The Complete Works of William Shakespeare In Plain and Simple English (Translated) (1135 page)

Sing into the ear that values you

And which provides your pen with both skill and a subject.

Rise, lazy Muse, and look at my love’s sweet face,

If Time has carved any wrinkles there,

Compose a satire to decay,

And make Time’s ruins despised everywhere.

Give my love fame faster than Time can waste life;

And in that way you can prevent his scythe and crooked knife.

O truant Muse, what shall be thy amends

For thy neglect of truth in beauty dyed?

Both truth and beauty on my love depends;

So dost thou too, and therein dignified.

Make answer, Muse: wilt thou not haply say

'Truth needs no colour, with his colour fix'd;

Beauty no pencil, beauty's truth to lay;

But best is best, if never intermix'd?'

Because he needs no praise, wilt thou be dumb?

Excuse not silence so; for't lies in thee

To make him much outlive a gilded tomb,

And to be praised of ages yet to be.

Then do thy office, Muse; I teach thee how

To make him seem long hence as he shows now.

So, truant Muse, how are you going to make amends

For neglecting truth that is colored in beauty?

Both truth and beauty depend on my love,

And you do, too, and are dignified in that way.

Answer me, Muse: perhaps you will say

‘Truth needs no color, since his color is already fixed to beauty;

And beauty needs no fine-pointed paintbrush; beauty is layered in truth;

Is whatever is best the best when not mixed with anything?’

Because he requires no praise, will you be silent?

There is no excuse for the silence, since it lies within you

To make him live beyond a golden tomb,

And to be praised for ages to come.

So, do your job, Muse; I will teach you how

To make him appear as he appears now in the future.

My love is strengthen'd, though more weak in seeming;

I love not less, though less the show appear:

That love is merchandized whose rich esteeming

The owner's tongue doth publish every where.

Our love was new and then but in the spring

When I was wont to greet it with my lays,

As Philomel in summer's front doth sing

And stops her pipe in growth of riper days:

Not that the summer is less pleasant now

Than when her mournful hymns did hush the night,

But that wild music burthens every bough

And sweets grown common lose their dear delight.

Therefore like her I sometime hold my tongue,

Because I would not dull you with my song.

My love is stronger, although is seems to be weaker;

I don’t love you less; I just show it less often.

Love is turned into merchandise by the high praise

That the owner announces everywhere.

Our love was new and in its spring

When I was inclined to greet it with poems

In the way Philomela sings songs at the beginning of summer

Then stops singing so much as the days grow ripe;

It’s not because summer is less pleasant then

Than when she sang her mournful tunes in the quiet of night,

But that wild music and songs now burden every bough

And sweets that have grown common lose their delight.

So, like her, I sometimes hold my tongue,

Because I do not want to bore you with my song.

Alack, what poverty my Muse brings forth,

That having such a scope to show her pride,

The argument all bare is of more worth

Than when it hath my added praise beside!

O, blame me not, if I no more can write!

Look in your glass, and there appears a face

That over-goes my blunt invention quite,

Dulling my lines and doing me disgrace.

Were it not sinful then, striving to mend,

To mar the subject that before was well?

For to no other pass my verses tend

Than of your graces and your gifts to tell;

And more, much more, than in my verse can sit

Your own glass shows you when you look in it.

Alas, my Muse brings forth only poverty,

Since even with a big subject to show off her skill,

The subject, which is you, is worth more

Than when I have not added my praise to it!

Oh, don’t blame me, if I can’t write anymore!

Look in your mirror, and there you will see a face

That exceeds my blunt and limited inventions,

Making my lines dull and causing me disgrace.

Wouldn’t it be a sin if—while trying to improve—

I messed up a subject that was already quite well?

I write about nothing else in my poems except you,

Describing your graces and your gifts;

And more, much more, than my poems can contain

Your own mirror shows when you look into it.

To me, fair friend, you never can be old,

For as you were when first your eye I eyed,

Such seems your beauty still. Three winters cold

Have from the forests shook three summers' pride,

Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn turn'd

In process of the seasons have I seen,

Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burn'd,

Since first I saw you fresh, which yet are green.

Ah! yet doth beauty, like a dial-hand,

Steal from his figure and no pace perceived;

So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand,

Hath motion and mine eye may be deceived:

For fear of which, hear this, thou age unbred;

Ere you were born was beauty's summer dead.

You’ll never be old to me, fair friend—

The way you looked when I first eyed your eye—

That is how you still look. Three cold winters

Have shook three summers’ worth of leaves from the forests,

And three beautiful springs have turned to autumn’s yellow

In the passing of the seasons I have seen;

Three perfumed Aprils have burned into three hot Junes,

Since I first saw you fresh, and you’re still green and new.

Oh! Still, beauty, like a clock’s hand,

Steals from his figure with a pace so slow it is not perceived;

So your sweet complexion, which seems to me to stand still,

Has motion, and my eye may be deceived.

For fear that it is, hear this, future generations not yet conceived:

Before you were born, the greatest beauty was already dead.

Let not my love be call'd idolatry,

Nor my beloved as an idol show,

Since all alike my songs and praises be

To one, of one, still such, and ever so.

Kind is my love to-day, to-morrow kind,

Still constant in a wondrous excellence;

Therefore my verse to constancy confined,

One thing expressing, leaves out difference.

'Fair, kind and true' is all my argument,

'Fair, kind, and true' varying to other words;

And in this change is my invention spent,

Three themes in one, which wondrous scope affords.

'Fair, kind, and true,' have often lived alone,

Which three till now never kept seat in one.

Let no one call my love idolatry,

Or say that my beloved is an idol show,

Since my songs and praises are all alike

And are to one, of one, have been, and will always be.

My love is kind today, and kind tomorrow.

And is constant in an extraordinary excellence;

So my poems are confined to that constancy,

Expressing one thing, and leaving out anything different.

‘Fair, kind, and true’ is the entire subject of my poems.

‘Fair, kind, and true’ is what I write about in various ways,

And it is in this variation that I spend my creativity.

These three themes are contained in one, providing a broad subject.

‘Fair, kind, and true’ are traits often found alone,

But the three traits were never all in one person until now.