The Complete Works of William Shakespeare In Plain and Simple English (Translated) (1122 page)

Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day,

And make me travel forth without my cloak,

To let base clouds o'ertake me in my way,

Hiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke?

'Tis not enough that through the cloud thou break,To dry the rain on my storm-beaten face,

For no man well of such a salve can speak

That heals the wound and cures not the disgrace:

Nor can thy shame give physic to my grief;

Though thou repent, yet I have still the loss:

The offender's sorrow lends but weak relief

To him that bears the strong offence's cross.

Ah! but those tears are pearl which thy love sheds,

And they are rich and ransom all ill deeds.

Why did you promise such a beautiful day,

And cause me to go out without my coat,

Only to let dark clouds overtake me on the way,

Hiding your splendor in their corrupt mist?

It’s not enough that you broke through the clouds

To dry the rain from my storm-beaten face,

Because no man can speak highly of a remedy

That heals the wound but does nothing for the disgrace.

Your sense of shame does not heal my grief—

Even though you are sorry, I still have the loss:

The offender’s sorrow offers little relief

To the one who suffers the damage.

Oh, but those tears you shed out of love are like pearls—

They are great and make up for all bad deeds.

No more be grieved at that which thou hast done:

Roses have thorns, and silver fountains mud;

Clouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun,

And loathsome canker lives in sweetest bud.

All men make faults, and even I in this,

Authorizing thy trespass with compare,

Myself corrupting, salving thy amiss,

Excusing thy sins more than thy sins are;

For to thy sensual fault I bring in sense--

Thy adverse party is thy advocate--

And 'gainst myself a lawful plea commence:

Such civil war is in my love and hate

That I an accessary needs must be

To that sweet thief which sourly robs from me.

Don’t be distressed at what you have done:

Roses have thorns, and silver fountains have mud.

Clouds and eclipses sometimes block the moon and sun,

And disgusting worms live in the sweetest flower buds.

Everyone has a fault, and even I, by

Approving of your wrongs by using comparisons

Am reducing and wrongly accounting for and

Excusing your sins more than the sins themselves require.

I am bringing the power of reason to your physical faults—

And thus making the one you have wronged your advocate—

By making a justifiable argument against myself.

I am so at war within myself between love and hate,

That it’s necessary to make myself a helper

To the sweet thief who so painfully robs me.

Let me confess that we two must be twain,

Although our undivided loves are one:

So shall those blots that do with me remain

Without thy help by me be borne alone.

In our two loves there is but one respect,

Though in our lives a separable spite,

Which though it alter not love's sole effect,

Yet doth it steal sweet hours from love's delight.

I may not evermore acknowledge thee,

Lest my bewailed guilt should do thee shame,

Nor thou with public kindness honour me,

Unless thou take that honour from thy name:

But do not so; I love thee in such sort

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

I have to say that the two of us must separate,

Even though our undivided love is like one:

Our disgraces will stay with me

And without your help, I will carry them alone.

In our two loves there is only one consideration,

But in our lives, despite everything, we must separate.

Still, it does not alter the love

So much as it steals away the time we can spend together.

I can not greet you when we meet,

For fear that my regretful guilt will embarrass you,

And you should not be polite to me either,

Because it will tarnish your good name.

Don’t do that. I love you so much

That I value your good reputation as if it were my own.

As a decrepit father takes delight

To see his active child do deeds of youth,

So I, made lame by fortune's dearest spite,

Take all my comfort of thy worth and truth.

For whether beauty, birth, or wealth, or wit,

Or any of these all, or all, or more,

Entitled in thy parts do crowned sit,

I make my love engrafted to this store:

So then I am not lame, poor, nor despised,

Whilst that this shadow doth such substance give

That I in thy abundance am sufficed

And by a part of all thy glory live.

Look, what is best, that best I wish in thee:

This wish I have; then ten times happy me!

Just like an elderly father enjoys

Watching his active child do youthful things,

I too, being lame in my misfortune,

Take comfort in your worth and truth.

Whether it is beauty, birth, wealth or intelligence,

Or any of these, or all of them, or more,

That you are entitled to and invested with,

I attach my love to the fortune.

Then I am not so lame, poor and despised.

As long as this illusion seems real,

Then I have enough in your abundance,

And I live a little in your magnificence.

Whatever is best, I wish that for you:

If I have this wish, then I am ten times happier.

How can my Muse want subject to invent,

While thou dost breathe, that pour'st into my verse

Thine own sweet argument, too excellent

For every vulgar paper to rehearse?

O, give thyself the thanks, if aught in me

Worthy perusal stand against thy sight;

For who's so dumb that cannot write to thee,

When thou thyself dost give invention light?

Be thou the tenth Muse, ten times more in worth

Than those old nine which rhymers invocate;

And he that calls on thee, let him bring forth

Eternal numbers to outlive long date.

If my slight Muse do please these curious days,

The pain be mine, but thine shall be the praise.

How could I ever lack a subject to write about,

When as long as you live, you pour into my words,

A sweet subject too excellent

To be written about on ordinary paper?

You can thank yourself if you see anything in my

Examination of you that is worthy in your eyes.

Who could be so wordless they could not write about you,

When you yourself give light to imagination?

You are the tenth Muse, worth ten times more

Than the other nine which poets call upon.

Let whomever calls on you write

Eternal lines to outlive the end of time.

If my creative work satisfies the hard to please these days,

The pain of writing will be mine, but you will have the praise.