The Complete Works of William Shakespeare In Plain and Simple English (Translated) (1121 page)

I all alone beweep my outcast state

And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries

And look upon myself and curse my fate,

Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,

Featured like him, like him with friends possess'd,

Desiring this man's art and that man's scope,

With what I most enjoy contented least;

Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,

Haply I think on thee, and then my state,

Like to the lark at break of day arising

From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate;

For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings

That then I scorn to change my state with kings.

When I feel unfortunate and am seen as a disgrace by others,

I cry by myself about being an outcast

And disturb the deaf heavens with my useless cries,

And look at myself and curse my luck,

Wishing myself to be more like one who is hopeful,

And wishing I looked like him and had his friends.

I wish I had this man’s skill and that man’s opportunities,

And am unhappy with what usually makes me glad.

Still, when I have these thoughts and despise myself,

I happen to think of you and then my sense of well-being

Rises like a lark at the break of day

From the gloomy earth, singing hymns at heaven’s gate.

The thought of your sweet love brings such wealth

That I would refuse to change places with kings.

When to the sessions of sweet silent thought

I summon up remembrance of things past,

I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,

And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste:

Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow,

For precious friends hid in death's dateless night,

And weep afresh love's long since cancell'd woe,

And moan the expense of many a vanish'd sight:

Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,

And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er

The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan,

Which I new pay as if not paid before.

But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,

All losses are restored and sorrows end.

When I’m alone with my sweet silent thoughts,

And I call up the memory of things from the past,

I sigh about not having gotten the things I tried to find,

And I cry about all the time I’ve wasted.

Then I can drown my eyes that are unused to tears

For friends who have passed into death’s eternal night,

And weep again about loves I was sad about losing before,

And cry about how much the things that are gone have cost me.

I can sob heavily while I go over every sadness I’ve ever had,

Taking account of my previous sadnesess all over again,

And I cry about them as if I had not cried before.

But if I think about you while doing this, dear friend,

Then my losses are returned and my sadness ends.

Thy bosom is endeared with all hearts,

Which I by lacking have supposed dead,

And there reigns love and all love's loving parts,

And all those friends which I thought buried.

How many a holy and obsequious tear

Hath dear religious love stol'n from mine eye

As interest of the dead, which now appear

But things removed that hidden in thee lie!

Thou art the grave where buried love doth live,

Hung with the trophies of my lovers gone,

Who all their parts of me to thee did give;

That due of many now is thine alone:

Their images I loved I view in thee,

And thou, all they, hast all the all of me.

You have the hearts of everyone in your heart

Who I viewed as good as dead since I no longer have them.

And there you have power over love and all its qualities,

And all those friends I thought I had buried.

Many virtuous and dutiful tears

Have been stolen from my eye by dear, religious love

And cried for the dead, who now appear

As things that were removed and hidden in you!

You are the grave where buried love lies,

And in it hangs the trophies of all my departed lovers,

Who gave all of themselves to you.

What was due to me is now yours alone.

I can see everyone I’ve loved in you,

And you, who have everyone I’ve ever loved, also has all of me.

If thou survive my well-contented day,

When that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover,

And shalt by fortune once more re-survey

These poor rude lines of thy deceased lover,

Compare them with the bettering of the time,

And though they be outstripp'd by every pen,

Reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme,

Exceeded by the height of happier men.

O, then vouchsafe me but this loving thought:

'Had my friend's Muse grown with this growing age,

A dearer birth than this his love had brought,

To march in ranks of better equipage:

But since he died and poets better prove,

Theirs for their style I'll read, his for his love.'

If you live on after I am gone

After Death has covered my bones with dust,

And you should happen to re-read

These poor, rough lines written by your dead lover,

You will compare them with the better poems of the time.

Although the poems written by the pens of those poets will be better,

Look at mine for the love contained within them, not their rhyme,

Which more fortunate poets will have the skill to do better.

Just please grant me this loving thought:

“If my friend’s inspiration was still in existence today,

He would have written better poems than these,

To equal the poems written by those with better equipment.

But since he is dead and poets today are better,

I’ll read theirs for the style, and his for his love.”

Full many a glorious morning have I seen

Flatter the mountain-tops with sovereign eye,

Kissing with golden face the meadows green,

Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy;

Anon permit the basest clouds to ride

With ugly rack on his celestial face,

And from the forlorn world his visage hide,

Stealing unseen to west with this disgrace:

Even so my sun one early morn did shine

With all triumphant splendor on my brow;

But out, alack! he was but one hour mine;

The region cloud hath mask'd him from me now.

Yet him for this my love no whit disdaineth;

Suns of the world may stain when heaven's sun staineth.

I’ve seen many glorious mornings when the full sun

Makes the mountains look beautiful under its excellent eye,

And kisses the green meadows with its golden face,

And turns the pale streams gold using divine magic,

Only to permit the most unworthy clouds

To cross its heavenly face,

Hiding it from the wretched world,

Then creeping away unseen to the west in disgrace.

Just like this my sun shone one morning

In triumphant brilliance upon my face,

But—too bad!—he was only mine for an hour,

And the clouds have hidden him from me now.

Still, my love is not corrupt because of this.

Men who are like the sun can disgrace themselves like it does.