The Complete Works of William Shakespeare In Plain and Simple English (Translated) (1131 page)

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,

While his is tall as a building and something to be proud of:

So if he thrives and I am cast away,

The worst of it will be that my love for you was the cause of my ruin.

Or I shall live your epitaph to make,

Or you survive when I in earth am rotten;

From hence your memory death cannot take,

Although in me each part will be forgotten.

Your name from hence immortal life shall have,

Though I, once gone, to all the world must die:

The earth can yield me but a common grave,

When you entombed in men's eyes shall lie.

Your monument shall be my gentle verse,

Which eyes not yet created shall o'er-read,

And tongues to be your being shall rehearse

When all the breathers of this world are dead;

You still shall live--such virtue hath my pen--

Where breath most breathes, even in the mouths of men.

I may outlive you to write your epitaph,

Or you may survive me when I am in the earth rotting:

Death cannot take your memory away,

Although it will cause my part to be forgotten.

Your name will have immortal life,

Even though I, once gone, will be dead to the world.

The earth will give me a common grave,

While you will be entombed for all mens’ eyes to see.

Your monument will be my gentle poems,

Which the eyes of those not yet born will read,

And tongues to come will talk about your essence,

When all those who breathe now are dead;

You will still live—that is the virtue of my pen—

In the place where life is: in the breath in the mouths of men.

I grant thou wert not married to my Muse

And therefore mayst without attaint o'erlook

The dedicated words which writers use

Of their fair subject, blessing every book

Thou art as fair in knowledge as in hue,

Finding thy worth a limit past my praise,

And therefore art enforced to seek anew

Some fresher stamp of the time-bettering days

And do so, love; yet when they have devised

What strained touches rhetoric can lend,

Thou truly fair wert truly sympathized

In true plain words by thy true-telling friend;

And their gross painting might be better used

Where cheeks need blood; in thee it is abused.

I admit you are not married to my poetry,

And so you may look without doing wrong

At the words other writers have written

About you, their fair subject, who blesses every book,

Since you are as knowledgeable as your complexion is beautiful,

And you will find your worth is just beyond my praise,

And so you will be forced to seek a newer

And fresher account written in the style of the times.

So go ahead and do so, love, and yet when they have created

Whatever they can with a strained touch of modern rhetoric,

Know that you were truly matched

With a friend who could tell the truth about you in plain words;

The other poets’ extreme methods might be of more use

Where color is needed in cheeks: to use it for you would be wrong.

I never saw that you did painting need

And therefore to your fair no painting set;

I found, or thought I found, you did exceed

The barren tender of a poet's debt;

And therefore have I slept in your report,

That you yourself being extant well might show

How far a modern quill doth come too short,

Speaking of worth, what worth in you doth grow.

This silence for my sin you did impute,

Which shall be most my glory, being dumb;

For I impair not beauty being mute,

When others would give life and bring a tomb.

There lives more life in one of your fair eyes

Than both your poets can in praise devise.

I never saw that you required beautifying,

And so I did not try to beautify your beauty;

I saw, or thought I saw, that you exceed

The empty words of a poet’s obligation;

And, because of this, I paid no attention to the description

That you yourself, being in existence, will show.

A modern pen will come up too short,

When speaking of your worth, and the worth that grows in you.

You called me to account for my silence in this regard,

Even though I feel my silence is my brilliance—

I do not dishonor your beauty by being silent.

Others bring you to life while burying you.

More life exists in one of your beautiful eyes

Than both of your poets could ever begin to describe.

Who is it that says most? which can say more

Than this rich praise, that you alone are you?

In whose confine immured is the store

Which should example where your equal grew.

Lean penury within that pen doth dwell

That to his subject lends not some small glory;

But he that writes of you, if he can tell

That you are you, so dignifies his story,

Let him but copy what in you is writ,

Not making worse what nature made so clear,

And such a counterpart shall fame his wit,

Making his style admired every where.

You to your beauteous blessings add a curse,

Being fond on praise, which makes your praises worse.

Which poet says the most? Which can say more

Than to give the rich praise that you alone are you?

In whose domain is the treasure confined

Which is the example of what you equal?

A poverty-stricken writer will

Not be able to lend glory to his subject,

But anyone who writes about you, if he can simply tell

Who you are, will find his writing has dignity.

Let him copy down what is written in you,

And not make worse what nature has made so clear,

And he will have created a copy that will make him famous

And cause his style to be admired everywhere.

You add a curse to your beautiful blessings,

By being fond of praise, which only makes your praises worse.