signs of beauty originated,

And before they inhabited a living forehead.

This was before the golden hair of the dead,

Which rightfully belongs in the grave, was cut off

To live again on another head.

It was before beauty’s dead hair made another pretty.

In him, those sacred old days can be seen

Without uneccesary decoration—authentic and true—

Not taking another’s youth to look youthful,

And not robbing from the old to make his beauty new.

Nature keeps his image in storage

So she can show false Art what beauty used to be.