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

by William Shakespeare

  To thy fair flower add the rank smell of weeds:

  But why thy odour matcheth not thy show,

  The solve is this, that thou dost common grow.

  Those parts of you that can readily be seen by the world,

  Lack nothing, and no one has thoughts of improving on them.

  Everyone speaks highly and gives those parts of you praise,

  And tell the truth; even your enemies compliment your good looks.

  So, your outward appearance is thus crowned with outward praise,

  But those same people that give you that praise

  Talk in other tones that destroy it

  When they look beyond what only the eye can see.

  They look into the beauty of your mind,

  Which they guess at by summing up your actions;

  Then, the villains, after giving kind praise to your looks,

  Add words that are like the rank smell of weeds on a flower:

  The reason the foul scent does not match your appearance

  Is that you are becoming cheap and vulgar.

  That thou art blamed shall not be thy defect,

  For slander's mark was ever yet the fair;

  The ornament of beauty is suspect,

  A crow that flies in heaven's sweetest air.

  So thou be good, slander doth but approve

  Thy worth the greater, being woo'd of time;

  For canker vice the sweetest buds doth love,

  And thou present'st a pure unstained prime.

  Thou hast pass'd by the ambush of young days,

  Either not assail'd or victor being charged;

  Yet this thy praise cannot be so thy praise,

  To tie up envy evermore enlarged:

  If some suspect of ill mask'd not thy show,

  Then thou alone kingdoms of hearts shouldst owe.

  People blame you for things that will not be your fault

  Because the beautiful always carry the mark of slander.

  The person who is beautiful is always suspected of wrong—

  A dark crow that flies in the sweetest air of heaven.

  As long as you are good, slander will confirm

  Your worth all the more, and it is courted by time.

  Vice, like a parasite, loves the sweetest buds most,

  And you present as pure and unblemished in your prime.

  You have evaded the ambush in your younger days,

  Because you either were not attacked, or you proved your innocence, once charged;

  Still, this praise I give you cannot be enough praise

  To keep the envy of others from always growing:

  If some suspicion of evil did not mask your appearance,

  Then you alone would have a kingdom of hearts in love with you.

  No longer mourn for me when I am dead

  Then you shall hear the surly sullen bell

  Give warning to the world that I am fled

  From this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell:

  Nay, if you read this line, remember not

  The hand that writ it; for I love you so

  That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot

  If thinking on me then should make you woe.

  O, if, I say, you look upon this verse

  When I perhaps compounded am with clay,

  Do not so much as my poor name rehearse.

  But let your love even with my life decay,

  Lest the wise world should look into your moan

  And mock you with me after I am gone.

  Do not mourn for me when I am dead any longer

  Than you hear the funeral bell

  Ringing my passing, announcing to the word that I am gone

  From this vile world to live with the vilest worms.

  No, if you read this line, don’t remember

  The hand that wrote it, because I love you so much

  That I would want your sweet thoughts to forget me,

  If thinking about me would make you sad.

  Oh, if, say, you should look at this poem

  When I am combined with the clay of the earth,

  Do not even say my poor name out loud.

  Let your love fade away as my life did,

  Otherwise, the world might look at you in your grief

  And ridicule you for missing me after I am gone.

  O, lest the world should task you to recite

  What merit lived in me, that you should love

  After my death, dear love, forget me quite,

  For you in me can nothing worthy prove;

  Unless you would devise some virtuous lie,

  To do more for me than mine own desert,

  And hang more praise upon deceased I

  Than niggard truth would willingly impart:

  O, lest your true love may seem false in this,

  That you for love speak well of me untrue,

  My name be buried where my body is,

  And live no more to shame nor me nor you.

  For I am shamed by that which I bring forth,

  And so should you, to love things nothing worth.

  Oh, should the world ask you to say

  What good lived in me that makes you love

  Me after my death, dear love, forget me entirely,

  Because there is nothing in me that is worthy,

  Unless you come up with some virtuous lie,

  That gives me more than I deserve,

  And hangs more praise on the dead me

  Than any unwilling truth would actually give;

  Oh, because your true love may seem false in this—

  That you speak well of me because of love—

  Just bury my name with my body,

  And let me lie dead and no longer bring shame to you or me.

  I am shamed by what I bring forth,

  And you should be, too, to love things worth nothing.

  That time of year thou mayst in me behold

  When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang

  Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,

  Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.

  In me thou seest the twilight of such day

  As after sunset fadeth in the west,

  Which by and by black night doth take away,

  Death's second self, that seals up all in rest.

  In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire

  That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,

  As the death-bed whereon it must expire

  Consumed with that which it was nourish'd by.

  This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more strong,

  To love that well which thou must leave ere long.

  You may see in me that time of year

  When yellow leaves, or none, or few, still hang

  Upon the limbs that shake against the cold—

  Bare ruined choirs where until recently sweet birds sang.

  In me you may see the twilight of the day

  That fades in the west after sunset,

  Which, by and by, the black night takes away,

  Like Death’s twin, sealing everyone in sleep.

  You see in me the glow of a fire

  That lies on the ashes of its youth,

  As the death-bed on which it must die

  Is consumed with what nourished it the most.

  You see all of this, and it makes your love stronger,

  Since we love most what we know will leave us soon.

  But be contented: when that fell arrest

  Without all bail shall carry me away,

  My life hath in this line some interest,

  Which for memorial still with thee shall stay.

  When thou reviewest this, thou dost review

  The very part was consecrate to thee:

  The earth can have but earth, which is his due;

  My spirit is thine, the better part of me:

  So then thou hast but lost the dregs of life,

&
nbsp; The prey of worms, my body being dead,

  The coward conquest of a wretch's knife,

  Too base of thee to be remembered.

  The worth of that is that which it contains,

  And that is this, and this with thee remains.

  Try to be calm: when that deadly arrest

  Carries me away without any bail,

  There is some of my life in these lines,

  Which will remain as a memorial for you.

  When you look over this, you will see

  The part that was dedicated to you.

  The earth can have what is earthly, which is its due,

  But my spirit is yours, which is the better part of me.

  When I am gone, you will have the last dregs of my life—

  The food of worms, my dead body,

  The only part cowardly enough to be killed by a knife,

  And too worthless to be remembered.

  The worth of it is what it contains,

  And that is this, and this remains with you.

  So are you to my thoughts as food to life,

  Or as sweet-season'd showers are to the ground;

  And for the peace of you I hold such strife

  As 'twixt a miser and his wealth is found;

  Now proud as an enjoyer and anon

  Doubting the filching age will steal his treasure,

  Now counting best to be with you alone,

  Then better'd that the world may see my pleasure;

  Sometime all full with feasting on your sight

  And by and by clean starved for a look;

  Possessing or pursuing no delight,

  Save what is had or must from you be took.

  Thus do I pine and surfeit day by day,

  Or gluttoning on all, or all away.

  You in my thoughts is like food to the living,

  Or like much needed showers to the ground,

  And to get the peace you give me I struggle

  In the same way a miser does with his wealth;

  One moment I am proud to be enjoying you and the next

  I am full of doubt that someone will steal my treasure,

  Then I am figuring it would be best to be alone with you,

  And then I think it would be better if the world saw my pleasure.

  Sometimes I am full with feasting on the sight of you

  And then, by and by, I am completely starved for a glance.

  Possessing you or pursuing you holds no delight,

  Except for what is to be had or must be taken from you.

  And so I long for you or over-indulge day by day:

  I either feast on all of you, or none at all.

  Why is my verse so barren of new pride,

  So far from variation or quick change?

  Why with the time do I not glance aside

  To new-found methods and to compounds strange?

  Why write I still all one, ever the same,

  And keep invention in a noted weed,

  That every word doth almost tell my name,

  Showing their birth and where they did proceed?

  O, know, sweet love, I always write of you,

  And you and love are still my argument;

  So all my best is dressing old words new,

  Spending again what is already spent:

  For as the sun is daily new and old,

  So is my love still telling what is told.

  Why are my poems so lacking of new qualities,

  And so set on not having variation or lively change?

  Why don’t I look to the times and glance at

  The newfound methods and startling constructions?

  Why do I still write the same as ever,

  And keep my writing in a familiar style,

  So that every word practically mentions my name,

  Showing its birth and how it came into being?

  Oh, sweet love, I always write about you,

  And you and love are still my subject.

  So, at my best, I am dressing old words in new clothes,

  Spending again what has already been spent,

  Just like the sun is every day new and old,

  My love for you keeps wanting to tell what is told.

  Thy glass will show thee how thy beauties wear,

  Thy dial how thy precious minutes waste;

  The vacant leaves thy mind's imprint will bear,

  And of this book this learning mayst thou taste.

  The wrinkles which thy glass will truly show

  Of mouthed graves will give thee memory;

  Thou by thy dial's shady stealth mayst know

  Time's thievish progress to eternity.

  Look, what thy memory can not contain

  Commit to these waste blanks, and thou shalt find

  Those children nursed, deliver'd from thy brain,

  To take a new acquaintance of thy mind.

  These offices, so oft as thou wilt look,

  Shall profit thee and much enrich thy book.

  The mirror will reveal how your beauty wears;

  The clock will show you the precious minutes you waste;

  The blank pages will bear your mind’s thoughts,

  And by keeping this book you will learn some things:

  The wrinkles you see that the mirror truly shows

  Will remind you of open-mouthed graves;

  You will learn from the stealthy passing of the clock’s hands

  About how Time steals away to eternity.

  Look: what you cannot remember

  Write it down on these blank pages and you will find

  These infant thoughts nursed once delivered from your brain.

  They will be like new acquaintances to your mind when you see them again.

  Performing these tasks, as long as you attend to them,

  Will serve you well and will enrich your book.

  So oft have I invoked thee for my Muse

  And found such fair assistance in my verse

  As every alien pen hath got my use

  And under thee their poesy disperse.

  Thine eyes that taught the dumb on high to sing

  And heavy ignorance aloft to fly

  Have added feathers to the learned's wing

  And given grace a double majesty.

  Yet be most proud of that which I compile,

  Whose influence is thine and born of thee:

  In others' works thou dost but mend the style,

  And arts with thy sweet graces graced be;

  But thou art all my art and dost advance

  As high as learning my rude ignorance.

  I have so often named you as my Muse,

  And you’ve assisted my poetry so much,

  That other writers have used you, too,

  And now they scatter their poetry in your name.

  Your eyes that have taught the speechless to sing on high,

  And lifted the ignorant until they can fly.

  It has added feathers to intelligent wings,

  And have doubled the majesty of the graceful.

  Yet you should be most proud of what I compose,

  Since its sole influence is yours and born of you:

  In others’ works you only improve the style,

  And grace their arts with your sweet graces;

  But you are all of my art and you lift

  My crude ignorance into intelligence.

  Whilst I alone did call upon thy aid,

  My verse alone had all thy gentle grace,

  But now my gracious numbers are decay'd

  And my sick Muse doth give another place.

  I grant, sweet love, thy lovely argument

  Deserves the travail of a worthier pen,

  Yet what of thee thy poet doth invent

  He robs thee of and pays it thee again.

  He lends thee virtue and he stole that word

  From thy behavior; beauty doth he give

  And found it in thy cheek; he c
an afford

  No praise to thee but what in thee doth live.

  Then thank him not for that which he doth say,

  Since what he owes thee thou thyself dost pay.

  When I was the only one who called upon you to aid my poems,

  My poems were the only ones that contained your gentle grace;

  But now my blessed numbers are lessened,

  And my sick Muse forces me to allow another take my place.

  I admit, sweet love, that such a sweet subject as you

  Deserves the labor of a worthier pen;

  Yet whatever the poet invents about you,

  He steals it from you and pays it to you again.

  If he writes about your virtue, he stole that word

  By watching you behavior; if he names beauty,

  He found it in your face. He cannot afford

  To give you any praise but what he finds in you.

  So don’t thank him for what he says about you,

  Since you are paying him what he owes to you.

  O, how I faint when I of you do write,

  Knowing a better spirit doth use your name,

  And in the praise thereof spends all his might,

  To make me tongue-tied, speaking of your fame!

  But since your worth, wide as the ocean is,

  The humble as the proudest sail doth bear,

  My saucy bark inferior far to his

  On your broad main doth wilfully appear.

  Your shallowest help will hold me up afloat,

  Whilst he upon your soundless deep doth ride;

  Or being wreck'd, I am a worthless boat,

  He of tall building and of goodly pride:

  Then if he thrive and I be cast away,

  The worst was this; my love was my decay.

  Oh, how fearful I feel when I write about you,

  Knowing a better poet uses your name,

  And spends all of his strength in praising you,

  And it makes me feel tongue-tied, trying to describe you!

  But since your worth is as wide as the ocean,

  The humble and the proudest can both sail it.

  So even though my defiant ship is very inferior to his,

  On your broad ocean I do deliberately appear.

  Your shallowest waters will keep me afloat,

  While he rides upon your deepest depths;

  If I am wrecked, I am just a worthless boat,