The Complete Works of William Shakespeare In Plain and Simple English (Translated) (1119 page)

Devouring Time, blunt thou the lion's paws,

And make the earth devour her own sweet brood;

Pluck the keen teeth from the fierce tiger's jaws,

And burn the long-lived phoenix in her blood;

Make glad and sorry seasons as thou fleets,

And do whate'er thou wilt, swift-footed Time,

To the wide world and all her fading sweets;

But I forbid thee one most heinous crime:

O, carve not with thy hours my love's fair brow,

Nor draw no lines there with thine antique pen;

Him in thy course untainted do allow

For beauty's pattern to succeeding men.

Yet, do thy worst, old Time: despite thy wrong,

My love shall in my verse ever live young.

Devouring Time, you can blunt the lion’s paws,

And make the earth readily consume her children.

You can create joyful and sorrowful times as you pass,

And do whatever you will, swift-footed Time,

To the whole world and all its fading delights,

But I forbid you to commit the one most terrible crime:

Do not carve your hours into my love’s beautiful forehead,

Or draw any lines there with your antique pen.

Let him to go unmarked by you and allow

Him to serve as a pattern of beauty for men to come.

Still, do your worst, old Time, and despite your doing so

My love will be forever young in my poetry.

A woman's face with Nature's own hand painted

Hast thou, the master-mistress of my passion;

A woman's gentle heart, but not acquainted

With shifting change, as is false women's fashion;

An eye more bright than theirs, less false in rolling,

Gilding the object whereupon it gazeth;

A man in hue, all 'hues' in his controlling,

Much steals men's eyes and women's souls amazeth.

And for a woman wert thou first created;

Till Nature, as she wrought thee, fell a-doting,

And by addition me of thee defeated,

By adding one thing to my purpose nothing.

But since she prick'd thee out for women's pleasure,

Mine be thy love and thy love's use their treasure.

Nature has painted a woman’s face with her own hand

On you, the master and mistress of my passion.

And she gave you a woman’s gentle heart, but it does not

Change quickly, as a disloyal woman’s tends to do.

Your eyes are brighter than a woman’s, with no unfaithful expression,

And everything you look at becomes more beautiful.

Your appearance as a man who has mastered his looks,

Stealthily captures the glances of men and amazes the souls of women.

You were first created as a woman

Until Nature, seeing what she created, fell for you

And she added something to defeat my having you

By giving you one thing I have no use for.

So since she gave you a prick in order to please women,

I will have your love and they can love your treasure.

So is it not with me as with that Muse

Stirr'd by a painted beauty to his verse,

Who heaven itself for ornament doth use

And every fair with his fair doth rehearse

Making a couplement of proud compare,

With sun and moon, with earth and sea's rich gems,

With April's first-born flowers, and all things rare

That heaven's air in this huge rondure hems.

O' let me, true in love, but truly write,

And then believe me, my love is as fair

As any mother's child, though not so bright

As those gold candles fix'd in heaven's air:

Let them say more than like of hearsay well;

I will not praise that purpose not to sell.

It is not like me to be like the poet who,

Inspired to write poetry by a woman wearing make-up,

Says she has the quality of heaven

And then compares her with every beautiful thing by

Joining her with them in splendid similes.

She is like the sun, the moon, and all the treasures of earth and sea,

Like April’s first flowers and all things rare

That are contained within heaven and on earth.

Let me, since I’m truly in love, write faithfully,

And then you can believe—my love is as beautiful

As any child is to its mother, although not as bright

As the golden stars fixed in the sky.

Let those who like that sort of thing say more.

It is not my intention to sell, so I won’t overpraise.

My glass shall not persuade me I am old,

So long as youth and thou are of one date;

But when in thee time's furrows I behold,

Then look I death my days should expiate.

For all that beauty that doth cover thee

Is but the seemly raiment of my heart,

Which in thy breast doth live, as thine in me:

How can I then be elder than thou art?

O, therefore, love, be of thyself so wary

As I, not for myself, but for thee will;

Bearing thy heart, which I will keep so chary

As tender nurse her babe from faring ill.

Presume not on thy heart when mine is slain;

Thou gavest me thine, not to give back again.

My mirror will not convince me I am old,

As long as you look youthful.

But when I see time’s furrows unfold in you,

Then I know my death is approaching.

All of the beauty that covers you

Is the clothing I wear close to my heart:

It lives inside me, as you live inside me.

How could I ever be older than you?

Oh, therefore, my love, watch over yourself

As carefully as I do, which I do

Because I have your heart. I keep it as dearly

As a nurse keeps her baby from harm.

Don’t expect to get your heart back when mine is destroyed.

You gave it to me, and I can’t give it back.

As an unperfect actor on the stage

Who with his fear is put besides his part,

Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage,

Whose strength's abundance weakens his own heart.

So I, for fear of trust, forget to say

The perfect ceremony of love's rite,

And in mine own love's strength seem to decay,

O'ercharged with burden of mine own love's might.

O, let my books be then the eloquence

And dumb presagers of my speaking breast,

Who plead for love and look for recompense

More than that tongue that more hath more express'd.

O, learn to read what silent love hath writ:

To hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit.

Like an unskilled actor on the stage,

Who can’t remember his part due to fear,

Or like some wild thing filled with too much rage,

Whose abundance of strength weakens his heart,

So I, out of fear of trusting myself, forget to express

The perfect words to symbolize love’s ceremony.

And so it seems the strength of my love makes me decline,

And I am overburdened with the weight of it.

So let the words in my books be eloquent—

Let them be silent interpreters of what is in my heart,

And they can plead for love and look for reward,

More than what my tongue can express.

Learn to read what silent love has written,

And to hear with your eyes love’s exquisitely formed thoughts.