The Complete Works of William Shakespeare In Plain and Simple English (Translated) (1134 page)

And all things turn to fair that eyes can see!

Take heed, dear heart, of this large privilege;

The hardest knife ill-used doth lose his edge.

You make shame look so sweet and lovely

While, like a canker in a fragrant rose,

It stains the beauty of your name!

Oh, you cover up your sins with such sweet covers!

The tongue that tells yours story

And makes lustful comments about your sexual recreation,

Cannot help but turn criticism into a kind of praise;

Mentioning your name makes a bad thing look good.

Oh, what a grand place those vices of yours

Get to live in, having chosen you,

Where your beauty covers every fault,

And turns everything that eyes can see to good!

Be careful, dear heart, of this great privilege:

The hardest knife, when used badly, will lose its edge.

Some say thy fault is youth, some wantonness;

Some say thy grace is youth and gentle sport;

Both grace and faults are loved of more and less;

Thou makest faults graces that to thee resort.

As on the finger of a throned queen

The basest jewel will be well esteem'd,

So are those errors that in thee are seen

To truths translated and for true things deem'd.

How many lambs might the stem wolf betray,

If like a lamb he could his looks translate!

How many gazers mightst thou lead away,

If thou wouldst use the strength of all thy state!

But do not so; I love thee in such sort

As, thou being mine, mine is thy good report.

Some say your fault is your youth, while others say it is your promiscuity;

Some say your virtue is in your youth and playfulness,

And your faults and virtues are more or less loved by all;

You are capable of turning your faults into virtues.

In the same way the finger of a queen on a throne

Will make the lowest jewel seem vaulable,

So are the errors in you seen

As good things and regarded as good.

How many lambs might the prowling wolf betray,

If he could make himself look like a lamb!

How many viewers you could lead away,

If you would use the power at your disposal!

But don’t do that; I love you in such a way

That, since you are mine, your reputation reflects on me.

How like a winter hath my absence been

From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year!

What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen!

What old December's bareness every where!

And yet this time removed was summer's time,

The teeming autumn, big with rich increase,

Bearing the wanton burden of the prime,

Like widow'd wombs after their lords' decease:

Yet this abundant issue seem'd to me

But hope of orphans and unfather'd fruit;

For summer and his pleasures wait on thee,

And, thou away, the very birds are mute;

Or, if they sing, 'tis with so dull a cheer

That leaves look pale, dreading the winter's near.

It has felt like winter since I’ve been away

From you, since you give pleasure to the passing year!

I have felt so cold and have seen such dark days!

Old December’s bareness was everywhere!

Despite the fact that our time apart was during the summer,

And then into the overfull autumn, big with abundance,

With harvest-time bearing the fruits of its prime,

Like a widow bears a child after her lord dies.

These abundant crops seemed to me

Like orphans and unfathered fruit;

The pleasure of summer depends on you,

And, when you are away, the birds are quiet,

Or, if they sing, they do it so dully,

That the leaves tune pale, dreading winter’s approach.

From you have I been absent in the spring,

When proud-pied April dress'd in all his trim

Hath put a spirit of youth in every thing,

That heavy Saturn laugh'd and leap'd with him.

Yet nor the lays of birds nor the sweet smell

Of different flowers in odour and in hue

Could make me any summer's story tell,

Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew;

Nor did I wonder at the lily's white,

Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose;

They were but sweet, but figures of delight,

Drawn after you, you pattern of all those.

Yet seem'd it winter still, and, you away,

As with your shadow I with these did play.

I have been absent from you throughout the spring,

When splendid and colorful April dressed in all his finery

Put the spirit of youth into everything so much,

That even heavy old Saturn laughed and leaped with him.

Still, neither the songs of the birds nor the sweet scent

Of the different odors of colored flowers

Could make me feel like it was summer,

Or inspire me to pick them from where they grew.

I did not wonder at the white of the lily,

Or praise the deep red in the rose;

They were simply sweet figures of delight

That looked as if they have been drawn to your pattern.

It seemed like it was still winter with you away,

And I played with the flowers as if they were your ghost.

The forward violet thus did I chide:

Sweet thief, whence didst thou steal thy sweet that smells,

If not from my love's breath? The purple pride

Which on thy soft cheek for complexion dwells

In my love's veins thou hast too grossly dyed.

The lily I condemned for thy hand,

And buds of marjoram had stol'n thy hair:

The roses fearfully on thorns did stand,

One blushing shame, another white despair;

A third, nor red nor white, had stol'n of both

And to his robbery had annex'd thy breath;

But, for his theft, in pride of all his growth

A vengeful canker eat him up to death.

More flowers I noted, yet I none could see

But sweet or colour it had stol'n from thee.

I scolded the precocious violet:

‘Sweet thief, where did you steal that scent that smells

Exactly like my love’s breath? The purple color

Which is on your soft cheek for color lives

In my love’s veins, and you have grossly dyed yourself in it.’

I condemned the lily for stealing the whiteness of your hand,

And the buds of marjoram for stealing your hair.

The roses trembled in fear, standing on their thorns,

With one blushing red in shame and another white in despair;

A third, neither red nor white, had stolen both colors,

And to his robbery added your breath.

And, because of his theft, when he was in the pride of his growth

A terrible parasite ate him to death.

I saw more flowers, and there were none I could see

That hadn’t stolen their scent or color from you.

Where art thou, Muse, that thou forget'st so long

To speak of that which gives thee all thy might?

Spend'st thou thy fury on some worthless song,

Darkening thy power to lend base subjects light?

Return, forgetful Muse, and straight redeem

In gentle numbers time so idly spent;

Sing to the ear that doth thy lays esteem

And gives thy pen both skill and argument.

Rise, resty Muse, my love's sweet face survey,

If Time have any wrinkle graven there;

If any, be a satire to decay,

And make Time's spoils despised every where.

Give my love fame faster than Time wastes life;

So thou prevent'st his scythe and crooked knife.

Where are you, Muse, that you have forgotten for so long

To speak of the subject that gives you all your strength?

Have you been spending your fierce passion on some worthless song,

And depriving your power by lending low subjects light?

Come back, forgetful Muse, and redeem yourself

And make up for your idle time by inspiring some gentle poems;