The Complete Works of William Shakespeare In Plain and Simple English (Translated) (1120 page)

Mine eye hath play'd the painter and hath stell'd

Thy beauty's form in table of my heart;

My body is the frame wherein 'tis held,

And perspective it is the painter's art.

For through the painter must you see his skill,

To find where your true image pictured lies;

Which in my bosom's shop is hanging still,

That hath his windows glazed with thine eyes.

Now see what good turns eyes for eyes have done:

Mine eyes have drawn thy shape, and thine for me

Are windows to my breast, where-through the sun

Delights to peep, to gaze therein on thee;

Yet eyes this cunning want to grace their art;

They draw but what they see, know not the heart.

My eyes have been like a painter and have portrayed

The shape of your beauty in the notebook of my heart.

My body is the frame that holds your image,

And I keep it in perspective like an artist.

The painter’s skill will help you to see,

Where your true image resides,

Which hangs in my heart’s workshop,

As your eyes stare into me.

Look what good our eyes have done for each other:

My eyes have drawn your shape, and your eyes

Have looked into my heart, where the sun

Also likes to look, and gaze upon you.

Still, my cunning eyes lack grace in their art:

They draw what they see, but they do not know your heart.

Let those who are in favour with their stars

Of public honour and proud titles boast,

Whilst I, whom fortune of such triumph bars,

Unlook'd for joy in that I honour most.

Great princes' favourites their fair leaves spread

But as the marigold at the sun's eye,

And in themselves their pride lies buried,

For at a frown they in their glory die.

The painful warrior famoused for fight,

After a thousand victories once foil'd,

Is from the book of honour razed quite,

And all the rest forgot for which he toil'd:

Then happy I, that love and am beloved

Where I may not remove nor be removed.

Let those who are lucky

Have public honor and titles they can brag about,

While I, who am not fortunate enough to have the glory,

Have found joy in an honor I did not expect.

The favorites of great princes spread their leaves,

And flower like a marigold in the hot sun—

Their pride lies buried within them,

But their glory will die at a simple frown.

The warrior who has endured pain and is famous for his fights,

Defeated only once after a thousand victories,

Is completely cut from the book of honor,

And all of the battles he won are forgotten.

I am happy, then, to love and be loved,

And to be in a place I will not leave or be removed from.

Lord of my love, to whom in vassalage

Thy merit hath my duty strongly knit,

To thee I send this written embassage,

To witness duty, not to show my wit:

Duty so great, which wit so poor as mine

May make seem bare, in wanting words to show it,

But that I hope some good conceit of thine

In thy soul's thought, all naked, will bestow it;

Till whatsoever star that guides my moving

Points on me graciously with fair aspect

And puts apparel on my tatter'd loving,

To show me worthy of thy sweet respect:

Then may I dare to boast how I do love thee;

Till then not show my head where thou mayst prove me.

My noble love, I am in service to you—

Your worth has tied me to you in duty.

I’m sending you this message

To show my duty to you, not my intelligence,

A duty that is great, although my lack of intelligence

May make it seem simple without the right words to show it.

But I hope you will be able to get a good idea,

Somewhere in your soul, of what I mean.

When the star that guides my movement,

Shines on me with divine grace and favorable influence,

And dresses up my ragged way of loving,

And shows me worthy of your sweet respect:

Then will I be able to boast how much I love you.

Until then, I will not show my face where you might test me.

Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed,

The dear repose for limbs with travel tired;

But then begins a journey in my head,

To work my mind, when body's work's expired:

For then my thoughts, from far where I abide,

Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee,

And keep my drooping eyelids open wide,

Looking on darkness which the blind do see

Save that my soul's imaginary sight

Presents thy shadow to my sightless view,

Which, like a jewel hung in ghastly night,

Makes black night beauteous and her old face new.

Lo! thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind,

For thee and for myself no quiet find.

Weary from work, I hurry to my bed—

The precious place of rest for legs tired with travel.

But then a journey begins in my head,

That stirs my mind when my body’s work is done:

And then my thoughts go far from where I am,

And take a direct and enthusiastic journey to you.

I keep my drooping eyelids wide open,

Staring into the darkness like a blind person.

Except the heart of my imagination

Shows your image to my sightless view,

And it hangs like a jewel in the terrible night,

Making black night beautiful and her old face fresh.

So it is, by day my legs and by night my mind

Seek you and find no peace.

How can I then return in happy plight,

That am debarr'd the benefit of rest?

When day's oppression is not eased by night,

But day by night, and night by day, oppress'd?

And each, though enemies to either's reign,

Do in consent shake hands to torture me;

The one by toil, the other to complain

How far I toil, still farther off from thee.

I tell the day, to please them thou art bright

And dost him grace when clouds do blot the heaven:

So flatter I the swart-complexion'd night,

When sparkling stars twire not thou gild'st the even.

But day doth daily draw my sorrows longer

And night doth nightly make grief's strength seem stronger.

How can I return happy and in good shape

When I am deprived from getting any rest?

When the burdens of the day are not eased at night,

But, instead, day burdens night and night burdens day?

And each of them, although enemies to each other,

Decide to agree to torture me together—

The one by tiring me out and the other spent complaining

About how tired I am, and still so far away from you.

I tell the day to please it that you are bright

And make the day good when clouds cover the sun:

And I flatter the dark complexioned night by saying

That when the sparkling stars do not twinkle you still brighten the evening.

But day does daily make my sadness longer

And night does nightly make my grief seem stronger.

When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,