The Complete Works of William Shakespeare In Plain and Simple English (Translated) (1129 page)

Those parts of thee that the world's eye doth view

Want nothing that the thought of hearts can mend;

All tongues, the voice of souls, give thee that due,

Uttering bare truth, even so as foes commend.

Thy outward thus with outward praise is crown'd;

But those same tongues that give thee so thine own

In other accents do this praise confound

By seeing farther than the eye hath shown.

They look into the beauty of thy mind,

And that, in guess, they measure by thy deeds;

Then, churls, their thoughts, although their eyes were kind,

To thy fair flower add the rank smell of weeds:

But why thy odour matcheth not thy show,

The solve is this, that thou dost common grow.

Those parts of you that can readily be seen by the world,

Lack nothing, and no one has thoughts of improving on them.

Everyone speaks highly and gives those parts of you praise,

And tell the truth; even your enemies compliment your good looks.

So, your outward appearance is thus crowned with outward praise,

But those same people that give you that praise

Talk in other tones that destroy it

When they look beyond what only the eye can see.

They look into the beauty of your mind,

Which they guess at by summing up your actions;

Then, the villains, after giving kind praise to your looks,

Add words that are like the rank smell of weeds on a flower:

The reason the foul scent does not match your appearance

Is that you are becoming cheap and vulgar.

That thou art blamed shall not be thy defect,

For slander's mark was ever yet the fair;

The ornament of beauty is suspect,

A crow that flies in heaven's sweetest air.

So thou be good, slander doth but approve

Thy worth the greater, being woo'd of time;

For canker vice the sweetest buds doth love,

And thou present'st a pure unstained prime.

Thou hast pass'd by the ambush of young days,

Either not assail'd or victor being charged;

Yet this thy praise cannot be so thy praise,

To tie up envy evermore enlarged:

If some suspect of ill mask'd not thy show,

Then thou alone kingdoms of hearts shouldst owe.

People blame you for things that will not be your fault

Because the beautiful always carry the mark of slander.

The person who is beautiful is always suspected of wrong—

A dark crow that flies in the sweetest air of heaven.

As long as you are good, slander will confirm

Your worth all the more, and it is courted by time.

Vice, like a parasite, loves the sweetest buds most,

And you present as pure and unblemished in your prime.

You have evaded the ambush in your younger days,

Because you either were not attacked, or you proved your innocence, once charged;

Still, this praise I give you cannot be enough praise

To keep the envy of others from always growing:

If some suspicion of evil did not mask your appearance,

Then you alone would have a kingdom of hearts in love with you.

No longer mourn for me when I am dead

Then you shall hear the surly sullen bell

Give warning to the world that I am fled

From this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell:

Nay, if you read this line, remember not

The hand that writ it; for I love you so

That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot

If thinking on me then should make you woe.

O, if, I say, you look upon this verse

When I perhaps compounded am with clay,

Do not so much as my poor name rehearse.

But let your love even with my life decay,

Lest the wise world should look into your moan

And mock you with me after I am gone.

Do not mourn for me when I am dead any longer

Than you hear the funeral bell

Ringing my passing, announcing to the word that I am gone

From this vile world to live with the vilest worms.

No, if you read this line, don’t remember

The hand that wrote it, because I love you so much

That I would want your sweet thoughts to forget me,

If thinking about me would make you sad.

Oh, if, say, you should look at this poem

When I am combined with the clay of the earth,

Do not even say my poor name out loud.

Let your love fade away as my life did,

Otherwise, the world might look at you in your grief

And ridicule you for missing me after I am gone.

O, lest the world should task you to recite

What merit lived in me, that you should love

After my death, dear love, forget me quite,

For you in me can nothing worthy prove;

Unless you would devise some virtuous lie,

To do more for me than mine own desert,

And hang more praise upon deceased I

Than niggard truth would willingly impart:

O, lest your true love may seem false in this,

That you for love speak well of me untrue,

My name be buried where my body is,

And live no more to shame nor me nor you.

For I am shamed by that which I bring forth,

And so should you, to love things nothing worth.

Oh, should the world ask you to say

What good lived in me that makes you love

Me after my death, dear love, forget me entirely,

Because there is nothing in me that is worthy,

Unless you come up with some virtuous lie,

That gives me more than I deserve,

And hangs more praise on the dead me

Than any unwilling truth would actually give;

Oh, because your true love may seem false in this—

That you speak well of me because of love—

Just bury my name with my body,

And let me lie dead and no longer bring shame to you or me.

I am shamed by what I bring forth,

And you should be, too, to love things worth nothing.

That time of year thou mayst in me behold

When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang

Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,

Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.

In me thou seest the twilight of such day

As after sunset fadeth in the west,

Which by and by black night doth take away,

Death's second self, that seals up all in rest.

In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire

That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,

As the death-bed whereon it must expire

Consumed with that which it was nourish'd by.

This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more strong,

To love that well which thou must leave ere long.

You may see in me that time of year

When yellow leaves, or none, or few, still hang

Upon the limbs that shake against the cold—

Bare ruined choirs where until recently sweet birds sang.

In me you may see the twilight of the day

That fades in the west after sunset,

Which, by and by, the black night takes away,

Like Death’s twin, sealing everyone in sleep.

You see in me the glow of a fire

That lies on the ashes of its youth,

As the death-bed on which it must die

Is consumed with what nourished it the most.

You see all of this, and it makes your love stronger,

Since we love most what we know will leave us soon.