The Complete Works of William Shakespeare In Plain and Simple English (Translated) (1133 page)

Then hate me when thou wilt; if ever, now;

Now, while the world is bent my deeds to cross,

Join with the spite of fortune, make me bow,

And do not drop in for an after-loss:

Ah, do not, when my heart hath 'scoped this sorrow,

Come in the rearward of a conquer'd woe;

Give not a windy night a rainy morrow,

To linger out a purposed overthrow.

If thou wilt leave me, do not leave me last,

When other petty griefs have done their spite

But in the onset come; so shall I taste

At first the very worst of fortune's might,

And other strains of woe, which now seem woe,

Compared with loss of thee will not seem so.

So, hate me when you will; and if ever, now;

Now, while the world seems determined to mess up my life,

You should join in the streak of bad luck and cause me to collapse.

Don’t drop it on me after all of my other losses are done:

Oh, do not do it when my heart has healed from this sorrow,

Do not come back again after I’ve gotten over my sadness.

Don’t give a rainy tomorrow to my windy night,

Drawing out the sense of defeat I’ve had.

If you are going to leave me, don’t wait to do it last,

When all of the other little sorrows have done their damage,

But do it no, so that I may taste

The worst of my bad fortune right away.

And all of the other sadness, which now seem so awful,

Will not seem so when compared to the loss of you.

Some glory in their birth, some in their skill,

Some in their wealth, some in their bodies' force,

Some in their garments, though new-fangled ill,

Some in their hawks and hounds, some in their horse;

And every humour hath his adjunct pleasure,

Wherein it finds a joy above the rest:

But these particulars are not my measure;

All these I better in one general best.

Thy love is better than high birth to me,

Richer than wealth, prouder than garments' cost,

Of more delight than hawks or horses be;

And having thee, of all men's pride I boast:

Wretched in this alone, that thou mayst take

All this away and me most wretched make.

Some people take pride in their birth, and some in their skill,

Some in their wealth, and some in their physical strength,

Some take pride in their clothes, though they are badly new-fangled,

Some in their hawks and their hounds, some in their horse;

And every personality has something extra it takes pleasure in,

That it finds joy in above everything else.

But I do not measure my life by these sorts of details,

I have something that is better than all of this.

Your love is better than high birth to me,

Richer than wealth, prouder than expensive clothes,

More delightful than hawks or horses could be,

And, having you, I boast the pride of all men:

I’m only miserable in one regard—you might take

All of this away and leave me miserable.

But do thy worst to steal thyself away,

For term of life thou art assured mine,

And life no longer than thy love will stay,

For it depends upon that love of thine.

Then need I not to fear the worst of wrongs,

When in the least of them my life hath end.

I see a better state to me belongs

Than that which on thy humour doth depend;

Thou canst not vex me with inconstant mind,

Since that my life on thy revolt doth lie.

O, what a happy title do I find,

Happy to have thy love, happy to die!

But what's so blessed-fair that fears no blot?

Thou mayst be false, and yet I know it not.

Go ahead and do the worst and leave me,

I live as long as you are mine,

And will not live any longer than you stay,

For my life depends upon your love.

So, I do not need to fear the worst of wrongs,

When, if you hurt me the least little bit, my life will end.

I see now that I’m in a better position

Than if I depended on your feelings for me;

You can’t trouble me with a fickle mind,

Since my life would end if you had a change of heart.

Oh, what a happy situation I have found myself in:

Happy to have your love, and happy to die!

But what position could be so blessed that I’d have no worries?

You may be unfaithful to me, and I will not know it.

So shall I live, supposing thou art true,

Like a deceived husband; so love's face

May still seem love to me, though alter'd new;

Thy looks with me, thy heart in other place:

For there can live no hatred in thine eye,

Therefore in that I cannot know thy change.

In many's looks the false heart's history

Is writ in moods and frowns and wrinkles strange,

But heaven in thy creation did decree

That in thy face sweet love should ever dwell;

Whate'er thy thoughts or thy heart's workings be,

Thy looks should nothing thence but sweetness tell.

How like Eve's apple doth thy beauty grow,

if thy sweet virtue answer not thy show!

So I will live as if you are faithful,

In the same way a deceived husband does, so that your face

Will still seem to hold love for me, even though that has changed.

Your loving looks will be with me, but your heart will be somewhere else:

And because no hatred could exist in your expression,

I will never be able to see the change.

In the looks of many, the story of an unfaithful heart

Is written in moodiness and frowns and strange wrinkles,

But when heaven created you, you were given

A face on which only sweetness and love could live.

Whatever you think or feel in your heart,

Your looks will express nothing but sweetness.

Your face is very much like Eve’s apple, in that way,

If you should ever stray from being sweet and virtuous, it will not show!

They that have power to hurt and will do none,

That do not do the thing they most do show,

Who, moving others, are themselves as stone,

Unmoved, cold, and to temptation slow,

They rightly do inherit heaven's graces

And husband nature's riches from expense;

They are the lords and owners of their faces,

Others but stewards of their excellence.

The summer's flower is to the summer sweet,

Though to itself it only live and die,

But if that flower with base infection meet,

The basest weed outbraves his dignity:

For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds;

Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds.

Those that have the power to hurt others and do not,

That do not do the thing their looks say they could do,

Who, while moving others, are themselves like stone—

Unmoved, cold and slow to tempt—

They will rightfully inherit heaven’s graces

And will keep nature’s riches from being used up.

They are their own lord and own their appearance,

While everyone else is simply controlling their talents.

The summer’s flower is sweet in the summer,

Though it sees itself only as living and dying,

But if that flower were infected with something wretched,

The lowest weed would have more dignity:

The sweetest things turn sourest by their actions;

Rotting lilies smell far worse than weeds.

How sweet and lovely dost thou make the shame

Which, like a canker in the fragrant rose,

Doth spot the beauty of thy budding name!

O, in what sweets dost thou thy sins enclose!

That tongue that tells the story of thy days,

Making lascivious comments on thy sport,

Cannot dispraise but in a kind of praise;

Naming thy name blesses an ill report.

O, what a mansion have those vices got

Which for their habitation chose out thee,

Where beauty's veil doth cover every blot,