The Complete Works of William Shakespeare In Plain and Simple English (Translated) (1140 page)

Or, if they were, no one gave them beauty’s name;

But these days, dark is considered rightfully beautiful,

And beauty is slandered with an illegitimate shame:

Because every hand has taken on nature’s power,

And is beautifying the foul with false painted faces,

Authentic beauty no longer has a name or sacred place to be,

But is abused, if it doesn’t already live in disgrace.

My mistress’ eyebrows are black as ravens,

And her eyes are so dark, they seem like mourners,

As they sadly look on those who, while not born fair, do not lack beauty,

And who give beauty a bad reputation by using false means:

Yet her black eyes are so attractive in their sadness,

That now everyone says beauty should look that way.

How oft, when thou, my music, music play'st,

Upon that blessed wood whose motion sounds

With thy sweet fingers, when thou gently sway'st

The wiry concord that mine ear confounds,

Do I envy those jacks that nimble leap

To kiss the tender inward of thy hand,

Whilst my poor lips, which should that harvest reap,

At the wood's boldness by thee blushing stand!

To be so tickled, they would change their state

And situation with those dancing chips,

O'er whom thy fingers walk with gentle gait,

Making dead wood more blest than living lips.

Since saucy jacks so happy are in this,

Give them thy fingers, me thy lips to kiss.

How often when you, who are my music, play music

Upon the blessed wood whose notes sound

Under your sweet fingers—when you gently sway

The wiry tunefulness that amazes my ear—

I envy those keys of the harpsichord that leap up nimbly

To kiss the tender inside of your hand,

While my poor lips, which should reap that harvest,

Stand blushing at the wood’s boldness toward you!

To be so tickled, my lips would change their position

And situation with those dancing keys,

Over whom your fingers walk with such a gentle gait,

Making the dead wood more blessed than living lips.

Since saucy keys are so happy in doing this,

Give them your fingers, and give me your lips to kiss.

The expense of spirit in a waste of shame

Is lust in action; and till action, lust

Is perjured, murderous, bloody, full of blame,

Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust,

Enjoy'd no sooner but despised straight,

Past reason hunted, and no sooner had

Past reason hated, as a swallow'd bait

On purpose laid to make the taker mad;

Mad in pursuit and in possession so;

Had, having, and in quest to have, extreme;

A bliss in proof, and proved, a very woe;

Before, a joy proposed; behind, a dream.

All this the world well knows; yet none knows well

To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell.

Spending the spirit in a waste of shame by having sex

Is lust in action; and until it acts, lust

Gives false testimony, is murderous, rude, cruel, and not to be trusted,

And is no sooner enjoyed than it is immediately despised;

Hunted past reason, sex is no sooner had

Than past reason it is hated, like a swallowed bait

Laid on purpose to make its taker crazy,

They are crazy in pursuit and in possession, as well;

Had, having, and in quest of sex—they are crazy the entire time;

Sex is ecstasy in the proving and—once proved—a sadness;

Beforehand, it is an imagined joy; but afterward, it is only a dream.

All of this, the world knows very well, yet no one knows well enough

To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell.

My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;

Coral is far more red than her lips' red;

If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;

If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.

I have seen roses damask'd, red and white,

But no such roses see I in her cheeks;

And in some perfumes is there more delight

Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.

I love to hear her speak, yet well I know

That music hath a far more pleasing sound;

I grant I never saw a goddess go;

My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:

And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare

As any she belied with false compare.

My mistress’s eyes are not like the sun at all;

Coral is much more red than the red of her lips;

If snow is white, well, then her breasts are grey-brown;

If hair is like fine wire, then black wires grow on her head.

I’ve seen roses that are pink, red and white,

But I don’t see those colors in her cheeks;

And there is more delight in artificial perfumes

Than in the reek of the breath of my mistress.

I love to hear her speak, even though I know well

That music sounds much better than her voice;

I admit I never saw a goddess move;

My mistress, when she walks, tramples the ground:

And still, I swear to heaven, I think my love is as rare

As any that has been lied about through false comparisons.

Thou art as tyrannous, so as thou art,

As those whose beauties proudly make them cruel;

For well thou know'st to my dear doting heart

Thou art the fairest and most precious jewel.

Yet, in good faith, some say that thee behold

Thy face hath not the power to make love groan:

To say they err I dare not be so bold,

Although I swear it to myself alone.

And, to be sure that is not false I swear,

A thousand groans, but thinking on thy face,

One on another's neck, do witness bear

Thy black is fairest in my judgment's place.

In nothing art thou black save in thy deeds,

And thence this slander, as I think, proceeds.

You are as much like a tyrant as you are

Like those proud women whose beauty makes them cruel;

Because you know very well that in my foolish heart,

You are the fairest and most precious jewel.

Still, in all honesty, some people who look at you say

Your face does not have the power to make a lover groan.

I am not so bold as to say that they are wrong,

Although I swear it to myself to be true.

And, to prove it is not false, I swear

I made a thousand groans just thinking about your face,

A face on another’s neck bears witness

That your dark complexion is the most beautiful as far as I’m concerned.

There is nothing dark about you except your actions,

And I think that is why people spread slander.

Thine eyes I love, and they, as pitying me,

Knowing thy heart torments me with disdain,

Have put on black and loving mourners be,

Looking with pretty ruth upon my pain.

And truly not the morning sun of heaven

Better becomes the grey cheeks of the east,

Nor that full star that ushers in the even

Doth half that glory to the sober west,

As those two mourning eyes become thy face:

O, let it then as well beseem thy heart

To mourn for me, since mourning doth thee grace,

And suit thy pity like in every part.

Then will I swear beauty herself is black

And all they foul that thy complexion lack.

I love your eyes as they seem to pity me,

Knowing that the distain in your heart torments me.

They have put on black like loyal mourners,

And look with pretty sympathy upon my pain.

And, honestly, the morning sun of heaven does not

Flatter the grey cheeks of the east as well,

Nor does the full star that brings in the evening,

Do half the glory to the sober west,

As those two mourning eyes do to enhance your face:

Oh, so then it is fitting to your heart