The Complete Works of William Shakespeare In Plain and Simple English (Translated) (1118 page)

Not from the stars do I my judgment pluck;

And yet methinks I have astronomy,

But not to tell of good or evil luck,

Of plagues, of dearths, or seasons' quality;

Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell,

Pointing to each his thunder, rain and wind,

Or say with princes if it shall go well,

By oft predict that I in heaven find:

But from thine eyes my knowledge I derive,

And, constant stars, in them I read such art

As truth and beauty shall together thrive,

If from thyself to store thou wouldst convert;

Or else of thee this I prognosticate:

Thy end is truth's and beauty's doom and date.

I don’t draw knowledge from the stars,

And yet I think I do know a little about astrology.

Not enough to predict good or bad luck,

Or to be able to foresee plagues, famines, or the way a season will be,

And I can’t see to the minute what will happen—

Predicting every thunder, rain and wind,

Nor am I able to tell princes how things will go

By looking at the heavens.

I gain my knowledge from looking in your eyes,

And—like steady stars—I can read in them

That beauty and truth will thrive together

If you should decide to have children.

Otherwise, all I can foretell for you is:

Your truth and beauty will die with you.

When I consider every thing that grows

Holds in perfection but a little moment,

That this huge stage presenteth nought but shows

Whereon the stars in secret influence comment;

When I perceive that men as plants increase,

Cheered and cheque'd even by the self-same sky,

Vaunt in their youthful sap, at height decrease,

And wear their brave state out of memory;

Then the conceit of this inconstant stay

Sets you most rich in youth before my sight,

Where wasteful Time debateth with Decay,

To change your day of youth to sullied night;

And all in war with Time for love of you,

As he takes from you, I engraft you new.

When I consider how everything that grows,

Is only perfect for a brief time,

And that this world is like a huge stage presenting nothing but shows

That are secretly influenced by the stars,

When I think about how men grow just like plants—

Encouraged and restrained under the same sky

Proud in their vital youth but decreasing as they reach their highest point,

Keeping nothing of their excellence that eventually is forgotten.

Then the thought of this inconstant state of things

Makes you seem so rich with youth in my eyes.

I see wasteful Time debating with Death

About how to change your youth into old age;

Out of love, I am in war with Time for you,

And as he takes from you, I try to divide you anew.

But wherefore do not you a mightier way

Make war upon this bloody tyrant, Time?

And fortify yourself in your decay

With means more blessed than my barren rhyme?

Now stand you on the top of happy hours,

And many maiden gardens yet unset

With virtuous wish would bear your living flowers,

Much liker than your painted counterfeit:

So should the lines of life that life repair,

Which this, Time's pencil, or my pupil pen,

Neither in inward worth nor outward fair,

Can make you live yourself in eyes of men.

To give away yourself keeps yourself still,

And you must live, drawn by your own sweet skill.

But why don’t you find a mightier way

To make war upon this bloody tyrant, Time?

And strengthen yourself as you age

With ways happier than my stupid poems?

You are at the height of your happy youth,

And many fertile and young women

Of virtue would love to marry you and bear your children

That would look more like you than a painting.

And the lines of your life would be restored,

Which neither Time itself nor my apprentice pen

In inner worth or outward beauty,

Can do like you can do yourself by having children.

Giving yourself away allows you to keep yourself,

And you will live on, carried by your own pleasing common sense.

Who will believe my verse in time to come,

If it were fill'd with your most high deserts?

Though yet, heaven knows, it is but as a tomb

Which hides your life and shows not half your parts.

If I could write the beauty of your eyes

And in fresh numbers number all your graces,

The age to come would say 'This poet lies:

Such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces.'

So should my papers yellow'd with their age

Be scorn'd like old men of less truth than tongue,

And your true rights be term'd a poet's rage

And stretched metre of an antique song:

But were some child of yours alive that time,

You should live twice; in it and in my rhyme.

Who will believe my poems in years to come,

If I write about your highest merits?

As it is, heaven knows, my poems are like a tomb

That hide your life and do not show the half of you.

If I could capture how beautiful your eyes are in words,

And manage to list all of your good qualities,

The time would come when people say ‘This poet lies:

There’s no way such heavenly things were seen in human faces.’

And so my poems, their pages yellowed with age,

Would be scorned like old men who talk a lot but don’t speak true,

And your rightful claim would be called a poet’s madness,

The false lines of an old song.

But if you had a child still alive at that time,

You would live twice: in your child and in my rhymes.

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?

Thou art more lovely and more temperate:

Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,

And summer's lease hath all too short a date:

Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,

And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;

And every fair from fair sometime declines,

By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd;

But thy eternal summer shall not fade

Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest;

Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,

When in eternal lines to time thou growest:

So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,

So long lives this and this gives life to thee.

Should I compare you to a summer day?

You are lovelier and calmer:

Rough winds shake the precious buds of May,

And summer does not last very long.

Sometimes the sun overhead is too hot,

And often its golden light is dimmed,

And every thing that is beautiful loses its beauty,

Either by accident or simply because of the due course of Nature.

But your eternal summer will not fade,

And you will not lose possession of your beauty.

Death will not brag that you are wandering in his underworld,

When in these eternal lines you exist.

As long as men can breathe or eyes can see,

As long as this poem exists, you will live.