The Complete Works of William Shakespeare In Plain and Simple English (Translated) (1130 page)

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,

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 can 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;