The Complete Works of William Shakespeare In Plain and Simple English (Translated) (1138 page)

Come within the compass of Time’s altering sickle:

Love does not change with the passing of brief hours and weeks,

But will last even past the end of time.

If I am wrong and you can prove it,

Then I never wrote, and no man ever loved.

Accuse me thus: that I have scanted all

Wherein I should your great deserts repay,

Forgot upon your dearest love to call,

Whereto all bonds do tie me day by day;

That I have frequent been with unknown minds

And given to time your own dear-purchased right

That I have hoisted sail to all the winds

Which should transport me farthest from your sight.

Book both my wilfulness and errors down

And on just proof surmise accumulate;

Bring me within the level of your frown,

But shoot not at me in your waken'd hate;

Since my appeal says I did strive to prove

The constancy and virtue of your love.

Accuse me in this way: say that I have withheld

When I should have been repaying what was greatly due to you,

And I forgot to call upon your dearest love,

Even though I am bound to you every day;

Say that I’ve spent too much time with people you don’t know

And have given away the time you have purchased by right,

And that I have hoisted my sail and rode all the winds

That could transport me the farthest away from your sight.

Write and list my stubborn ways and all the errors I’ve committed,

And guess about all the things I’ve done you have no proof of.

Bring me to the level of your frown

But don’t shoot at me because I’ve awakened your hatred;

I only did it in an effort to test

The constancy and honesty of your love for me.

Like as, to make our appetites more keen,

With eager compounds we our palate urge,

As, to prevent our maladies unseen,

We sicken to shun sickness when we purge,

Even so, being tuff of your ne'er-cloying sweetness,

To bitter sauces did I frame my feeding

And, sick of welfare, found a kind of meetness

To be diseased ere that there was true needing.

Thus policy in love, to anticipate

The ills that were not, grew to faults assured

And brought to medicine a healthful state

Which, rank of goodness, would by ill be cured:

But thence I learn, and find the lesson true,

Drugs poison him that so fell sick of you.

In the same way that we make our appetites sharper,

By eating bitter combinations of food,

And, in order to prevent unknown illnesses,

We force ourselves to vomit and purge,

In the same way, being full of your sweetness,

I turned to feed on bitter sauces.

Tired of feeling well, I found myself ready

To make myself sick before I needed to be sick.

With this policy in place, I anticipated

Problems that didn’t exist and faults that were not there,

And brought medicine to a healthy state of being,

Which was abundant in goodness, and I tried to cure it with bad:

But what I learned from doing this—and I find this lesson to be true—

Is that the drugs poisoned me because I am so lovesick over you.

What potions have I drunk of Siren tears,

Distill'd from limbecks foul as hell within,

Applying fears to hopes and hopes to fears,

Still losing when I saw myself to win!

What wretched errors hath my heart committed,

Whilst it hath thought itself so blessed never!

How have mine eyes out of their spheres been fitted

In the distraction of this madding fever!

O benefit of ill! now I find true

That better is by evil still made better;

And ruin'd love, when it is built anew,

Grows fairer than at first, more strong, far greater.

So I return rebuked to my content

And gain by ill thrice more than I have spent.

I’ve drank potions that seemed sweet, like a Siren’s tears,

Which were distilled and foul as hell inside;

I’ve applied fears to hopes and hopes to fears,

Always losing when I imagined I would win!

My heart has made so many awful mistakes,

While it was thinking it had never been so blessed!

My eyes have rolled out of their sockets

Due to the distraction of this maddening fever!

Oh, the benefits of illness! Now I see it’s true

That good is made better by evil;

Ruined love, when it is made new again,

Grows more beautiful than it originally was, and stronger and  far greater.

And so I return after being shamed by the one who makes me happy,

And find I have gained by my bad actions three times more than I spent.

That you were once unkind befriends me now,

And for that sorrow which I then did feel

Needs must I under my transgression bow,

Unless my nerves were brass or hammer'd steel.

For if you were by my unkindness shaken

As I by yours, you've pass'd a hell of time,

And I, a tyrant, have no leisure taken

To weigh how once I suffered in your crime.

O, that our night of woe might have remember'd

My deepest sense, how hard true sorrow hits,

And soon to you, as you to me, then tender'd

The humble slave which wounded bosoms fits!

But that your trespass now becomes a fee;

Mine ransoms yours, and yours must ransom me.

The fact that you were once unkind to me is helpful to me now,

And because of the sorrow I felt then,

I have to bow down out of  shame for the wrong I’ve done,

Otherwise my nerves would be made of brass or steel.

Because if you were shaken by my unkindness

In the same way as I have been by yours, then you had a hell of a time,

And I, like a tyrant, have not taken the time

To consider how I once suffered the same way due to your crime against me.

Oh, how I wish I had remembered our earlier night of sadness,

So that I would have sensed how hard sorrow can hit,

And I would have apologized sooner, as you had to me,

Since it is the humble slave that best attends to wounded hearts.

So, your earlier wrong against me becomes a fee,

And mine cancels out yours, as yours cancels out mine.

'Tis better to be vile than vile esteem'd,

When not to be receives reproach of being,

And the just pleasure lost which is so deem'd

Not by our feeling but by others' seeing:

For why should others false adulterate eyes

Give salutation to my sportive blood?

Or on my frailties why are frailer spies,

Which in their wills count bad what I think good?

No, I am that I am, and they that level

At my abuses reckon up their own:

I may be straight, though they themselves be bevel;

By their rank thoughts my deeds must not be shown;

Unless this general evil they maintain,

All men are bad, and in their badness reign.

It’s better to be vile than thought to be vile,

Since if you are not you get the blame for being so,

And you don’t even get to experience the pleasure

Of being the thing that others think is so vile:

Why should others who have false and adulterous eyes

Get to address my amorous blood so knowingly?

And why should people weaker than me get to spy on my weaknesses,

And get to say that what I think is good is bad?

No, I am what I am, and they that charge

Me for my wrongs are counting up their own:

It may be that I am straight while they are crooked;

You can’t gauge my actions by their thoughts;

Unless they are willing to defend

That all men are bad and have power in their badness.