The Complete Works of William Shakespeare In Plain and Simple English (Translated) (1139 page)

Thy gift, thy tables, are within my brain

Full character'd with lasting memory,

Which shall above that idle rank remain

Beyond all date, even to eternity;

Or at the least, so long as brain and heart

Have faculty by nature to subsist;

Till each to razed oblivion yield his part

Of thee, thy record never can be miss'd.

That poor retention could not so much hold,

Nor need I tallies thy dear love to score;

Therefore to give them from me was I bold,

To trust those tables that receive thee more:

To keep an adjunct to remember thee

Were to import forgetfulness in me.

The gift you gave me—the notebooks—are already full in my mind

Written in characters that stay in my memory,

Which will remain longer than the books themselves,

Beyond all dates and into eternity.

Or, at the very least, as long as my brain and heart

Have their full power and live on;

Until each is erased into forgetfulness and gives up part

Of you, the record cannot be missed.

The humble method of retaining information could not hold much,

And I don’t need to keep notes to keep my account of you, anyway,

So I was bold enough to give them away,

Trusting my own memory to remember more about you:

To use an aid to help remember you,

Would seem to suggest I am forgetful.

No, Time, thou shalt not boast that I do change:

Thy pyramids built up with newer might

To me are nothing novel, nothing strange;

They are but dressings of a former sight.

Our dates are brief, and therefore we admire

What thou dost foist upon us that is old,

And rather make them born to our desire

Than think that we before have heard them told.

Thy registers and thee I both defy,

Not wondering at the present nor the past,

For thy records and what we see doth lie,

Made more or less by thy continual haste.

This I do vow and this shall ever be;

I will be true, despite thy scythe and thee.

No, Time, I will not allow you to boast that I change:

The pillars built up to be stronger and higher

Are nothing new or strange to me;

They are simply new versions of an old sight.

Our lives are brief, and so we admire

When you pass off old things on us

And make us think they are newly made just for us

Instead of admitting we have heard of them before.

I defy both you and your records,

I do not wonder about the present or the past,

Because both your records and what we see lie

As they are raised up and destroyed in constant haste.

I vow that this will always be the case:

I will be faithful, despite you and what you are capable of doing.

If my dear love were but the child of state,

It might for Fortune's bastard be unfather'd'

As subject to Time's love or to Time's hate,

Weeds among weeds, or flowers with flowers gather'd.

No, it was builded far from accident;

It suffers not in smiling pomp, nor falls

Under the blow of thralled discontent,

Whereto the inviting time our fashion calls:

It fears not policy, that heretic,

Which works on leases of short-number'd hours,

But all alone stands hugely politic,

That it nor grows with heat nor drowns with showers.

To this I witness call the fools of time,

Which die for goodness, who have lived for crime.

If my love for you were simply the child of circumstance,

It might be claimed to be illegitimate

Since it would be subject to the favor or destruction of Time,

And could end up either as a weed among weeds, or a flower picked from flowers.

But my love for you was made in a place where accidents don’t happen;

It does not have to be approved by nobility, or worry about falling

Under the blows of the enslaved and discontent,

Although the conventions of our times could invite either.

It does not have to fear shifts in policy brought about by disagreement,

Which only come about for short periods of time.

It stands alone, crafty and discrete,

And neither grows during heat nor drowns from showers.

I will call on the fools of time to be my witness, those

Who died good after living lives of crime.

Were 't aught to me I bore the canopy,

With my extern the outward honouring,

Or laid great bases for eternity,

Which prove more short than waste or ruining?

Have I not seen dwellers on form and favour

Lose all, and more, by paying too much rent,

For compound sweet forgoing simple savour,

Pitiful thrivers, in their gazing spent?

No, let me be obsequious in thy heart,

And take thou my oblation, poor but free,

Which is not mix'd with seconds, knows no art,

But mutual render, only me for thee.

Hence, thou suborn'd informer! a true soul

When most impeach'd stands least in thy control.

Would it be anything to me if I carried the veil in a royal procession,

Honored outwardly in appearance by doing so?

Of if I laid important foundations that are supposed to last for eternity,

But which will only last until they are ravaged and ruined?

Haven’t I seen those who focus on appearance and favor

Lose everything, and more, by paying too much for them?

They forgo simple scents in an attempt to gain combined scents—

Tender wannabes who spend so much time in an expectant stance.

No, let me be dutiful to your heart,

And please take my gift, which is humble but freely given,

And not of inferior quality, and knows of nothing

But mutual surrender—me to you.

So, go away, you paid informer! A faithful soul

Like me is not in your control when accused.

O thou, my lovely boy, who in thy power

Dost hold Time's fickle glass, his sickle, hour;

Who hast by waning grown, and therein show'st

Thy lovers withering as thy sweet self grow'st;

If Nature, sovereign mistress over wrack,

As thou goest onwards, still will pluck thee back,

She keeps thee to this purpose, that her skill

May time disgrace and wretched minutes kill.

Yet fear her, O thou minion of her pleasure!

She may detain, but not still keep, her treasure:

Her audit, though delay'd, answer'd must be,

And her quietus is to render thee.

Oh you, my lovely boy, who holds in your power

Time’s fickle mirror, his sickle and the hour;

Who has diminished in size, and in doing so,

Reveal how much I’ve withered while you continue to grow sweet;

If Nature, the royal mistress over ruin,

Keeps you from aging as you move forward,

She does so to show off her skill,

Which time will disgrace as its wretched minutes kill.

Still, you should fear her, oh you favorite of her pleasures!

She may hold you back, but will not keep you as her treasure:

Her accounting, although delayed, needs to be answered,

And she will discharge of her debts with you.

In the old age  was not counted fair,

Or if it were, it bore not beauty's name;

But now is black beauty's successive heir,

And beauty slander'd with a bastard shame:

For since each hand hath put on nature's power,

Fairing the foul with art's false borrow'd face,

Sweet beauty hath no name, no holy bower,

But is profaned, if not lives in disgrace.

Therefore my mistress' brows are raven black,

Her eyes so suited, and they mourners seem

At such who, not born fair, no beauty lack,

Slandering creation with a false esteem:

Yet so they mourn, becoming of their woe,

That every tongue says beauty should look so.

In the old days, dark complexions were not considered beautiful,