The Complete Works of William Shakespeare In Plain and Simple English (Translated) (1143 page)

But if thou catch thy hope, turn back to me,

And play the mother's part, kiss me, be kind:

So will I pray that thou mayst have thy 'Will,'

If thou turn back, and my loud crying still.

Listen! In the same way that a careful housewife runs to catch

One of her hens that has broken away,

And sets down her baby to make a quick run

In pursuit of the thing she does not want to get away,

While her neglected child chases after her,

And cries to catch the attention of the busy mother who is focused

To follow after the thing that flies before her face,

With no awareness of her poor baby’s unhappiness;

In the same way, you run after that which flies away from you,

While I, like the baby, chase far behind after you;

But if you catch the one you’re hoping for, then turn back to me,

And play the mother’s role—kiss me and be kind:

And I will pray that you may have your ‘Will,’

If you turn back and silence my noisy crying.

Two loves I have of comfort and despair,

Which like two spirits do suggest me still:

The better angel is a man right fair,

The worser spirit a woman colour'd ill.

To win me soon to hell, my female evil

Tempteth my better angel from my side,

And would corrupt my saint to be a devil,

Wooing his purity with her foul pride.

And whether that my angel be turn'd fiend

Suspect I may, but not directly tell;

But being both from me, both to each friend,

I guess one angel in another's hell:

Yet this shall I ne'er know, but live in doubt,

Till my bad angel fire my good one out.

I love someone who comforts me, and someone who makes me despair,

They are like two angels who make constant suggestions to me:

The better angel is a man who is right and fair,

And the worse angel is a woman who is colored ill.

To win me over toward hell, the evil female

Tempted my better angel from my side,

And will corrupt my saint until he is a devil,

Wooing his purity with her foul confidence.

And whether my angel has turned into a fiend—

I suspect it to be true, but I can’t directly tell;

But since they are both away from me and being friendly with each other,

I guess one angel is in another’s hell:

Still, I will never really know, but live in doubt,

Until my bad angel burns my good one out of hell.

Those lips that Love's own hand did make

Breathed forth the sound that said 'I hate'

To me that languish'd for her sake;

But when she saw my woeful state,

Straight in her heart did mercy come,

Chiding that tongue that ever sweet

Was used in giving gentle doom,

And taught it thus anew to greet:

'I hate' she alter'd with an end,

That follow'd it as gentle day

Doth follow night, who like a fiend

From heaven to hell is flown away;

'I hate' from hate away she threw,

And saved my life, saying 'not you.'

Those lips that Love’s own hand created

Breathed out the sound that said ‘I hate’

To me that wasted away for her sake;

But when she saw my sorry state,

Mercy came into her heart right away,

Scolding that tongue that is always sweet

But was used in delivering a gentle judgment,

And she taught it how to say something new:

She altered the phrase ‘I hate’ with an ending,

That followed the words like a gentle day

Follows night, who like a devil

Is thrown away from heaven into hell;

‘I hate’ she threw away from hate,

And saved my life by adding ‘not you.’

Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth,

[ ] these rebel powers that thee array;

Why dost thou pine within and suffer dearth,

Painting thy outward walls so costly gay?

Why so large cost, having so short a lease,

Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend?

Shall worms, inheritors of this excess,

Eat up thy charge? is this thy body's end?

Then soul, live thou upon thy servant's loss,

And let that pine to aggravate thy store;

Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross;

Within be fed, without be rich no more:

So shalt thou feed on Death, that feeds on men,

And Death once dead, there's no more dying then.

Poor soul, that lives in the center of my sinful body,

[ ] these rebel powers that dress you up.

Why do you feel longing inside and suffer shortage,

While painting your outward appearance with such expensive things?

Why do you put out such a large amount of money when you have such a short lease,

And spend it upon your fading mansion?

Will worms, the inheritors of this excess,

Eat up your outlay? Is this how your body will end?

Then, soul, you should live upon your servant’s loss,

And let the body long while you build up your supplies;

Buy time in heaven by selling hours of rubbish,

And feed your inside, not allowing the outside to be so rich:

In this way, you will feed on Death, which feeds on men,

And once Death is dead, there will be no more dying then.

My love is as a fever, longing still

For that which longer nurseth the disease,

Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill,

The uncertain sickly appetite to please.

My reason, the physician to my love,

Angry that his prescriptions are not kept,

Hath left me, and I desperate now approve

Desire is death, which physic did except.

Past cure I am, now reason is past care,

And frantic-mad with evermore unrest;

My thoughts and my discourse as madmen's are,

At random from the truth vainly express'd;

For I have sworn thee fair and thought thee bright,

Who art as black as hell, as dark as night.

My love is like a fever, longing still

For that thing that makes the disease last longer,

And feeding upon what will make the illness stay,

With an uncertain and sickly appetite to satisfy.

My reason, which is the doctor to my love,

Is angry that his prescriptions are not being kept,

And has left me, and, desperate now, I confirm

That desire is death, which medical science expected.

I am past cure and my reason is past care,

And I am frantic-mad with constant unrest;

My thoughts and conversation are like a madman’s,

Uselessly expressing random truths;

I would have sworn you were beautiful and I thought you were bright,

But you are as black as hell, and as dark as night.

O me, what eyes hath Love put in my head,

Which have no correspondence with true sight!

Or, if they have, where is my judgment fled,

That censures falsely what they see aright?

If that be fair whereon my false eyes dote,

What means the world to say it is not so?

If it be not, then love doth well denote

Love's eye is not so true as all men's 'No.'

How can it? O, how can Love's eye be true,

That is so vex'd with watching and with tears?

No marvel then, though I mistake my view;

The sun itself sees not till heaven clears.

O cunning Love! with tears thou keep'st me blind,

Lest eyes well-seeing thy foul faults should find.

Oh my, what eyes has Love put into my head,

Which have no correspondence with true sight!

Or, if they have, where has my judgment gone,

That wrongly judges what they see right?

If what my eyes dote on looks beautiful to me,

What does it mean when the world says that’s not the case?

If it’s not, then love would do well to distinguish

That Love’s eye is not as accurate as all men’s ‘No.’

How can it be? Oh, how can Love’s eye be true,