The Complete Works of William Shakespeare In Plain and Simple English (Translated) (1125 page)

Against that time, if ever that time come,

When I shall see thee frown on my defects,

When as thy love hath cast his utmost sum,

Call'd to that audit by advised respects;

Against that time when thou shalt strangely pass

And scarcely greet me with that sun thine eye,

When love, converted from the thing it was,

Shall reasons find of settled gravity,--

Against that time do I ensconce me here

Within the knowledge of mine own desert,

And this my hand against myself uprear,

To guard the lawful reasons on thy part:

To leave poor me thou hast the strength of laws,

Since why to love I can allege no cause.

In anticipation of the time, if ever the time comes,

When I see you frown at my faults,

When your love has played itself out

And you are taking everything about me into account;

In anticipation of that time when we pass as strangers

And you do not greet me with a light in your eye,

When love, changed from the thing it was,

Is reasoned away by maturity and wisdom;

In anticipation of that time I want to firmly establish

My full knowledge of all that I lack.

I raise my hand to give testimony against myself,

And to defend every justifiable reason you will have

To leave pitiful me based on good reasons,

Since I can find no reason at all why you love me.

How heavy do I journey on the way,

When what I seek, my weary travel's end,

Doth teach that ease and that repose to say

'Thus far the miles are measured from thy friend!'

The beast that bears me, tired with my woe,

Plods dully on, to bear that weight in me,

As if by some instinct the wretch did know

His rider loved not speed, being made from thee:

The bloody spur cannot provoke him on

That sometimes anger thrusts into his hide;

Which heavily he answers with a groan,

More sharp to me than spurring to his side;

For that same groan doth put this in my mind;

My grief lies onward and my joy behind.

I feel so sad as I embark on this journey,

Because where I am heading—my weary journey’s end—

Will only give me the leisure and rest to say,

‘I’m so many miles away from my friend!’

The horse that bears me is tired of my sadness,

And plods on dully, bearing the weight in me.

As if by some instinct he seems to know

His rider is not in a hurry to get away from you.

The bloody spur I use to drive him on does no good

When I sometimes, in anger, thrust it into his side.

He responds to the thrust with such a groan,

Which is more painful to hear that the spur to his side feels,

Because it is the sound of that groan that makes me realize:

My grief lies ahead of me and my joy, behind.

Thus can my love excuse the slow offence

Of my dull bearer when from thee I speed:

From where thou art why should I haste me thence?

Till I return, of posting is no need.

O, what excuse will my poor beast then find,

When swift extremity can seem but slow?

Then should I spur, though mounted on the wind;

In winged speed no motion shall I know:

Then can no horse with my desire keep pace;

Therefore desire of perfect'st love being made,

Shall neigh--no dull flesh--in his fiery race;

But love, for love, thus shall excuse my jade;

Since from thee going he went wilful-slow,

Towards thee I'll run, and give him leave to go.

And so my love for you can forgive the slowness

Of my dull horse when I rode away from you:

I mean, why would I want to leave from where you are in a hurry?

So, until I return, no hurry is necessary.

What excuse will my poor horse find then,

When—no matter how fast it goes—it will seem slow?

I will use the spurs even if it seems to ride the wind.

If it seems to fly, it will not be moving forward fast enough for me.

No horse will be able to keep up with my desire,

Because my desire will be made of perfect love,

And the horse I ride must neigh—without dull flesh—in a fiery race to you.

But my love, out of love, I will excuse my tired horse

Since he went away from you so slowly.

I will run on my own toward you, and let him go free.

So am I as the rich, whose blessed key

Can bring him to his sweet up-locked treasure,

The which he will not every hour survey,

For blunting the fine point of seldom pleasure.

Therefore are feasts so solemn and so rare,

Since, seldom coming, in the long year set,

Like stones of worth they thinly placed are,

Or captain jewels in the carcanet.

So is the time that keeps you as my chest,

Or as the wardrobe which the robe doth hide,

To make some special instant special blest,

By new unfolding his imprison'd pride.

Blessed are you, whose worthiness gives scope,

Being had, to triumph, being lack'd, to hope.

So, I’m like the wealthy man, whose blessed key

Can bring him to his sweet locked-up treasure,

Which he will resist looking at every hour,

Because it will dull the pleasure when he looks at it.

So, the feasts of looking are formal and rare,

Since, as they come so infrequently, they are set in the year

Like stones of value are just barely placed,

Like the main jewels set in a necklace.

In the same way, the time that keeps you away from me is a chest

Or a wardrobe that holds the robe in which you hide,

Making some small moment especially blessed,

When it unfolds to reveal what has been contained within.

You are blessed with a great worth that ranges wide:

Those who have you feel triumphant, while others hope to have you.

What is your substance, whereof are you made,

That millions of strange shadows on you tend?

Since every one hath, every one, one shade,

And you, but one, can every shadow lend.

Describe Adonis, and the counterfeit

Is poorly imitated after you;

On Helen's cheek all art of beauty set,

And you in Grecian tires are painted new:

Speak of the spring and foison of the year;

The one doth shadow of your beauty show,

The other as your bounty doth appear;

And you in every blessed shape we know.

In all external grace you have some part,

But you like none, none you, for constant heart.

What are you made of—of what substance?

That millions of reflections tend to look like you?

While everyone has—everyone!—one image,

You seem to look like every image.

Try to paint Adonis, and the painting will be

A poor imitation of you.

And if Helen’s cheek and her beauty were painted,

It would be you again in Greek clothes.

Mention spring and the abundance of fall—

Spring is only a shadow of your beauty,

And fall can not match your great generosity.

We see you in every blessed image we know.

You are like everything beautiful in an image,

But nothing can match the constancy of your heart.