The Complete Works of William Shakespeare In Plain and Simple English (Translated) (1136 page)

When in the chronicle of wasted time

I see descriptions of the fairest wights,

And beauty making beautiful old rhyme

In praise of ladies dead and lovely knights,

Then, in the blazon of sweet beauty's best,

Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow,

I see their antique pen would have express'd

Even such a beauty as you master now.

So all their praises are but prophecies

Of this our time, all you prefiguring;

And, for they look'd but with divining eyes,

They had not skill enough your worth to sing:

For we, which now behold these present days,

Had eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise.

When I read accounts about times past

And I see descriptions of the most favorable people,

And read beautiful poems inspired by their beauty,

That praise the ladies who are dead and the lovely knights,

When I read the accounts of their best features—

Their hands, their feet, their lips, their eyes, their foreheads—

I see how their antique poet would have expressed

Even such a beauty as you have now.

All of their praises where just prophecies

Of our time, and they prefigure you;

And, even though they see with foretelling eyes,

They did not have enough skill to sing your worth:

Just like we, who now look at these present days,

Have the eyes to wonder, but lack the words to praise.

Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul

Of the wide world dreaming on things to come,

Can yet the lease of my true love control,

Supposed as forfeit to a confined doom.

The mortal moon hath her eclipse endured

And the sad augurs mock their own presage;

Incertainties now crown themselves assured

And peace proclaims olives of endless age.

Now with the drops of this most balmy time

My love looks fresh, and death to me subscribes,

Since, spite of him, I'll live in this poor rhyme,

While he insults o'er dull and speechless tribes:

And thou in this shalt find thy monument,

When tyrants' crests and tombs of brass are spent.

Neither my own fears or the collective predictions

Of the wide world dreaming about things to come,

Can keep me from owning my true love,

Who was supposed to have remained confined.

The mortal moon has endured her eclipse

And the sad fortune tellers ridicule their own forecasts;

Things that were uncertain can now be crowned as certain,

And peace proclaims itself to stay for an endless amount of time.

Now, sprinkled with the drops of this healing time,

My love looks fresh again, and death yields to me,

Since, in spite of death, I’ll live on in this poor poem,

While he triumphs over ignorant and speechless people:

And you will find in this poem your monument,

When tyrants’ crests and tombs of brass have wasted away.  

What's in the brain that ink may character

Which hath not figured to thee my true spirit?

What's new to speak, what new to register,

That may express my love or thy dear merit?

Nothing, sweet boy; but yet, like prayers divine,

I must, each day say o'er the very same,

Counting no old thing old, thou mine, I thine,

Even as when first I hallow'd thy fair name.

So that eternal love in love's fresh case

Weighs not the dust and injury of age,

Nor gives to necessary wrinkles place,

But makes antiquity for aye his page,

Finding the first conceit of love there bred

Where time and outward form would show it dead.

What’s in the brain that ink may form into characters,

Which I haven’t written to show you of my faithful spirit?

What’s new to say, what’s new to record

That may express my love or your great merit?

Nothing, sweet boy, and still, like divine prayers,

I must say the same thing over and over,

Counting nothing old as old; you are mine, and I am yours

In the same way as when I first honored your fair name.

Eternal love dressed in fresh love’s suit

Does not take into consideration the dust and injury of age,

Nor does it acknowledge your wrinkles,

But makes old age forever his servant,

Finding the original inspiration for love where it was born,

Even though time and outward appearance would make it appear to be dead.

O, never say that I was false of heart,

Though absence seem'd my flame to qualify.

As easy might I from myself depart

As from my soul, which in thy breast doth lie:

That is my home of love: if I have ranged,

Like him that travels I return again,

Just to the time, not with the time exchanged,

So that myself bring water for my stain.

Never believe, though in my nature reign'd

All frailties that besiege all kinds of blood,

That it could so preposterously be stain'd,

To leave for nothing all thy sum of good;

For nothing this wide universe I call,

Save thou, my rose; in it thou art my all.

Oh, never say that I was unfaithful to you in my heart,

Even though absence made it seem my flame had weakened.

I may as easily depart myself from myself

As from my soul, which lies inside my breast:

Your love is my home, and if I had wandered,

Like one who travels, I would return again,

Exactly on time, with nothing changed,

Bringing my own water to cleanse my disgrace.

Don’t ever believe, just because in my nature I have

The weaknesses that trouble all kinds of blood,

That my nature could be so ridiculously dishonored,

That I would leave all of your good for nothing;

There is nothing in the entire universe I visit

Except for you, my rose. You are everything to me.

Alas, 'tis true I have gone here and there

And made myself a motley to the view,

Gored mine own thoughts, sold cheap what is most dear,

Made old offences of affections new;

Most true it is that I have look'd on truth

Askance and strangely: but, by all above,

These blenches gave my heart another youth,

And worse essays proved thee my best of love.

Now all is done, have what shall have no end:

Mine appetite I never more will grind

On newer proof, to try an older friend,

A god in love, to whom I am confined.

Then give me welcome, next my heaven the best,

Even to thy pure and most most loving breast.

Alas, it is true that I have gone here and there,

And made myself look like a fool,

I’ve wounded my own thoughts, made cheap what is of value,

And have committed old wrongs with my new friends;

It’s entirely true that I’ve looked at truth

Scornfully, as if it were strange, but, I swear by heaven,

Theses turns made my heart young again,

And the worst tests have proved that I love you best.

Now I’m done with all of that, and I want what will have no end:

I will never again sharpen my appetite,

On new proof to test my feelings for an old friend,

The god of love to whom I am bound.

So give me welcome, you are the next best thing to heaven,

Allow me into your pure and most loving heart.

O, for my sake do you with Fortune chide,

The guilty goddess of my harmful deeds,

That did not better for my life provide

Than public means which public manners breeds.

Thence comes it that my name receives a brand,

And almost thence my nature is subdued

To what it works in, like the dyer's hand:

Pity me then and wish I were renew'd;

Whilst, like a willing patient, I will drink

Potions of eisel 'gainst my strong infection

No bitterness that I will bitter think,

Nor double penance, to correct correction.

Pity me then, dear friend, and I assure ye