The Complete Works of William Shakespeare In Plain and Simple English (Translated) (1144 page)

When it is so troubled with watching and with tears?

It’s no wonder, then, that I mistake my view;

The sun itself does not see until the skies clear.

Oh, cunning Love! With tears you keep me blind,

Because well-seeing eyes would find your ugly faults.

Canst thou, O cruel! say I love thee not,

When I against myself with thee partake?

Do I not think on thee, when I forgot

Am of myself, all tyrant, for thy sake?

Who hateth thee that I do call my friend?

On whom frown'st thou that I do fawn upon?

Nay, if thou lour'st on me, do I not spend

Revenge upon myself with present moan?

What merit do I in myself respect,

That is so proud thy service to despise,

When all my best doth worship thy defect,

Commanded by the motion of thine eyes?

But, love, hate on, for now I know thy mind;

Those that can see thou lovest, and I am blind.

Can you, oh cruel woman, say that I don’t love you

When I take sides with you against myself?

Don’t I think about you, even when I forgetTo think about myself for your sake, you tyrant?

Who hates you that I would call my friend?

Is there anyone I delight in that you frown upon?

No, if you scowl at me, don’t I expend

Revenge upon myself with moaning?

What quality do I respect in myself,

That would make me so proud to despise being your servant,

When all of the best of me worships your worst,

And you can command me with a simple motion of your eyes?

But, love, go ahead and hate me, because now I know your mind;

You love those who can see, and I am blind.

O, from what power hast thou this powerful might

With insufficiency my heart to sway?

To make me give the lie to my true sight,

And swear that brightness doth not grace the day?

Whence hast thou this becoming of things ill,

That in the very refuse of thy deeds

There is such strength and warrantize of skill

That, in my mind, thy worst all best exceeds?

Who taught thee how to make me love thee more

The more I hear and see just cause of hate?

O, though I love what others do abhor,

With others thou shouldst not abhor my state:

If thy unworthiness raised love in me,

More worthy I to be beloved of thee.

What power gives you the powerful ability you have

To be able to control my heart even though you are so inadequate?

To make me lie about what I really see,

And swear that the day is not bright when it is?

Where did you get this ability to make bad things look good,

So that even in the very worst of your actions,

You guarantee so much strength and skill

That, in my mind, your worst is better than all the best?

Who taught you how to make me love you more

The more I hear and see good reason to hate you?

Oh, even though I love what others despise,

You shouldn’t despise my love for you the way others do:

Since your unworthiness makes me love you,

Then I’m the one who is most deserving of your love.

Love is too young to know what conscience is;

Yet who knows not conscience is born of love?

Then, gentle cheater, urge not my amiss,

Lest guilty of my faults thy sweet self prove:

For, thou betraying me, I do betray

My nobler part to my gross body's treason;

My soul doth tell my body that he may

Triumph in love; flesh stays no father reason;

But, rising at thy name, doth point out thee

As his triumphant prize. Proud of this pride,

He is contented thy poor drudge to be,

To stand in thy affairs, fall by thy side.

No want of conscience hold it that I call

Her 'love' for whose dear love I rise and fall.

Love is too young to know right from wrong,

But doesn’t everyone know that love gives you a conscience?

So, gentle cheater, don’t go on too much about what I’ve done wrong,

In case your sweet self turns out to be guilty of the same faults:

Because you have betrayed me, I, in turn, betray

My higher self to my lowly body’s needs.

My soul tells my body that it may

Find joy in sex; my flesh doesn’t wait to hear any more reasons;

At the sound of your name, flesh rises and points you out

As his glorious prize. Swollen with pride

He is happy to be your poor worker,

And to stand up to tend to your business and then fall down by your side.

It is not necessarily due to lack of conscience that I call

The woman whose love makes me rise and fall ‘Love.’

In loving thee thou know'st I am forsworn,

But thou art twice forsworn, to me love swearing,

In act thy bed-vow broke and new faith torn,

In vowing new hate after new love bearing.

But why of two oaths' breach do I accuse thee,

When I break twenty? I am perjured most;

For all my vows are oaths but to misuse thee

And all my honest faith in thee is lost,

For I have sworn deep oaths of thy deep kindness,

Oaths of thy love, thy truth, thy constancy,

And, to enlighten thee, gave eyes to blindness,

Or made them swear against the thing they see;

For I have sworn thee fair; more perjured I,

To swear against the truth so foul a lie!

By loving you I know I am breaking a promise I made,

But you, in swearing to love me, are breaking two promises:

You are breaking your wedding vows by cheating and your promise

Of love to your new lover by swearing to hate him.

But how can I accuse you of breaking two promises,

When I break twenty? I perjure the most,

Because all of my promises are only told to deceive you.

All of my real trust in you is gone,

Because I have sworn deeply that you are so kind,

And have sworn of your love, your faithfulness, and you constancy,

And, to make you look better, I blinded myself to your faults

And made my eyes swear they did not see what they saw;

Because I have sworn you are beautiful, I am more of a liar,

And have sworn against what is true after telling such an awful lie!

Cupid laid by his brand, and fell asleep:

A maid of Dian's this advantage found,

And his love-kindling fire did quickly steep

In a cold valley-fountain of that ground;

Which borrow'd from this holy fire of Love

A dateless lively heat, still to endure,

And grew a seething bath, which yet men prove

Against strange maladies a sovereign cure.

But at my mistress' eye Love's brand new-fired,

The boy for trial needs would touch my breast;

I, sick withal, the help of bath desired,

And thither hied, a sad distemper'd guest,

But found no cure: the bath for my help lies

Where Cupid got new fire--my mistress' eyes.

Cupid set down his flaming torch and fell asleep:

A maiden of Diana’s took advantage of the situation

And soaked his love-igniting fire

In a cold mountain stream that was nearby.

The stream borrowed from the holy fire of Love

A live-giving heat that is eternal, and so still endures,

And the stream became a bubbling bath, which men still find

Offers an outstanding cure against strange diseases.

But at a glance from my mistress, Love’s flaming torch fired up again,

And, to test it out, Love touched it against my breast;

I was made sick by this, and desired the help of the stream’s bath,

And I hurried into it as a sad and sick guest,

But I found no cure there: the cure for my distress lies

Only in the place where Love got his new fire: my mistress’s eyes.