The Complete Works of William Shakespeare In Plain and Simple English (Translated) (1142 page)

When my love swears that she is made of truth

I do believe her, though I know she lies,

That she might think me some untutor'd youth,

Unlearned in the world's false subtleties.

Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me young,

Although she knows my days are past the best,

Simply I credit her false speaking tongue:

On both sides thus is simple truth suppress'd.

But wherefore says she not she is unjust?

And wherefore say not I that I am old?

O, love's best habit is in seeming trust,

And age in love loves not to have years told:

Therefore I lie with her and she with me,

And in our faults by lies we flatter'd be.

When my love swears that she is made of truth,

I believe her, even though I know she lies,

And that she might think me some uneducated youth,

Unlearned in the false ways of the world.

Although she knows I am past my best days,

I simply give credit to her lying tongue:

On both sides, then, the simple truth is not told.

But what if she were to say that she is not a liar?

And what if I were that that I am not old?

Oh, love’s best habit is in seeming to trust each other,

And loves prefers not to have its age told:

Therefore I lie with her and she with me,

And we flatter each other with lies despite our faults.

O, call not me to justify the wrong

That thy unkindness lays upon my heart;

Wound me not with thine eye but with thy tongue;

Use power with power and slay me not by art.

Tell me thou lovest elsewhere, but in my sight,

Dear heart, forbear to glance thine eye aside:

What need'st thou wound with cunning when thy might

Is more than my o'er-press'd defense can bide?

Let me excuse thee: ah! my love well knows

Her pretty looks have been mine enemies,

And therefore from my face she turns my foes,

That they elsewhere might dart their injuries:

Yet do not so; but since I am near slain,

Kill me outright with looks and rid my pain.

Oh, don’t ask me to justify the wrong,

That your unkindness lays upon my heart;

Don’t injure me with your eye, but do it with your tongue;

Use your power with power and do not slay me by using subtlety.

Tell me you love someone somewhere else, but when you are in my sight,

Dear heart, please hold off from glancing at others:

Why would you need to wound me with cunning when your power

Over me is more than I can possibly defend myself against?

Let me excuse you: oh, my love knows very well

Her pretty looks have been my enemies,

And, therefore, she turns my enemies away from my face,

So that they might aim their injuries somewhere else:

Yet, don’t do this, since I am very near slain,

Kill me outright with your looks and rid me of my pain.

Be wise as thou art cruel; do not press

My tongue-tied patience with too much disdain;

Lest sorrow lend me words and words express

The manner of my pity-wanting pain.

If I might teach thee wit, better it were,

Though not to love, yet, love, to tell me so;

As testy sick men, when their deaths be near,

No news but health from their physicians know;

For if I should despair, I should grow mad,

And in my madness might speak ill of thee:

Now this ill-wresting world is grown so bad,

Mad slanderers by mad ears believed be,

That I may not be so, nor thou belied,

Bear thine eyes straight, though thy proud heart go wide.

Be as wise as you are cruel; do not test

My speechless patience with too much distain;

Otherwise, my sorrow might give me words and the words will express

The nature of my pain, which wants pity.

If you allow me to give you some advice, it would be better

If you do not tell me, love, if you do not love me;

In the same way that sick men who are short-tempered and whose deaths are near,

Are not told about the state of their health even though their doctors know;

Because if I should feel despair, I will go crazy,

And in my craziness, I might speak badly of you,

And now that this world that twists the truth has grown so bad,

Crazy slanderers are believed by crazy people who hear them,

So that I may not be like that and lie about you—

Keep your eyes directly on me, even though your proud heart may widely stray.

In faith, I do not love thee with mine eyes,

For they in thee a thousand errors note;

But 'tis my heart that loves what they despise,

Who in despite of view is pleased to dote;

Nor are mine ears with thy tongue's tune delighted,

Nor tender feeling, to base touches prone,

Nor taste, nor smell, desire to be invited

To any sensual feast with thee alone:

But my five wits nor my five senses can

Dissuade one foolish heart from serving thee,

Who leaves unsway'd the likeness of a man,

Thy proud hearts slave and vassal wretch to be:

Only my plague thus far I count my gain,

That she that makes me sin awards me pain.

To be sure, I do not love you with my eyes,

Because they see a thousand errors in you;

It is my heart that loves what they despise,

Who, in despite of the view, is pleased to be a fool;

My ears are not very delighted by the sound of your voice,

And I don’t necessarily have tender feelings when touching you,

Neither my sense of taste nor smell desire to be invited

To any sensual feast with you alone:

But neither my mind nor my five senses can

Persuade my foolish heart from serving you,

My heart leaves my body to stand here alone looking like a man,

While it goes off to be the wretched slave to your heart:

I only gain one thing from this illness

And that is that the one who makes me sin awards me with pain.

Love is my sin and thy dear virtue hate,

Hate of my sin, grounded on sinful loving:

O, but with mine compare thou thine own state,

And thou shalt find it merits not reproving;

Or, if it do, not from those lips of thine,

That have profaned their scarlet ornaments

And seal'd false bonds of love as oft as mine,

Robb'd others' beds' revenues of their rents.

Be it lawful I love thee, as thou lovest those

Whom thine eyes woo as mine importune thee:

Root pity in thy heart, that when it grows

Thy pity may deserve to pitied be.

If thou dost seek to have what thou dost hide,

By self-example mayst thou be denied!

Love of you is my sin and your best virtue is hate,

You hate my sin that is grounded in sinful loving:

Oh, but compare your state to my own state,

And you will find my state is not in need of rebuke;

Or, if it is, not from those lips of yours,

That have abused their red ornamentation of lipstick,

By sealing false bonds of love with a kiss as often as mine,

And have robbed others’ beds and lovers of what is due to them.

It is right that I love you as you love those

Whom your eyes woo in the same way that mine beg you:

Plant pity in your heart for me, so that it grows

So that if you need pity, you may deserve to be pitied, as well.

If you seek to have what you yourself do not show,

By your example, you may not receive it, either!

Lo! as a careful housewife runs to catch

One of her feather'd creatures broke away,

Sets down her babe and makes an swift dispatch

In pursuit of the thing she would have stay,

Whilst her neglected child holds her in chase,

Cries to catch her whose busy care is bent

To follow that which flies before her face,

Not prizing her poor infant's discontent;

So runn'st thou after that which flies from thee,

Whilst I thy babe chase thee afar behind;