THE SONNETS

From the most beautiful creatures, we want growth,
So that the beauty's rose may never fade,
But as the older ones naturally die,
Their gentle heirs can carry on their memory:
But you, focused only on your own bright eyes,
Nourish your light’s flame with self-sufficient fuel,
Creating a shortage where there should be plenty,
You are your own enemy, too harsh on your sweet self:
You, who are now the world’s new decoration,
And the only sign of the vibrant spring,
Within your own bud hide your own happiness,
And stingy one, you waste it by hoarding:
    Have pity on the world, or else this greedy act,
    Will devour what the world deserves, by the grave and you.

When forty winters weigh down your brow,
And carve deep lines into the beauty of your face,
The proud clothes of your youth that everyone admires now,
Will be a ragged weed of little value:
Then when asked, where does all your beauty go,
Where is the treasure of your vibrant days;
To say, in your own deep sunken eyes,
Would be a consuming shame and pointless praise.
How much more praise your beauty would deserve,
If you could say, ‘This fair child of mine
Will sum up my worth and make my old excuses,’
Proving your beauty through his lineage!
    This would be like being renewed when you’re old,
    And feeling your blood warm when you sense it’s cold.

Look in your mirror and tell me what you see
Now is the time for that face to create another;
If you don’t refresh its beauty now,
You’re deceiving the world and disappointing some mother.
For where is the woman so beautiful whose untouched womb
Rejects the cultivation from your efforts?
Or who would be so foolish to become the grave
Of his self-love and deny future generations?
You are your mother’s mirror, and she sees in you
The beautiful April of her youth;
So as you look through the windows of your age,
Despite the wrinkles, you’ll see this golden time.
But if you live and aren’t remembered,
Die alone, and your image will die with you.

Wasteful beauty, why do you spend
Your beauty's legacy on yourself?
Nature’s gift gives nothing but loans,
And being generous, she lends to those who are free:
So, stunning miser, why do you misuse
The abundant gift given to you to share?
Fruitless moneylender, why do you spend
Such a large sum of sums, yet cannot thrive?
By only dealing with yourself,
You deceive your own sweet self:
So when nature calls for you to go,
What good explanation can you leave behind?
Your unused beauty must be buried with you,
Which, if used, keeps the executor alive.

Those hours that carefully shaped
The lovely gaze that everyone admires,
Will become the tyrants to the very same
And the unfair that fairly stands out;
For never-resting time brings summer on
To hideous winter, and confuses him there;
Sap blocked by frost, and vibrant leaves all gone,
Beauty covered in snow and emptiness everywhere:
If summer’s essence weren’t left behind,
A liquid prisoner trapped in walls of glass,
Beauty's effect with beauty would be lost,
Neither it, nor any memory of what it was:
    But distilled flowers, though they encounter winter,
    Lose only their appearance; their essence still lives sweet.

Then don't let winter's rough hand ruin
Your summer before you’re even finished:
Make something sweet; save a spot
With beauty's treasure before it fades away.
It's not wrong to use a loan
That brings joy to those willing to repay;
It's for you to create another version of yourself,
Or even ten times happier, if it's ten for one;
Ten times yourself would be happier than you are,
If ten of your ten could transform you:
So what could death do if you were to leave,
Leaving you alive in future generations?
    Don't be selfish, because you’re way too beautiful
    To be death’s prize and leave worms as your heirs.

Look! In the east when the gracious light Rises, lifting its blazing head, every eye Shows respect to this new sight, Serving with its gaze his sacred presence; And after climbing the steep heavenly hill, Like strong youth in the prime of life, Yet mortal looks still admire his beauty, Following his golden journey: But when from the highest point, with tired carriage, Like frail old age, he stumbles from the day, The eyes that once showed duty now turn away From his low path, looking in another direction: So you, shining in your prime: Unseen, you fade unless you have a son.

Music to hear, why do you listen to it sadly?
Sweet things don’t battle with sweet things; joy enjoys joy:
Why do you love what you don’t receive with pleasure,
Or receive with joy what causes you pain?
If the perfect harmony of well-tuned sounds,
Married by union, offends your ear,
They’re just sweetly chiding you, who confuses
In being alone the parts you should embrace.
Notice how one string, a sweet partner to another,
Each strikes against the other in a mutual way;
Like a father and child and a happy mother,
Who, together as one, sing one pleasing note:
    Whose silent song, though many, seems like one,
    Sings this to you: ‘You, alone, will prove to be nothing.’

Is it because you’re afraid to make a widow cry,
That you’re wasting away in a life alone?
Ah! if you die without any children,
The world will mourn you like a wife without a mate;
The world will be your widow and continue to cry
That you’ve left no trace of yourself behind,
When every personal widow can easily remember
Her husband’s likeness through their children’s eyes:
Look! what a spendthrift does in the world,
He just changes his spot, yet the world still enjoys it;
But beauty’s decay has an ending in this world,
And if unused, the user ultimately destroys it.
    No love for others can exist in a heart
    That commits such shameful acts against itself.

What a shame! Admit that you have feelings for someone,
When you are so careless about your own well-being.
Sure, if you want, you’re loved by many,
But it’s clear you love no one:
You’re so consumed by murderous hate,
That you’re plotting against yourself,
Trying to destroy that beautiful home
Which should be your top priority to fix.
Oh! Change your mind, so I can change mine:
Can hate really be more appealing than kind love?
Be, as your presence is, gracious and kind,
Or at least be kind to yourself:
    Create another you for the sake of my love,
    So that beauty can survive in you or me.

As quickly as you fade, you also grow,
In one of yours, from what you leave behind;
And that fresh blood that you give when you’re young,
You can claim as yours when you transition from youth,
In this exists wisdom, beauty, and growth;
Without this foolishness, there’s age and cold decay:
If everyone thought this way, time would come to a stop
And sixty years would make the world disappear.
Let those whom nature hasn’t made worthwhile,
Harsh, plain, and rude, perish without leaving anything behind:
Look, those she has blessed the most, she gave you more;
This generous gift you should cherish in kind:
    She shaped you as her seal, and meant by this,
    You should create more, not let that copy fade away.

When I count the clock that tells the time,
And see the brave day sunk into ugly night;
When I look at the violet past its peak,
And dark curls, all covered in silver white;
When I see tall trees bare of leaves,
Which once shaded the herd from the heat,
And summer’s green all bundled up in sheaves,
Carried off on a bier with a white and bristly beard,
Then I question your beauty,
That you must fade away among the wastes of time,
Since sweetness and beauty abandon themselves
And fade as quickly as they see others grow;
    And nothing can stand against Time’s scythe
    Except to breed, to challenge him when he takes you away.

Oh! If only you could be yourself again; but, love, you are
No longer yourself than you are here and now:
You should prepare for this inevitable end,
And give your sweet appearance to someone else:
That way, the beauty you possess on borrowed time
Would not have an end; then you would be
Yourself again, after your own demise,
When your sweet offspring carries your sweet features.
Who allows such a beautiful place to fall into ruin,
When care could maintain it with honor,
Against the harsh winds of winter’s day
And the cold, unyielding grip of death?
    Oh! No one but the wasteful. My dear love, you know,
    You had a father: let your son say so.

I don’t base my judgment on the stars;
And yet I think I understand astronomy,
But not to predict good or bad luck,
Or sickness, or scarcity, or seasons’ quality;
Nor can I predict fortune in brief moments,
Indicating to each person their thunder, rain, and wind,
Or say with princes whether things will go well
By frequently predicting what I find in heaven:
But from your eyes, I gain my knowledge,
And in them, I read constant stars that show such skill
As 'Truth and beauty should thrive together,
If you would turn your resources inward';
    Or else I predict this about you:
    'Your end is the doom and date of truth and beauty.'

When I think about everything that grows
Perfect but for just a moment,
That this vast stage shows nothing but displays
On which the stars secretly comment;
When I see that people, like plants, grow,
Encouraged and held back by the same sky,
Boasting in their youthful vigor, then decline,
And wear out their impressive state from memory;
Then the thought of this unstable state
Displays you, full of youth, right before me,
Where wasted Time battles with Decay
To turn your youthful day into tarnished night,
    And all in a struggle with Time for your love,
    As he takes away from you, I renew you.

But why don't you fight this bloody tyrant, Time, in a stronger way? And strengthen yourself in your decline With means more blessed than my empty verse? Now you stand at the peak of happy moments, And many untouched maiden gardens, With pure wishes that would grow you living flowers, Much more like you than your painted image: This way, the lines of life that life restores, Which Time’s brush or my humble pen, Cannot make you live in the eyes of others, In either inner value or outward beauty. To give yourself away only keeps you alive, And you must live, drawn by your own sweet talent.

Who will believe my poem in the future,
If it’s filled with your greatest qualities?
Even though heaven knows it's just like a tomb
That hides your life and doesn't reveal half of who you are.
If I could capture the beauty of your eyes,
And in fresh lines list all your charms,
Future generations would say ‘This poet is lying;
Such divine features have never graced earthly faces.’
So my papers, yellowed with age,
Would be dismissed, like old men who speak more than they mean,
And your true value would be seen as just a poet’s fury
And the stretched rhythm of an old song:
    But if any child of yours is alive at that time,
    You would live on twice—through them and in my verse.

Should I compare you to a summer day?
You are more lovely and more moderate:
Rough winds shake the lovely buds of May,
And summer's lease is way too short:
Sometimes the sun is too hot,
And often his golden face is clouded,
And every beautiful thing sometimes loses its beauty,
By chance or nature’s changing course untended:
But your eternal summer will not fade,
Nor lose possession of that beauty you own,
Nor will death boast that you wander in his shadow,
When in eternal lines you grow with time,
    As long as people can breathe or eyes can see,
    This will live on, giving life to you.

Devouring Time, you dull the lion’s claws,
And make the earth consume her own sweet treasures;
Remove the sharp teeth from the fierce tiger’s jaws,
And burn the long-lived phoenix in her own blood;
Make happy and sad seasons as you pass,
And do whatever you want, swift-footed Time,
To the vast world and all her fading joys;
But I forbid you one most terrible crime:
O! don’t carve my love’s beautiful brow with your hours,
Nor draw any lines there with your ancient pen;
Let him remain untouched in your passage
As beauty’s model for generations to come.
    Yet do your worst, old Time; despite your damage,
    My love will live forever young in my verse.

A woman’s face, painted by nature itself,
You are the master mistress of my desire;
A woman’s kind heart, but not familiar
With the changing ways of deceitful women:
An eye brighter than theirs, less deceitful in its glances,
Illuminating whatever it looks at;
A man whose color holds all hues in its control,
Capturing men’s attention and amazing women’s hearts.
And for a woman were you first made;
Until Nature, as she shaped you, became infatuated,
And by adding to you, defeated my purpose,
By incorporating one thing that changed everything.
But since she crafted you for women’s delight,
Let your love be mine, and let their treasures enjoy your love.

So it’s not the same for me as it is for that Muse,
Inspires by a painted beauty to write his poems,
Who uses heaven itself for decoration
And praises every lovely thing with his own beauty,
Creating a pairing of proud comparison.
With the sun and moon, with the earth and sea’s treasures,
With April’s first flowers, and all things rare,
That heaven’s air surrounds in this huge circle.
O! let me, true in love, just write honestly,
And then believe me, my love is as beautiful
As any mother’s child, though not as bright
As those golden candles fixed in heaven’s air:
    Let them say more who enjoy hearsay;
    I won’t praise that which isn't for sale.

My glass won't convince me that I'm old,
As long as youth and you share the same time;
But when I see time's marks on you,
Then I look to death to make up for my days.
All that beauty that covers you,
Is just the nice clothing of my heart,
Which lives in your chest, just like yours in mine:
How can I be older than you are?
Oh! So, love, be careful with yourself
Like I will be, not for me, but for you;
Holding your heart, which I'll protect
Like a tender nurse keeps her baby safe from harm.
    Don't take for granted your heart when mine is hurt,
    You gave me yours not to return again.

As a not-so-great actor on stage,
Who stands next to his role, filled with fear,
Or like some fierce creature overflowing with anger,
Whose excess strength makes his own heart weak;
So I, afraid to trust, forget to express
The perfect ritual of love’s ceremony,
And in my own love’s power seem to fade,
Overwhelmed by the weight of my own love’s force.
Oh! let my eyes be the eloquence instead,
And the silent signals of my speaking heart,
That plead for love, and hope for a return,
More than that tongue which expresses too much.
    Oh! learn to read what silent love has written:
    To listen with your eyes belongs to love’s true wisdom.

My eyes have become like a painter and have captured,
Your beauty's form in the canvas of my heart;
My body is the frame where it's kept,
And perspective is the best skill of the artist.
For through the painter, you should see his talent,
To discover where your true image is depicted,
Which in my heart's workshop is still hanging,
With windows glazed by your eyes.
Now see what good things eyes have done for each other:
My eyes have drawn your shape, and yours for me
Are windows to my heart, where the sun
Loves to peek and gaze upon you;
    Yet eyes, with their skill, lack the grace to reveal their art,
    They draw only what they see, not what’s in the heart.

Let those who have the favor of their stars
Brag about public honor and proud titles,
While I, whom luck keeps from such triumphs,
Find unexpected joy in what I value most.
Great princes' favorites spread their pretty leaves
Just like marigolds turning toward the sun,
And their pride is buried within themselves,
For with just a frown, their glory fades away.
The hard-working warrior, famous for his fights,
After a thousand victories, can be defeated once,
And is completely removed from the book of honor,
While all the other struggles he faced are forgotten:
    Then I am happy, loving and loved,
    Where I cannot leave nor be forced away.

My love, to whom I'm devoted,
Your worth has me tied by duty,
I'm sending you this message,
To show my loyalty, not to brag:
Such a huge responsibility that my poor words
Might not fully express, as I'm lacking the right phrases,
But I hope some spark of creativity from you
Will recognize this truth within your heart:
Until the star that guides my journey,
Looks upon me kindly and favorably,
And dresses up my worn-out love,
To prove I'm worthy of your sweet regard:
    Then I might dare to say how much I love you;
    Until then, I won't show my face where you might test me.

Tired from hard work, I hurry to my bed,
The sweet rest for my travel-weary limbs;
But then a journey starts in my head
To exercise my mind after my body’s done:
For then my thoughts, from far away where I am,
Set out on a passionate trip to you,
And keep my drooping eyelids wide open,
Staring into the darkness that the blind can see:
Except that my soul’s imagined sight
Shows your shadow to my sightless view,
Which, like a jewel hung in eerie night,
Makes black night beautiful, and her old face new.
    Look! So, by day my limbs, by night my mind,
    For you, and for myself, find no peace.

How can I return in a good mood,
When I'm denied the chance to rest?
When the struggles of the day aren't eased by night,
But day and night both weigh me down,
And each, though they fight for their own time,
Agrees to torture me together,
One with work, the other with complaints
About how far I work, yet still I'm away from you.
I tell the day that to please him you are bright,
And you look good when clouds cover the sky:
So I flatter the dark-skinned night,
When the stars aren't shining, you light up the evening.
    But day keeps dragging my sorrows out longer,
    And night makes my grief feel even stronger.

When I'm down on my luck and feeling judged by everyone,
I quietly weep over my outcast status,
And shout my pointless cries at the indifferent sky,
I reflect on myself and curse my fate,
Wishing I were like someone who has more hope,
Looks like him, has friends like him,
Desiring this guy's talent and that guy's opportunities,
Content with what I enjoy the least;
Yet in these thoughts, I almost hate myself,
But then I think of you, and suddenly my state,
Is like a lark rising at dawn,
Singing praises at heaven's gate;
    For your sweet love, remembered, brings such wealth
    That I would rather not trade my situation for that of kings.

When I take time to reflect in quiet thought,
I remember things that have happened before,
I sigh over many things I wanted,
And with old troubles, I lament how I've wasted time:
Then I can shed a tear, unused to crying,
For precious friends lost to death’s timeless night,
And cry again over love’s long-ago pain,
And mourn the cost of many vanished moments:
Then I can grieve over past grievances,
And heavily recount from woe to woe
The sad story of long-ago sorrows,
Which I now pay as if they weren’t paid before.
    But if, in the meantime, I think of you, dear friend,
    All losses are restored and sorrows end.

Your heart is cherished by everyone,
Which I thought was lost because I was missing it;
And in you, Love reigns, along with all its parts,
And all those friends I believed were gone.
How many holy and devoted tears
Has true, loving devotion stolen from my eye,
As the price of the dead, who now appear
As things removed that were hidden in you?
You are the grave where buried love survives,
Decorated with the mementos of my lost lovers,
Who gave you all the pieces of me,
A debt of many that now belongs to you alone:
    I loved their images, and I see them in you,
    And you, all of them, hold all of me.

If you’re still around after my satisfied day,
When that rude Death covers my bones with dust
And by chance you look back on
These simple lines from your late lover,
Compare them to the improvements of the times,
And even if they fall short to every writer,
Keep them for my love, not for their lyrics,
Surpassed by the success of happier men.
O! then please grant me this loving thought:
‘If my friend’s Muse had grown with this modern age,
A greater creation than this love would have emerged,
To stand among those of better stature:
    But since he died and poets have improved,
    Theirs for their style I’ll read, his for his love.’

I've seen so many glorious mornings
Flatter the mountain tops with a royal gaze,
Kissing the green meadows with a golden face,
Turning pale streams into something heavenly;
Then suddenly letting the ugliest clouds ride
Across his celestial face,
And hiding his look from the lonely world,
Fading away to the west with this shame:
Just like my sun did shine one early morning,
With all its triumphant splendor on my brow;
But alas! he was only mine for an hour,
Now the thick clouds have masked him from me.
Yet my love holds no disdain for him;
The suns of the world can fade when heaven’s sun fades.

Why did you promise such a beautiful day,
And make me go out without my coat,
Only to let nasty clouds catch up with me,
Hiding your brightness in their dirty smoke?
It's not enough that you break through the clouds,
To dry the rain on my storm-beaten face,
Because no one can say a remedy like that,
Heals the wound but doesn’t fix the shame:
And your shame can’t cure my grief;
Even if you regret it, I still have the loss:
The offender's regret offers weak comfort
To someone who carries the heavy burden of the offense.
Ah! But those tears are pearls that your love sheds,
And they are precious and redeem all wrongdoings.

Don't be upset about what you've done:
Roses have thorns, and silver fountains can be muddy:
Clouds and eclipses can darken both the moon and sun,
And an unpleasant canker lives in the sweetest bud.
Everyone makes mistakes, and I do too in this,
Justifying your wrongs by comparing them to mine,
While I am corrupting, trying to cover your faults,
Excusing your sins more than they deserve;
Because I bring sense to your sensual flaws;
Your opponent is your advocate,
And against myself, I start a valid argument:
Such a civil war exists in my love and hate,
    That I inevitably become an accessory,
    To that sweet thief who sourly steals from me.

Let me admit that we have to be apart,
Even though our united love feels whole:
So those flaws that stick with me will have to be,
Without your help, something I carry alone.
In our two loves, there’s only one connection,
Although our lives are filled with separate struggles,
Which, while it doesn’t change love’s true impact,
It still takes away sweet moments from love’s joy.
I can’t openly acknowledge you anymore,
For fear my sorrow might bring you shame,
And you can’t honor me in public,
Unless you take that honor away from your name:
    But please don’t do that, I love you so much,
    That as you are mine, your good name is also mine.

As an old father takes joy
In watching his lively child do youthful things,
So I, crippled by Fortune’s cruel blow,
Find all my comfort in your worth and truth;
Because whether it’s beauty, status, wealth, or intelligence,
Or any combination of these, or even more,
That make you who you are, and make you shine,
I’ve rooted my love in all that you are:
So I’m not crippled, poor, or scorned,
As this shadow gives such substance to my life
That with a part of all your greatness, I thrive,
And through you, I find my joy.
Whatever is best, that’s what I wish for you:
This is my wish; then I am ten times blessed!

How can my Muse need a topic to create,
When you are here, breathing life into my lines
With your own sweet ideas, too great
For any ordinary paper to recite?
Oh! Give yourself the credit if anything in me
Is worth reading and stands before your gaze;
For who’s so mute that can’t write to you,
When you yourself provide the spark of inspiration?
Be you the tenth Muse, ten times more valuable
Than those old nine that poets call upon;
And whoever seeks you, let them produce
Eternal verses that outlast the ages.
    If my humble Muse pleases these discerning times,
    The effort is mine, but the praise belongs to you.

O! how can I sing of your worth and manners,
When you are the best part of me?
What good is my own praise to myself?
And what is it but mine own when I praise you?
For this reason, let’s live apart,
And our dear love lose the name of a single one,
So that through this separation I can give
What you truly deserve alone.
O absence! what a torment you would be,
If it weren't for the fact that your bitter time allows sweet moments,
To spend the time with thoughts of love,
Which time and thoughts so sweetly trick us,
    And that you teach us how to make one into two,
    By praising him here who is left behind.

Take all my love, my dear, just take it all;
What do you have now that you didn’t have before?
No love, my love, that you could ever call true;
Everything I had was yours before you took this more.
So, if you receive my love in exchange for your love,
I can’t blame you, since you’re using my love;
But you should be blamed if you deceive yourself
By deliberately choosing what you know you won’t accept.
I forgive your theft, gentle thief,
Even though you steal away all my emptiness:
And still, love knows it’s a bigger pain
To endure love’s wrong than hate’s obvious harm.
    Seductive grace, in whom all wrongs are clear,
    Hurt me with your spite, but we shouldn’t be enemies.

Those pretty wrongs that freedom causes,
When I'm sometimes away from your heart,
Your beauty and your age suit you so well,
For temptation always follows where you are.
You're gentle, so you'll be won over,
You're beautiful, so you'll be pursued;
And when a woman seeks someone, what guy
Will sourly walk away until he's succeeded?
Oh, but still you might hold back a bit,
And scold your beauty and your wandering youth,
Who lead you into their wildness right there
Where you have to break a twofold truth:
    Hers by your beauty tempting her to you,
    Yours by your beauty being false to me.

That you have her isn't my only sorrow,
But I can honestly say I loved her a lot;
It's that she has you that's my main heartache,
A loss in love that hits me harder than thought.
I'll let you off the hook, loving offenders:
You love her because you know I love her;
And for my sake, she treats me badly,
Letting my friend win her over on my behalf.
If I lose you, my loss is her gain,
And in losing her, my friend has found that loss;
Both find each other, and I lose them both,
And both put this burden on me for my sake:
    But here's the bright side; my friend and I are one;
    Sweet flattery! Then she loves only me.

When I close my eyes, that’s when I see best,
Because during the day, I view things without regard;
But when I sleep, in dreams I look at you,
And in dark brightness, your light shines in the dark.
Then you, whose shadow makes everything bright,
How would your shape bring happiness to light
In the clear day with your much clearer glow,
When your shade shines so brightly to blind eyes!
How would, I ask, my eyes feel blessed
Just by looking at you in the bright day,
When at night, your beautiful imperfect shade
Stays on my sightless eyes through heavy sleep!
    All days are nights until I see you,
    And nights are bright days when dreams show you to me.

If the dull substance of my body were thought,
Injurious distance wouldn’t stop me;
For then, despite space, I would be brought,
From far-off places, where you are.
It wouldn’t matter if my feet stood
On the furthest earth away from you;
For quick thought can jump across both sea and land,
As soon as it thinks of the place it wants to be.
But, alas! it torments me that I am not thought,
To leap great distances when you are gone,
But that so much of earth and water made,
I must wait for time to pass with my sorrow;
    Receiving nothing from elements so slow
    But heavy tears, marks of our pain.

The other two, light air and purging fire,
Are always with you, no matter where I am;
The first is my thought, the other my desire,
These present-absent elements move quickly.
Because when these swift forces are gone
On a gentle mission of love to you,
My life, made of four, reduced to two alone
Sinks into death, weighed down by sorrow;
Until life’s balance is restored
By those fast messengers returning from you,
Who just now came back, assured,
Of your good health, sharing it with me:
    This news brings me joy; but then I’m no longer happy,
    I send them back again and quickly grow sad.

My eye and heart are in a serious conflict,
Trying to share the victory of seeing you;
My eye wants to block my heart from your image,
While my heart wants my eye to let me have that right.
My heart argues that you are in it,
A space untouched by clear, discerning eyes;
But the other side disputes that claim,
And says your beauty resides within him.
To settle this issue, a jury has gathered
Of thoughts, all loyal to the heart;
And by their decision, it’s decided
The clear eye’s share and the dear heart’s stake:
    As such; my eye’s share is your exterior beauty,
    And my heart’s claim, your inner love.

Between my eye and heart there’s a connection,
And each one brings good things to the other:
When my eye craves a glance,
Or my heart, swamped with sighs, suffocates in love,
I feast my eye on my love’s picture,
And my heart is invited to this painted banquet;
At other times, my eye is a guest of my heart,
And shares in its thoughts of love:
So, whether through your picture or my love,
You, though absent, are still here with me;
For you can't move farther than my thoughts,
And I am always with them, and they with you;
Or, if they sleep, your picture in my view
Awakens my heart, to the delight of both heart and eye.

How careful was I when I chose my path,
To keep even the smallest things safe and sound,
So that they could remain untouched
By deceitful hands, in trusted places!
But you, to whom my treasures are just trifles,
The greatest comfort in my deepest sorrow,
You, my most cherished one, and my only concern,
Are left vulnerable to every common thief.
I haven’t locked you away in any chest,
Except in a place where you’re not, although I feel you’re there,
Within the tender confines of my heart,
From where you can come and go freely;
And even from there, I fear you will be taken,
For honesty is a thief for a prize so precious.

If that day ever comes,
When I see you frown at my flaws,
When your love has reached its limit,
Called to account by careful thought;
If that day comes when you ignore me,
And barely acknowledge me with your gaze,
When love, changed from what it once was,
Finds reasons grounded in serious truth;
For that day, I prepare myself here,
Fully aware of my own worth,
And I raise my hand against myself,
To defend the rightful reasons on your side:
    To leave poor me, you have the power of law,
    Because I can’t find a reason to love.

How heavy my journey feels,
When what I’m looking for, the end of my weary travels,
Teaches that comfort and rest say,
‘This is how far the miles are counted from your friend!’
The animal carrying me, tired from my sorrow,
Moves slowly, bearing that weight within me,
As if by some instinct the unfortunate creature knows
His rider doesn’t like to hurry, being made of you:
The bloody spur can’t push him on,
Even when anger sometimes pricks his skin,
He answers heavily with a groan,
Which stings me more than spurring him on;
    For that same groan reminds me,
    My pain lies ahead, and my joy is behind.

My love can justify the slow pace
Of my dull messenger when I leave you:
From where you are, why should I rush away?
Until I come back, there's no need to hurry.
Oh! what excuse will my poor horse find,
When urgency can only feel so slow?
Then I should urge him on, even if I was riding the wind,
In such swift speed, I won’t feel a thing,
No horse can match my desire’s pace;
So, desire, born from the truest love,
Won’t allow a sluggish body in this fiery race,
But love, for love, will justify my slow pace:
    ‘Since leaving you, he moved at a crawl,
    Now, towards you I’ll run, and let him go.’

So I am like the rich person, whose special key,
Can unlock the sweet treasure they have hidden,
Which they won’t check on all the time,
As it dulls the joy of rare pleasure.
That’s why feasts are so grand and so uncommon,
Since they don’t come around often in the long year,
Like valuable stones that are placed sparingly,
Or like jewels in a necklace.
Time keeps you like my chest,
Or like the wardrobe that hides the robe,
To make a special moment feel truly blessed,
By revealing his hidden pride.
    Blessed are you whose worth allows for range,
    When possessed, to celebrate; when absent, to hope.

What are you made of,
That millions of strange shadows follow you?
Since everyone has their own shadow,
And you alone can give every shadow its form.
Describe Adonis, and the imitation
Is poorly done when compared to you;
On Helen’s cheek all beauty is displayed,
And you are painted in Grecian styles anew:
Talk about spring and the abundance of the year,
One reflects your beauty,
The other reveals your generosity;
And you exist in every lovely shape we know.
    In all outward beauty, you have a part,
    But you are like no one, and no one is like you, for a faithful heart.

Oh! how much more beautiful beauty seems
With that sweet ornament that truth provides.
The rose looks nice, but we think it’s even nicer
For that sweet scent that lives within it.
The canker blooms have just as deep a color
As the fragrant tint of the roses.
They hang on such thorns and play so freely
When summer’s warmth reveals their hidden buds:
But because their beauty is all they have,
They live unadmired and fade away unnoticed;
They die to themselves. Sweet roses don’t do that;
From their sweet deaths, the sweetest scents arise:
    And so for you, beautiful and lovely youth,
    When that fades, my verse captures your truth.

Not marble, nor the gilded monuments
Of princes, will outlive this powerful poem;
But you will shine brighter in these lines
Than dirty stone, smeared by careless time.
When destructive war topples statues,
And conflicts erase the work of stone,
Neither Mars’ sword nor war’s fierce flames will destroy
The lasting record of your memory.
Against death, and all-forgetting hostility,
You will stand strong; your praise will always find a place
Even in the eyes of all future generations
Who wear this world out until the end of time.
    So, until the judgement that brings you forth,
    You live in this, and remain in lovers’ eyes.

Sweet love, refresh your strength; don’t let it be said
That your intensity should dull more than desire,
Which can be temporarily satisfied today,
But will be sharpened tomorrow in its full power:
So, love, be you, even if today you fill
Your hungry eyes, to the point of blinking with satisfaction,
Tomorrow come again, and don’t extinguish
The spirit of love with constant dullness.
Let this sad break be like the ocean
That separates the shore, where two newly engaged
Come daily to the banks, so that when they see
The return of love, the view may be even more joyful;
    Or call it winter, which, filled with worry,
    Makes summer’s return feel three times as welcome and rare.

Being your servant, what else can I do but wait,
For the moments and times you desire?
I have no time to spend at all;
Nor any tasks to perform until you ask.
I can't even complain about the endless hours,
While I, your loyal servant, watch the clock for you,
Nor do I let the bitterness of being apart get to me,
When you’ve said goodbye to your servant just once;
Nor do I dare to question in my jealous mind
Where you might be or suppose what you’re up to,
But, like a sad servant, I stay and think of nothing
Except how happy you make those around you.
    Love is such a true fool that in your hands,
    Even if you do anything, it sees no wrong.

That God forbid, the one who made me your servant,
I should control your good times with my thoughts,
Or beg for hours from you,
Being your vassal, tied to your leisure!
Oh! let me endure, just being at your call,
The trapped absence of your freedom;
And patience, ready to endure each setback,
Without blaming you for any harm.
Be wherever you choose, your power is so great
That you can decide how to spend your time
As you wish; it’s up to you to forgive
Yourself for any wrongdoing.
I have to wait, even if waiting feels like hell,
And not blame your pleasure, whether it's good or bad.

If there's nothing new, just stuff that’s
Already been seen, how are we fooled,
Working hard for new ideas but instead
Carrying the weight of something already created?
Oh! If only history could show me,
Even from five hundred suns ago,
Your image in some old book,
Since the mind was first written down!
So I could see what the ancient world would say
About this incredible wonder of your being;
Whether we've improved, or whether they were better,
Or if the cycle just repeats itself.
Oh! I’m sure in past times,
Lesser topics received just as much praise.

Just like the waves rush toward the pebbled shore,
Our minutes hurry to their end;
Each one replacing what came before,
In relentless toil, they all move ahead.
Birth, once in the bright light,
Crawls to adulthood, where it’s crowned,
Twisted eclipses fight against its glory,
And Time, that gave, now confuses his gift.
Time pierces the flourish of youth,
And digs the lines in beauty’s brow,
Feeds on the rarities of nature’s truth,
And nothing lasts except for his scythe to cut:
    And yet, against time’s cruelty, my verse will endure.
    Praising your worth, despite his harsh hand.

Is it your wish that your image keeps my heavy eyelids open to the tired night? Do you want my sleep to be disturbed while shadows that look like you mock my sight? Is it your spirit that you send far from home to pry into my actions, to find my shames and wasted hours, the extent and nature of your jealousy? Oh, no! Your love, though deep, isn’t that strong: it’s my love that keeps my eyes wide open; my true love that disrupts my rest, making me the watchman always for your sake: For you, I keep watch, while you wake elsewhere, far away from me, surrounded by others who are too close.

The sin of self-love has taken over my vision
And my soul, and every part of me;
And for this sin, there’s no solution,
It's so deeply rooted in my heart.
I think no face is as lovely as mine,
No form so true, no truth of such value;
And for myself, I define my own worth,
As I surpass everyone else in value.
But when I look in the mirror and see
Myself battered and aged by time,
I read my self-love completely opposite;
To be so self-absorbed would be a sin.
It’s you, myself, that I praise for me,
Coloring my age with the beauty of your days.

Against my love will be what I am now,
With Time’s damaging hand crushed and worn;
When hours have drained his vitality and filled his brow
With lines and wrinkles; when his youthful morning
Has traveled on to age’s steep night;
And all those beauties of which he’s now king
Are fading, or have vanished from sight,
Stealing away the treasure of his spring;
For such a time do I now prepare
Against the cruel blade of confusing age,
That he shall never cut from memory
My sweet love’s beauty, though my lover’s life:
    His beauty shall remain in these black lines,
    And they shall live, and he will still be green in them.

When I’ve witnessed Time's harsh hand destroy
The rich, proud grandeur of long-buried ages;
When I see mighty towers once tall brought down,
And bronze forever a victim to human anger;
When I’ve seen the hungry ocean claim
Land from the shore’s kingdom,
And the solid ground wrestle with the sea,
Gaining wealth alongside its losses;
When I’ve observed such shifts in power,
Or power itself confusingly falling apart;
Ruin has made me reflect:
That Time will eventually take my love away.
    This thought feels like a death that cannot help but
    Bring tears for what it dreads to lose.

Since brass, stone, earth, and the endless sea,
But sad mortality overpowers their strength,
How can beauty argue with this rage,
When its actions are as weak as a flower?
Oh! how can summer's sweet breath withstand,
Against the harsh onslaught of relentless days,
When even unyielding rocks aren't so tough,
Nor are gates of steel strong enough to resist Time's decay?
Oh, what a troubling thought! Where, alas,
Will Time's finest gem hide away in Time's chest?
What strong hand can hold back his swift pace?
Or who can stop him from taking beauty away?
    Oh! none, unless this miracle holds power,
    That in black ink my love may still shine bright.

Tired of all this, I long for a peaceful death:
To see the righteous become a beggar,
And those in need dressed in false happiness,
And the purest faith sadly betrayed,
And honored names carelessly misused,
And true virtue shamelessly mocked,
And real perfection unjustly shamed,
And strength weakened by a limp reign,
And creativity silenced by power,
And foolishness, like a doctor, controlling expertise,
And simple truth mistaken for ignorance,
And good being held captive by evil:
    Tired of all this, I want to escape,
    Except that if I die, I leave my love behind.

Ah! Why should he live with this infection,
And spread his presence among the wicked,
That sin should benefit from him,
And entangle itself in his company?
Why should fake beauty try to mimic his face,
And mimic the dead look of his living color?
Why should poor beauty indirectly seek
Roses in the shadows when his rose is real?
Why should he live now that Nature is bankrupt,
Deprived of blood to give life to her veins?
Because she has no wealth left but his,
And proud of many, survives on his success.
    Oh! She cherishes him, to show what wealth she had
    In days long gone, before these recent hardships.

His cheek shows the passage of time,
When beauty lived and died like flowers do now,
Before these counterfeit signs of beauty appeared,
Or dared to rest on a living face;
Before the golden hair of the dead,
The privilege of graves, was cut away,
To live a second life on a second head;
Before beauty’s dead fleece made another bright:
In him, those sacred old times are visible,
Without any adornment, pure and true,
Creating no summer from another’s greenery,
Taking nothing from the old to enhance his own beauty;
    And Nature keeps him as a map,
    To show false Art what beauty used to be.

The parts of you that the world can see
Lack nothing that hearts can fix;
All voices, the expression of souls, give you what you deserve,
Speaking only the truth, even as enemies praise you.
Your outward appearance is crowned with outward praise;
But those same voices that give you what’s yours
In different tones confuse that praise
By looking deeper than what the eye can show.
They see the beauty of your mind,
And they measure it by your actions;
Then, despite their kind looks, their thoughts are unkind,
Mixing the beauty of your flower with the foul smell of weeds:
    But the reason your fragrance doesn't match your appearance,
    Is that you grow in common ground.

That you are blamed won’t be your fault,
For rumors have always targeted the beautiful;
The adornment of beauty is always questioned,
Like a crow flying in the sweetest air of heaven.
So as long as you are good, slander only confirms
Your worth is greater as time seeks you out;
For corrupt vice loves the sweetest buds,
And you present a pure and flawless prime.
You've navigated the pitfalls of youth
Either unscathed or victorious in battle;
Yet this praise can’t be just your praise,
To silence envy, which only grows,
    If no suspicion of wrongdoing hides your appearance,
    Then you alone should own kingdoms of hearts.

Don't mourn for me when I'm gone
More than you would hear the gloomy, grumpy bell
Warning the world that I've escaped
From this wretched world to be with the grimiest worms:
No, if you read this line, forget
The hand that wrote it, because I love you so much,
That in your sweet thoughts, I’d rather be forgotten,
If thinking of me brings you sorrow.
Oh, if I say, you look at this verse,
When I'm perhaps mixed with the earth,
Don't even say my poor name;
But let your love die with my life;
    So that the wise world doesn't pry into your grief,
    And mock you with memories of me after I'm gone.

Oh! Please don’t let the world ask you to explain
What was good in me that made you love me
After my death, dear love, just forget me completely,
Because you won’t find anything worthwhile in me;
Unless you want to create some noble lie,
To give me more credit than I truly deserve,
And give me more praise after I’m gone
Than the stingy truth would ever willingly give:
Oh! Don’t let your true love seem false in this
By saying nice things about me that aren’t true,
Let my name be buried with my body,
And let it not live on to bring shame to either of us.
    For I am ashamed of what I’ve produced,
    And you should be too, for loving things of no value.

That time of year you can see in me
When yellow leaves, or none, or just a few, hang
On those branches that shake against the cold,
Bare ruined choirs, where sweet birds used to sing.
In me, you see the twilight of such a day
As the sunset fades in the west;
Soon, black night will take it away,
Death’s second self, that puts everything to rest.
In me, you see the glow of such a fire,
That lies on the ashes of its youth,
Like a deathbed, where it must die,
Consumed by what it was fed with.
    This you perceive, which makes your love stronger,
    To love well that which you must leave soon.

But be content: when that cruel fate
Carries me away without any bail,
My life holds some meaning in this line,
Which will still stay with you as a memory.
When you look over this, you're looking over
The part that was dedicated to you:
The earth can only take back what belongs to it;
My spirit is yours, the better part of me:
So then you've only lost the remnants of life,
The prey of worms, my body being dead;
The coward's victory of a wretch’s knife,
Too trivial of you to be remembered.
    The worth of that is what it holds,
    And that is this, and this will stay with you.

So are you to my thoughts like food to life,
Or like sweet seasonal showers are to the ground;
And for the peace of you, I endure such strife
As between a miser and his wealth is found.
Now I'm proud like someone enjoying life, and then
Doubting that the stealing age will take my treasure;
Sometimes thinking it's best to be with you alone,
Then wishing more that the world could see my pleasure:
Sometimes I'm completely filled by feasting on your sight,
And other times I'm utterly starved for a glance;
Having or chasing no delight,
Except for what is given or must be taken from you.
    Thus do I suffer and indulge day by day,
    Either gorging on everything or losing it all away.

Why does my poetry lack new pride,
So distant from change or quick variation?
Why don’t I look around with the times
For new methods and strange combinations?
Why do I keep writing the same old way,
And let creativity sit idle instead,
That every word almost gives away my name,
Revealing their origins and where they came from?
Oh! You should know, sweet love, I always write about you,
And you and love are my constant themes;
So all my best is just reworking old words,
Using again what has already been used:
    For just as the sun is both new and old each day,
    So my love keeps telling what has already been told.

Your mirror will show you how your beauty fades,
Your clock will reveal how your precious minutes slip away;
These blank pages will hold the thoughts of your mind,
And from this book, you may gain knowledge.
The wrinkles your mirror will honestly display
Will remind you of your mortality;
By the shadow of your clock, you can understand
Time's stealthy theft on the way to forever.
Look! What your memory can't hold,
Record on these empty pages, and you'll discover
Those ideas nurtured within you, released from your mind,
To forge a new connection with your thoughts.
    These tasks, whenever you choose to pursue,
    Will benefit you and greatly enhance your book.

So often I've called on you as my Muse,
And found such great help in my writing
That even other writers have used my style
And spread their poetry under your influence.
Your eyes have taught the silent to sing
And lifted heavy ignorance up high,
They’ve added feathers to the learned's wings
And given grace a double majesty.
Yet be most proud of what I create,
Whose influence comes from you and is born of you:
In other people's work, you just improve the style,
And the arts are graced by your sweet charm;
    But you are all my art, and you elevate
    My rough ignorance to the heights of learning.

While I alone sought your help,
My verses alone had all your gentle grace;
But now my kind words have faded,
And my weak Muse finds inspiration elsewhere.
I admit, sweet love, your beautiful topic
Deserves the effort of a more worthy pen;
Yet what your poet creates for you
He takes from you, then pays you back again.
He gives you virtue, and he stole that word
From your behavior; beauty he offers,
And found it in your face: he can give
No praise to you beyond what you embody.
    So don’t thank him for what he says,
    Since what he owes you, you yourself provide.

Oh, how I weaken when I write about you,
Knowing a better spirit is using your name,
And in praising you, he exerts all his strength,
Leaving me speechless when I talk about your fame!
But since your worth is as vast as the ocean,
It carries both the humble and the proud,
My bold little boat, far inferior to his,
Unapologetically sails on your wide waters.
Even your shallowest support will keep me afloat,
While he rides on your silent depths;
Or, if I sink, I'm just a worthless boat,
He, with his tall stature and impressive pride:
    Then if he succeeds and I am left behind,
    The worst part is this: my love led to my downfall.

Or I will write your epitaph,
Or you'll live on even when I'm buried;
From now on, time can't erase your memory,
Even though I'll be forgotten in every part.
Your name will have eternal life,
Even though I, once gone, must die in the eyes of the world:
The earth can only give me a regular grave,
While you will rest in people's memories.
Your monument will be my gentle verse,
Which eyes not yet born will read;
And future voices will speak of your existence,
When everyone else in this world is gone;
You will still live on, for my writing has that power,
Wherever life is most pronounced, even in people's voices.

I know you weren’t married to my Muse,
So you can freely overlook
The dedicated words that writers use
About their beautiful subjects, honoring every book.
You’re as knowledgeable as you are beautiful,
Finding your worth beyond my praise;
So you’re forced to search again
For some fresher mark of better times.
And do that, my love; yet when they’ve devised,
What exaggerated touches rhetoric can offer,
You, truly beautiful, are truly understood
In straightforward words, by your honest friend;
    And their crude painting might be better used
    Where cheeks need color; in you it’s misused.

I never saw that you needed painting,
So I didn’t add any art to your beauty;
I found, or thought I found, that you surpassed
That empty offering of a poet’s debt:
And so I’ve rested in your presence,
That you yourself, being here, could easily show
How far a modern pen falls short,
When it tries to speak of worth, what worth is in you.
You blamed my silence as my fault,
Which will only be my glory by being quiet;
Because I don't diminish beauty by being mute,
When others would try to give life, but only bring a grave.
    There’s more life in one of your beautiful eyes
    Than both your poets can come up with in praise.

Who is it that says the most, who can say more,
Than this great praise: that you are simply you,
In whose limits is contained the treasure
That should set the standard for where your equal grew.
Lean hardship lives within that pen,
That doesn’t give its subject even a hint of glory;
But the one who writes about you, if he can show
That you are you, adds dignity to his story,
Let him just copy what’s written in you,
Not making worse what nature made so clear,
And such a reflection will bring fame to his skill,
Making his style admired everywhere.
    You add a curse to your beautiful blessings,
    Being so eager for praise, which makes your praises less.

My silent Muse keeps me quiet,
While your praises are beautifully collected,
Preserved in style with a golden pen,
And filled with rich phrases from all the Muses.
I have good ideas while others write great words,
And like a clueless clerk, I still say ‘Amen’
To every song that a talented spirit offers,
In the polished style of a well-crafted pen.
Hearing you praised, I say ‘it’s true, it’s real,’
And to the bulk of praise, I add a little more;
But that’s in my thoughts, where my love for you,
Though words lag behind, takes priority.
    So others, for the spoken word, show respect,
    While I am honored for my unspoken thoughts that resonate.

Was it the proud full sail of his great verse,
Heading for the treasure of you, who are too precious,
That made my ripe thoughts in my brain reluctant,
Turning their tomb into the womb where they grew?
Was it his spirit, taught to write by other spirits,
Above a human level, that left me stunned?
No, neither he nor his buddies at night
Helping him out, made my verse so amazed.
Neither he nor that friendly ghost
Who tricks him with insights every night,
As victors of my silence cannot claim;
I wasn’t sick with any fear from that:
    But when your face filled up his line,
    Then I lacked the content; that weakened mine.

Goodbye! You're too precious for me to hold,
And you probably know your own worth,
The value of your worth gives you freedom;
My ties to you are all resolved.
How can I keep you except by your permission?
And for that wealth, what have I done to deserve it?
The reason for this beautiful gift in me is lacking,
And so my claim is fading away.
You gave yourself, not knowing your own value,
Or perhaps misjudging me, the one you gave it to;
So your great gift, based on this misunderstanding,
Returns to you, upon better judgment.
    Thus I've had you, like a flattering dream,
    In sleep a king, but waking reveals the truth.

When you decide to dismiss me,
And put my worth in the spotlight of scorn,
I’ll stand against myself on your side,
And prove you’re virtuous, even if you’re lying.
Knowing my own weaknesses best,
I can tell a story about your hidden faults,
Where I’m the one at fault;
That in losing me, you’ll gain a lot of honor:
And I’ll benefit too from this;
By focusing all my loving thoughts on you,
The harm I do to myself,
Ends up giving you an advantage, doubling my own loss.
    Such is my love; I belong to you so much,
    That for your sake, I’ll take on all the wrongs.

Say you abandoned me for some mistake,
And I’ll talk about that fault:
Mention my limp, and I’ll immediately stop,
Not even trying to defend myself.
You can’t insult me nearly as badly,
By forcing me to change what I desire,
As I’ll insult myself; knowing what you want,
I’ll cut off our friendship and act distant;
I won’t join you on your walks; and in my speech
Your sweet name will no longer be mentioned,
For fear I might disrespect it,
And accidentally bring up our old friendship.
    For you, I’ll argue against myself,
    Because I can never love the one you hate.

Then hate me whenever you want; if ever, now;
Now, while the world is trying to undermine me,
Join in with the spite of fate, make me bow,
And don’t show up later for an after-loss:
Ah! do not, when my heart has escaped this sorrow,
Come in the wake of a conquered woe;
Don’t give a stormy night a rainy morning,
To drag out a planned defeat.
If you’re going to leave me, don’t leave me for last,
When other little griefs have done their damage,
But come at the start: that way I’ll experience
Right away the very worst of fate’s power;
And other kinds of sorrow, which now seem sad,
Compared to losing you, won’t seem so bad.

Some take pride in their birth, some in their skills,
Some in their wealth, some in their physical strength,
Some in their trendy clothes, though they’re ridiculous;
Some in their hawks and hounds, some in their horses;
And everyone has their own sources of pleasure,
Where they find joy above everything else:
But these specifics aren't what I focus on,
I value one overall more than all of these.
Your love means more to me than noble birth,
Richer than money, more impressive than expensive clothes,
More enjoyable than hawks and horses;
And with you, I take pride over everyone else:
    I’m only miserable in this one way, that you could take
    All this away, and leave me the most miserable.

But do your worst to take yourself away,
For as long as I live, I’m yours;
And life lasts no longer than your love stays,
Because it depends on that love of yours.
So I don’t need to fear the worst of wrongs,
When even the least of them could end my life.
I see a better fate belongs to me
Than the one that depends on your whims:
You can’t bother me with a fickle mind,
Since my life relies on your betrayal.
Oh! what a happy title I find,
Happy to have your love, happy to die!
But what’s so beautifully blessed that fears no stain?
You could be untrue, and yet I wouldn’t know it.

So I'll keep living, assuming you’re honest,
Like a husband who’s been fooled; love’s appearance
May still look like love to me, even if it’s changed;
Your looks are with me, but your heart is somewhere else:
For there’s no hatred in your eyes,
So I can’t see your change in that.
In many people’s expressions, the story of a false heart
Is recorded in moods, frowns, and unusual wrinkles.
But heaven decided in your creation
That sweet love should always be in your face;
No matter what your thoughts or feelings might be,
Your looks should only convey sweetness.
    How much like Eve’s apple your beauty is,
    If your sweet virtue doesn’t match your appearance!

Those who have the power to hurt but choose not to,
Who don't act on what they seem to show,
Who influence others while remaining unchanged,
Unemotional, cold, and slow to give in to temptation;
They truly receive heaven’s blessings,
And wisely manage nature’s wealth without waste;
They are the masters and owners of their appearances,
While others are just caretakers of their abilities.
The summer flower is sweet in the summer,
Though it only exists for itself, living and dying;
But if that flower encounters a harmful infection,
The most unworthy weed overpowers its worth:
    For the sweetest things can turn bitter by their actions;
    Lilies that rot smell far worse than weeds.

How sweet and lovely you make shame
Which, like a disease in a beautiful rose,
Spots the beauty of your blossoming name!
Oh! in what sweet ways do you wrap your sins.
That tongue that shares the stories of your days,
Making inappropriate comments on your fun,
Can’t criticize without a hint of praise;
Saying your name, blesses a bad reputation.
Oh! what a place have those vices found
That chose you as their home,
Where beauty’s veil covers every flaw
And everything becomes beautiful to the eye!
    Be careful, dear heart, with this great privilege;
    The sharpest knife, when misused, loses its edge.

Some say your fault is being young, some say it's being flirtatious; Some say your charm is your youth and playful nature; Both your charm and faults are loved by more and fewer people: You turn faults into charms that come to you. Just as the most basic jewel on a queen's finger Will be highly valued, So are the errors seen in you Transformed into truths and thought of as true things. How many lambs could the fierce wolf deceive, If he could change his looks to appear like a lamb! How many admirers could you lead away, If you used the power of your whole being! But please don’t; I love you in such a way, That with you being mine, my good reputation is yours.

How much like winter my absence has been
From you, the joy of the passing year!
What coldness have I felt, what dark days seen!
What old December’s emptiness everywhere!
And yet this time apart was summer’s time;
The abundant autumn, full of rich rewards,
Carrying the carefree weight of spring,
Like widowed wombs after their husbands’ death:
Yet this plentiful outcome seemed to me
Just a hope for orphans and unacknowledged fruit;
For summer and its joys depend on you,
And when you’re gone, the very birds are silent:
    Or, if they sing, it’s with such a dull cheer,
    That leaves look pale, fearing winter is near.

I’ve missed you this spring,
When proud April, dressed in all his glory,
Has filled everything with a youthful spirit,
That even heavy Saturn laughed and leaped with him.
But neither the songs of birds, nor the sweet scent
Of various flowers in their colors and fragrances,
Could inspire me to share any summer tales,
Or pick them proudly from where they grew:
Nor did I marvel at the lily’s white,
Nor admire the deep red of the rose;
They were just sweet, mere symbols of joy,
Inspired by you, the model for all of those.
    Yet it still felt like winter, with you gone,
    As I played with these things, shadowed by you.

The forward violet, I scolded:
Sweet thief, where did you steal your lovely scent,
If not from my love’s breath? The purple pride
That sits on your soft cheek for color
Is too boldly borrowed from my love’s veins.
I condemned the lily for your hand,
And marjoram buds had taken your hair;
The roses stood nervously on thorns,
One blushing with shame, the other pale with despair;
A third, neither red nor white, had stolen from both,
And added your breath to his theft;
But for his crime, in the pride of all his growth,
A vengeful canker consumed him to death.
    I noted more flowers, yet I could not see,
    Only sweet, or color that it had stolen from you.

Where are you, Muse, that you’ve forgotten so long,
To talk about what gives you all your power?
Are you wasting your energy on some worthless song,
Hiding your strength by shining light on trivial topics?
Come back, forgetful Muse, and quickly make up,
In gentle verses for the time so carelessly lost;
Sing to the audience that appreciates your melodies
And gives your pen both skill and purpose.
Rise up, lazy Muse, and look upon my love’s sweet face,
If Time has marked it with any wrinkles;
If so, let it be a satire on aging,
And show that time’s damage should be scorned everywhere.
    Give my love fame faster than Time takes away life,
    So you can stop his scythe and crooked knife.

O lazy Muse, how will you make up for
Ignoring the truth in beauty's essence?
Both truth and beauty depend on my love;
You do too, and that gives you honor.
Answer me, Muse: will you not perhaps say,
‘Truth needs no color, with its color fixed;
Beauty needs no brush to reveal its truth;
But the best is best when never mixed’?
Since he needs no praise, will you stay silent?
Don’t excuse your silence like that; it’s in you
To help him live way beyond a fancy tomb
And to be praised by generations still to come.
    So do your job, Muse; I’ll show you how
    To make him appear as timeless as he does now.

My love is stronger, even if it seems weaker;
I love just as much, even if it's less obvious;
That love is commercialized, whose true value,
Is declared by the owner’s words everywhere.
Our love was fresh and only in the spring,
When I used to celebrate it with my songs;
Like Philomel sings at the start of summer,
Then stops her music as the days grow richer:
Not that summer is any less lovely now
Than when her sad songs filled the night with silence,
But that loud music overwhelms every branch,
And familiar pleasures lose their precious charm.
    So like her, sometimes I keep quiet:
    Because I don't want to bore you with my song.

Alas! what a struggle my Muse faces,
That with such a wide canvas to display her pride,
The theme, all laid bare, is more valuable
Than when it has my extra praise added to it!
Oh! don’t blame me if I can’t write anymore!
Look in your mirror, and you’ll see a face
That completely outshines my dull creativity,
Fading my lines and bringing me shame.
Isn’t it sinful, then, to try to improve,
And ruin the subject that was already good?
Because my verses aim for no other goal
Than to talk about your beauty and your gifts;
    And even more, much more, than I can express,
    Your own mirror reveals when you look in it.

To me, dear friend, you can never grow old,
For you look just as you did when I first saw you,
Your beauty remains just the same. Three cold winters,
Have shaken down the pride of three summers,
Three beautiful springs have turned into yellow autumn,
Through the changing seasons I have witnessed,
Three April fragrances burn in three hot Junes,
Since the first time I saw you fresh, which still feels alive.
Ah! Yet beauty, like a clock hand,
Moves away from its mark, without being noticed;
So your lovely color, which I still think remains,
Has movement, and my eyes might be tricked:
    Because of this, listen to this untaught age:
    Before you were born, beauty's summer was already gone.

Let my love not be called idolatry,
Nor my beloved be seen as an idol,
Since all my songs and praises are about
One person, one thing, still the same, always so.
My love is kind today, kind tomorrow,
Always constant in amazing excellence;
So my verse focuses on constancy,
Expressing one thing, leaving out the differences.
‘Beautiful, kind, and true’ is all I argue,
‘Beautiful, kind, and true,’ expressed in different words;
And in this change, my creativity is spent,
Three themes in one, which offers remarkable scope.
    Beautiful, kind, and true have often existed alone,
    But these three have never been found in one.

When I look back at the history of wasted time,
I see descriptions of the fairest people,
And beauty making old poems beautiful,
In praise of lovely ladies and charming knights,
Then, in the portrayal of sweet beauty’s best,
Of hands, feet, lips, eyes, and brows,
I see their old-fashioned writing could have expressed
Even a beauty like yours today.
So all their praises are just predictions
Of our time, all pointing to you;
And since they only looked with prophetic eyes,
They didn’t have the skill to sing your worth:
    For we, who now see these present days,
    Have eyes to admire, but lack words to praise.

Not my own fears, nor the prophetic spirit
Of the wide world dreaming about what’s to come,
Can control the hold of my true love,
Supposed to be lost to a confined fate.
The mortal moon has endured her eclipse,
And the sad fortune tellers mock their own predictions;
Uncertainties now crown themselves as certain,
And peace declares olives of endless ages.
Now with the drops of this most pleasant time,
My love looks fresh, and Death agrees with me,
For, despite him, I’ll live in this poor rhyme,
While he mocks over dull and speechless crowds:
    And you in this shall find your monument,
    When tyrants’ crowns and tombs of brass have faded.

What’s in my mind that could express who I really am,
That hasn't already revealed my true spirit to you?
What new things can I say, what can I share,
That might show my love or your sweet worth?
Nothing, my dear; but like sacred prayers,
I have to say the same things every day;
Seeing nothing old as worn out, you are mine, and I am yours,
Just like when I first honored your beautiful name.
So this eternal love, in love’s fresh form,
Doesn’t weigh the dust and damage of age,
Nor gives wrinkles any space,
But turns oldness into his page forever;
    Finding the original spark of love still alive,
    Even when time and appearance make it seem dead.

Oh! never say that I was untrue at heart,
Though it may seem like absence has weakened my love,
It would be just as easy for me to leave myself
As to leave my soul, which is in your heart:
That is my true home of love: if I have strayed,
Like someone traveling, I always come back;
Just in time, not with time replaced,
So I can bring myself to account for my mistakes.
Never believe that though my nature contained,
All the weaknesses that affect all kinds of people,
That it could be so absurdly marked,
As to abandon everything good you have given;
    For nothing in this vast universe I claim,
    Except you, my rose, in you I find my everything.

Unfortunately, it’s true, I’ve wandered here and there,
And made myself a spectacle to look at,
Distorted my thoughts, sold cheap what’s most precious,
Turned old mistakes into new feelings;
It’s true that I’ve looked at the truth
With doubt and confusion; but, above all,
These errors brought my heart a new life,
And worse attempts showed you to be my greatest love.
Now everything’s done, except for what never ends:
I won’t keep grinding my appetite
On new experiences to test an old friend,
A god in love, to whom I am bound.
    So give me a warm welcome, my greatest joy,
    Even to your pure and most loving heart.

Oh! For my sake, do you blame Fortune,
The guilty goddess of my harmful actions,
Who didn’t provide better for my life
Than public resources that public behavior creates.
That’s why my name is stained,
And almost because of that, my nature is subdued
To what it works in, like the dyer’s hand:
Have compassion for me, then, and wish I were renewed;
While, like a willing patient, I will drink,
Potions of bitterness against my strong affliction;
No bitterness will I think of as bitter,
Nor will I undergo double punishment to rectify correction.
    Have compassion for me then, dear friend, and I promise you,
    Even your pity is enough to heal me.

Your love and pity fill my heart,
Which the nasty gossip has marked on my forehead;
I don’t care who says I’m good or bad,
As long as you help me overlook my faults and accept my strengths?
You mean everything to me, and I need to understand
My mistakes and praises from you alone;
No one else matters to me, and I don’t matter to anyone else,
That my sharpened senses can tell right from wrong.
In such a deep abyss, I throw away all worries
About what others say, so my sharp senses
Are numb to both critics and flattery.
See how I disregard everything else:
  You are so deeply ingrained in my intentions,
  That everyone else in the world feels dead to me.

Since I left you, my eye is in my mind;
And what drives me to wander
Divides its purpose and is partly blind,
Looks like it sees, but is actually out;
For it delivers no shape to the heart
Of bird, flower, or form it clings to:
The mind has no part in his quick objects,
Nor does his own vision keep what it catches;
For if it sees the roughest or gentlest sight,
The sweetest favor or most deformed creature,
The mountain or the sea, day or night:
The crow or dove, it shapes them to your image.
    Incapable of more, filled with you,
    My most true mind makes mine untrue.

Or is it that my mind, crowned with you,
Swallows the king's disease, this flattery?
Or should I say, my eye sees true,
And that your love taught it this magic,
To transform monsters and things unpleasant
Into cherubs that look just like you,
Creating every bad thing a perfect good,
As quickly as objects gather to his rays?
Oh! It’s the first, it’s flattery in my sight,
And my great mind drinks it up like royalty:
My eye knows well what it likes,
And prepares the cup for its taste:
    If it’s poisoned, it’s the lesser sin
    That my eye loves it and starts it all.

Those lines I wrote before are still true,
Even the ones that claimed I couldn't love you more:
But back then, my judgment had no reason to believe
That my deepest feelings would later shine brighter.
However, when considering Time, with all its twists and turns,
That creep in between promises and change the decisions of kings,
It dulls sacred beauty and blunts the sharpest intentions,
Leading strong minds to shift toward changing paths;
Alas! Why, fearing Time’s power,
Couldn’t I say, ‘Now I love you the most,’
When I was sure in the midst of uncertainty,
Celebrating the moment while doubting everything else?
    Love is like a child, so couldn’t I say that,
    To nurture fully what is still growing?

Let me not accept obstacles to the union of true minds.
Love isn't love
If it changes when it finds change,
Or bends with the one who removes:
Oh, no! It is a constant mark,
That watches storms and is never shaken;
It is the guiding star for every lost ship,
Whose value is unknown, even if its height is measured.
Love isn’t a fool of Time, even though rosy lips and cheeks
Fall within his bending sickle’s reach;
Love doesn't change with his short hours and weeks,
But endures it all even to the end of time.
    If this is a mistake and can be proven against me,
    I never wrote, nor has any man ever loved.

Accuse me like this: that I have overlooked everything,
Where I should repay you for your greatness,
Forgot to mention your dearest love,
To which all ties bind me day by day;
That I have often engaged with unfamiliar thoughts,
And given time your own priceless rights;
That I have set sail to all the winds
That should carry me farthest from your sight.
Record both my stubbornness and mistakes,
And based on solid proof, draw conclusions;
Bring me within the range of your disapproval,
But don’t attack me with your awakened anger;
    Since my plea states that I tried to prove
    The loyalty and goodness of your love.

Just like to sharpen our appetite, We tempt our taste buds with exciting flavors; As, to avoid unseen illnesses, We make ourselves sick to dodge sickness when we cleanse; In the same way, being full of your endless sweetness, I paired my meals with bitter sauces; And, tired of feeling good, found it fitting To be unwell before there was a real need. So, in love, to preemptively deal with Problems that didn’t even exist, I created certain faults, And brought to healing a healthy condition Which, despite its goodness, would be cured by something bad; But from this, I learn and discover the true lesson, Poison comes from drugs for those who are sick from you.

What potions have I drunk of Siren tears,
Distilled from containers as foul as hell within,
Turning fears into hopes, and hopes into fears,
Still losing when I thought I was winning!
What wretched mistakes has my heart made,
While it believed it was never so blessed!
How have my eyes been pulled out of their orbits,
In the chaos of this maddening fever!
Oh, the upside of bad! now I realize
That better is still made better by evil;
And ruined love, when it’s rebuilt,
Becomes more beautiful than before, stronger, far greater.
    So I return chastised to my content,
    And gain by suffering three times more than I spent.

That you were once unkind to me makes me feel close to you now,
And for that pain I felt back then,
I have to bow under my wrongdoing,
Unless my nerves were made of brass or hardened steel.
If my unkindness shook you,
Like yours did to me, you’ve been through a hell of a time;
And I, like a tyrant, haven’t taken the time
To consider how much I suffered because of your actions.
Oh! If only our night of sorrow could have reminded
Me of how deeply true pain affects us,
And soon to you, like you did to me, then offered
The simple remedy that soothes wounded hearts!
    But now your wrongdoing has become a cost;
    Mine pays for yours, and yours must pay for me.

It's better to be awful than to be seen as awful,
When to not be isn't an option and brings shame:
And the joy that's lost, which is considered so,
Not by our own feelings, but by what others see:
So why should others' false, twisted views
Praise my lively spirit?
Or why are the weaker ones who are watching
Making judgments on my weaknesses,
Counting as bad what I see as good?
No, I am who I am, and those who aim
At my faults are just listing their own:
I may be straightforward even if they are off-kilter;
By their flawed views, my actions shouldn’t be revealed;
    Unless this widespread wrongdoing they uphold,
    All people are bad and in their badness rule.

Your gift, your memories, are in my mind
Fully marked with lasting memory,
Which will always stand out from the rest,
Beyond time; even into eternity:
Or, at least, as long as brain and heart
Have the ability by nature to exist;
Until each gives way to complete forgetfulness
Of you, your record will never be lost.
That poor memory could not hold so much,
Nor do I need marks to count your love;
So I was bold to give them from me,
To trust those memories that hold you more:
    To keep a reminder of you
    Would mean I’m forgetting you.

No, Time, you can’t claim that I change:
Your pyramids, built stronger than before,
Are nothing new to me, nothing strange;
They’re just decorations of what came before.
Our time is short, so we admire
What you show us that is old;
And we’d rather make them fit our desire
Than think we've heard these tales told.
I defy both your records and you,
Not surprised by the present or the past,
For your records and what we see are lies,
Made more or less by your constant rush.
This I vow, and this will always be;
I will stay true despite your scythe and you.

If my dear love were just a child of privilege,
It might be unloved by Fortune’s fickle hand,
Subject to Time’s affection or its disdain,
Growing among weeds, or gathered with flowers.
No, it was built far from mere chance;
It doesn't thrive on superficial charm, nor does it
Fall victim to the weight of stifled discontent,
To which the enticing moment calls us:
It doesn't fear strategy, that deceiver,
Which operates on short-lived terms,
But stands alone, quietly wise,
Not growing with heat, nor drowning in rain.
    To this I call upon the fools of time,
    Who die for goodness, having lived for crime.

If it meant anything to me, I would hold the canopy,
With my appearance the outer honors,
Or lay down great foundations for eternity,
Which turn out to be shorter than waste or ruin?
Haven't I seen people focused on looks and status
Lose everything by paying too much for superficiality;
Giving up simple pleasures for what’s fancy,
Pitying those who thrive, wasting their efforts?
No; let me be devoted in your heart,
And accept my humble offering, poor but genuine,
Which isn’t mixed with anything else, knows no tricks,
But a simple exchange, just me for you.
    So, you corrupt informer! A true soul
    When most accused, stands firm against your control.

Oh you, my beautiful boy, who holds the fickle hourglass of Time in your hands;
You’ve grown by fading, which reveals
Your lovers fading as your own sweetness increases.
If Nature, the ultimate authority over destruction,
As you move forward, still pulls you back,
She keeps you for this reason, so her skill
Can make time disgrace and waste those miserable moments.
Yet be wary of her, oh you favorite of her whims!
She may hold you for a while, but can’t fully keep her treasure:
    Her reckoning (though delayed) must eventually come,
    And her settlement is to return you.

In the past, black was considered unattractive,
Or if it was, it didn't carry the name of beauty;
But now black is the heir to beauty's throne,
And beauty is insulted with a shame that’s fake:
For now that everyone has embraced Nature’s power,
Improving the ugly with art’s borrowed charm,
Real beauty has no name, no sacred space,
But is discredited, if it doesn’t live in disgrace.
So my mistress has raven-black eyes,
Her eyes fit the mood, and they seem mournful
For those who, not born beautiful, still possess charm,
Misrepresenting creation with a false regard:
    Yet they mourn in a way that matches their sorrow,
    That everyone says beauty should look like this.

How often when you play your music,
On that blessed wood whose sound moves
With your sweet fingers when you gently sway
The wiry harmony that confuses my ears,
Do I envy those jacks that jump around,
To touch the soft inside of your hand,
While my poor lips, which should enjoy that harvest,
Stand blushing at the wood’s boldness by you!
To be so delighted, they’d switch places
And positions with those dancing chips,
Over whom your fingers walk so gently,
Making dead wood more blessed than living lips.
    Since those lively jacks are so happy with this,
    Give them your fingers, and me your lips to kiss.

The cost of spirit in a waste of shame
Is lust in action: and until there's action, lust
Is false, murderous, bloody, full of blame,
Savage, extreme, rough, cruel, not to trust;
Enjoyed no sooner than immediately despised;
Chased beyond reason; and no sooner had,
Chased beyond reason hated, like a swallowed bait,
Deliberately laid out to drive the taker mad:
Mad in pursuit and in possession too;
Had, having, and in quest, to have extreme;
A bliss in proof, and once proven, a real woe;
Before, a joy promised; behind, a dream.
    All this the world knows well; yet no one knows well
    How to avoid the heaven that leads people to this hell.

My mistress’s eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is way redder than her lips:
If snow is white, then her skin is dull;
If hair is like wires, black wires grow on her head.
I’ve seen damask roses, red and white,
But I don’t see any roses in her cheeks;
And some perfumes are definitely more delightful
Than the breath that comes from my mistress.
I love to hear her talk, yet I know well
That music has a much more pleasing sound:
I admit I’ve never seen a goddess walk;
My mistress, when she walks, just walks on the ground:
    And yet, by heaven, I think my love is as rare,
    As any she has been falsely compared to.

You are as tyrannical as you are,
Like those whose beauty makes them cruel;
For you know well to my loving heart
You are the fairest and most precious jewel.
Yet, honestly, some say that when they see you,
Your face doesn’t have the power to make love sigh;
I wouldn’t be so bold as to say they’re wrong,
Even though I tell myself that secretly.
And to make sure that isn’t false, I swear,
A thousand sighs just thinking of your face,
One after another, bear witness
That your darkness is the fairest in my view.
    In nothing are you dark except in your actions,
    And that’s where I think this slander comes from.

I love your eyes, and they, out of pity for me,
Knowing your heart, torment me with disdain,
Have dressed in black and act like sorrowful mourners,
Looking with sweet compassion at my pain.
And honestly, no morning sun in the sky
Looks better on the grey cheeks of the east,
Nor does that bright star that announces the evening
Give as much beauty to the calm west,
As those two mourning eyes do to your face:
Oh! Let it also be fitting for your heart
To grieve for me since mourning suits you well,
And let your sympathy reflect it in every way.
Then I will declare that beauty itself is dark,
And everything that lacks your complexion is ugly.

Curse that heart that makes mine ache
For the deep pain it causes my friend and me!
Is it not enough to torment me alone,
But my sweetest friend must also become a slave?
You've taken me from myself with your cruel gaze,
And you've claimed my other self even more ruthlessly:
Of him, myself, and you I am abandoned;
It’s a torment multiplied three times to be caught like this:
Lock my heart in your cold embrace,
But let my poor heart bail my friend's heart out;
Whoever keeps me, let my heart guard his;
You can't then be harsh in my prison:
    And yet you will; for I, being trapped in you,
    Am inevitably yours, and all that is in me.

So now I’ve admitted that he belongs to you,
And I’m completely under your control,
I’ll give up myself if you’ll just return
My other self, so I can still find comfort:
But you won’t, and he won’t be free,
Because you’re greedy, and he’s too kind;
He learned to write for me like a surety,
Under that agreement that binds him so tight.
You’ll take the measure of your beauty,
You moneylender, who puts everything to use,
And you’ll sue a friend who’s in debt for my sake;
So I lose him through my cruel actions.
I’ve lost him; you have both him and me:
He’s paying the full price, and I’m still not free.

Whoever has what she wants, you have your 'Will,'
And 'Will' to spare, and 'Will' on top of that;
I'm more than enough to keep bothering you,
Adding to your sweet will like this.
Will you, whose will is big and generous,
Not once agree to hide my will within yours?
Will it seem nice when others' wills are so gracious,
But in my will find no fair acceptance?
The sea, full of water, still takes in rain,
And adds to its supply in abundance;
So you, being rich in 'Will,' should add to your 'Will'
One of mine, to make your big will even bigger.
    Let no unkind 'No' cut down fair hopes;
    Think of us as one, and let me be that one 'Will.'

If your soul feels uneasy that I’m so close,
Swear to your blind soul that I was your ‘Will’,
And your soul knows that will is welcomed there;
So far for love, my sweetheart, fulfill my love-suit.
‘Will’ will fulfill the treasure of your love,
Yes, fill it up with wills, and I’ll be one of them.
In situations where we gain a lot, we find it easy
To overlook one out of many:
So let me be unmentioned in the count,
Even though I must be one in your store’s account;
For nothing shouldn’t hold me if it pleases you to hold
That nothing is to me, but something sweet to you:
    Just make my name your love, and love that still,
    And then you'll love me because my name is ‘Will.’

You blind fool, Love, what are you doing to my eyes,
That they see, and yet don’t see what they see?
They know what beauty is, see where it lies,
Yet take the worst for what is best.
If eyes, corrupted by overly biased looks,
Are anchored in the bay where everyone sails,
Why have you forged hooks of the eyes’ deceit,
To which the judgment of my heart is tied?
Why should my heart think that it’s a unique plot,
When my heart knows it's a common place in the wide world?
Or why do my eyes, seeing this, claim it’s not,
To put fair truth on such an ugly face?
    In truly right things my heart and eyes have erred,
    And now they have succumbed to this false plague.

When my love insists that she’s completely honest,
I believe her even though I know she’s lying,
Because she might see me as some naive kid,
Clueless about the world’s deceptive tricks.
So, vainly thinking that she sees me as young,
Even though she knows my best days are behind me,
I simply trust her misleading words:
On both sides, true honesty is pushed aside:
But why doesn’t she admit she’s unfair?
And why don’t I say that I’m getting old?
Oh! Love’s greatest trait is in pretending to trust,
And love doesn’t like to talk about age:
    So I lie with her, and she lies with me,
    And in our flaws, we flatter each other with lies.

Oh! don't call on me to justify the pain
That your unkindness brings to my heart;
Don’t hurt me with your gaze, but with your words:
Fight with strength, and don’t kill me with pretense,
Tell me you love someone else, but in my presence,
Dear heart, please don’t look away:
Why do you need to hurt me with trickery when your strength
Is more than my overwhelmed heart can handle?
Let me excuse you: ah! my love knows well
Her sweet looks have been my enemies;
And that’s why she turns away from my face, her foes,
So they can aim their attacks at me from elsewhere:
    Yet don’t do that; but since I’m nearly dead,
    Just kill me outright with your looks, and end my suffering.

Be as wise as you are cruel; don’t push
My patience, which is already stretched thin, with too much disdain;
Lest sorrow give me words, and those words show
The nature of my pain that craves pity.
If I could teach you some sense, it would be better,
Though not to love, at least love to say so to me,
Like irritable sick people, when they’re near death,
Only want health updates from their doctors.
For if I start to despair, I might go mad,
And in my madness, I could speak poorly of you;
Now this messed-up world has become so bad,
That mad slanderers are believed by other mad ears.
    So I won’t be that way, nor should you be slandered,
    Keep your gaze steady, even if your proud heart feels wild.

Honestly, I don’t love you for your looks,
Because they reveal a thousand flaws;
It’s my heart that loves what you despise,
Who, despite appearances, is happy to adore.
My ears aren’t thrilled by the sound of your voice;
And my sensitive feelings aren’t swayed by shallow touches,
Nor do taste or smell want to join
In any physical indulgence with you alone:
Yet my thoughts and senses can’t
Convince this foolish heart to stop loving you,
Which remains unmoved by the image of a man,
Your proud heart’s slave, willingly wretched:
    Only my suffering, in a way, feels like a gain,
    Because the one who causes me to sin also brings me pain.

Love is my sin, and your precious virtue hates,
Hate for my sin, based on sinful loving:
Oh! but if you compare yourself to me,
You’ll see it doesn’t deserve reproach;
Or, if it does, not from your lips,
That have corrupted their red adornments
And made false promises of love just like I have,
Taking from others the rewards of their beds.
Let it be lawful for me to love you, as you love those
Whom your eyes attract as much as I beg you:
Plant pity in your heart, so that, when it grows,
Your pity may deserve to be pitied in return.
    If you seek to have what you’re hiding,
    By your own example, you might be denied!

Look, just like a diligent housewife runs to catch
One of her pet birds that has escaped,
She puts down her baby and rushes quickly
To chase the thing she wants to keep;
While her ignored child follows her closely,
Crying out for her whose busy attention is focused
On chasing what is flying away from her,
Not caring about her poor infant’s distress;
So you chase after that which escapes from you,
While I, your child, call out to you from behind;
But if you catch what you desire, come back to me,
And play the role of a loving mother, kiss me, be kind;
    Then I will pray that you may get your wish,
    If you return and still my loud crying.

I have two loves that bring me comfort and despair,
Which like two spirits always suggest to me:
The better angel is a pretty man,
The worse spirit is a woman who's not so great.
To drag me down to hell, my female demon,
Tempts my better angel away from me,
And would twist my saint into a devil,
Trying to corrupt his purity with her ugly pride.
And whether my angel has turned into a fiend,
I can suspect, but I can’t say for sure;
But since they are both away from me, both with each other,
I guess one angel is in the other’s hell:
    Yet I will never know, but live in doubt,
    Until my bad angel drives my good one away.

Those lips that Love crafted,
Spoke words that said ‘I hate’,
To me, who longed for her:
But when she saw my sad condition,
Mercy instantly filled her heart,
Scolding that sweet tongue
That was always used to give kind judgment;
And taught it to greet me differently;
‘I hate’ she changed with an ending,
That followed it like gentle day,
Follows night, which like a fiend
Has flown from heaven to hell.
    ‘I hate’, from hate she cast aside,
    And saved my life, saying ‘not you’.

Poor soul, the center of my troubled life,
My troubled life that these rebellious forces surround,
Why do you pine inside and suffer from lack,
Dressing your outer walls so lavishly?
Why spend so much, having so little time,
On your fading mansion?
Will worms, the heirs of this excess,
Consume your expense? Is this the end of your body?
Then soul, live on your servant’s loss,
And let that longing increase your wealth;
Buy divine moments by selling off wasted time;
Feed yourself within, and let go of outer riches:
    Then you will feed on Death, which feeds on people,
    And once Death is dead, there’s no more dying.

My love feels like a fever that just won't fade,
For something that only fuels the pain;
It thrives on what keeps the sickness alive,
The unpredictable, sickly wish to please.
My reason, the doctor of my love,
Is upset that his advice isn't followed,
Has left me, and now I desperately see
Desire is death, which medicine could have avoided.
I’m beyond help now, as Reason has lost interest,
And frantic, driven mad by constant restlessness;
My thoughts and my speech are like those of the insane,
Aimlessly expressing falsehoods instead of truth;
    For I have sworn you are beautiful and bright,
    Yet you’re as dark as hell, as black as night.

Oh me! What kind of eyes has Love put in my head,
That don’t match what’s really there;
Or, if they do, where has my judgment gone,
That misjudges what they see accurately?
If that’s beautiful which my deceiving eyes admire,
What does the world mean when it says it’s not?
If it isn’t, then love shows well that
Love’s view isn’t as clear as everyone else’s: no,
How can it be? Oh! How can Love’s view be true,
When it’s so troubled with watching and with tears?
No wonder then, if I misinterpret what I see;
The sun itself doesn’t see until the sky clears.
    Oh crafty Love! With tears you keep me blind,
    So that sharp eyes won’t uncover your ugly faults.

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

O! where did you get this incredible power,
That can sway my heart when it feels so weak?
To make me deny what my own eyes see,
And swear that no light makes the day shine bright?
Where did you learn to change good into bad,
That even in the worst of what you do,
There’s such strength and skill that I can’t resist,
That in my mind, your worst is still the best?
Who taught you how to make me love you more,
The more I hear and see reasons to hate?
O! even though I love what others despise,
You shouldn't make me suffer for my feelings:
    If your unworthiness sparked love in me,
    Then I deserve to be loved by you more.

Love is too young to understand what conscience is,
Yet who doesn’t know that conscience comes from love?
So, gentle deceiver, don’t push my mistakes,
Or you might end up proving my sweet self guilty:
For, by betraying me, I betray
My better self to my body’s betrayal;
My soul tells my body that he can
Succeed in love; flesh doesn’t need more reason,
But at your name it rises and points to you,
As his triumphant prize. Proud of this pride,
He is happy to be your poor servant,
To stand in your affairs, to fall by your side.
    It’s not a lack of conscience when I call
    Her ‘love,’ for whose dear love I rise and fall.

In loving you, you know I’ve broken my vows,
But you’ve broken yours to me even more;
You’ve betrayed your promises in our bed, and torn your new faith,
By vowing to hate me after claiming to love me:
But why do I accuse you of breaking two oaths,
When I’ve broken twenty? I’m the most perjured;
All my vows are just lies to misuse you,
And all my honest faith in you is gone:
For I’ve sworn deep oaths about your kindness,
Oaths about your love, your honesty, your loyalty;
And to blind you, I’ve turned a blind eye,
Or made them swear against what they see;
    For I’ve sworn you’re beautiful; more perjured I,
    But I have told my mistress such a foul lie.

Cupid laid down his bow and fell asleep:
A maid of Diana’s took advantage of this,
And quickly soaked his love-kindling fire
In a cold valley spring from that ground;
Which borrowed from this holy fire of Love,
An everlasting warmth, still to endure,
And turned into a boiling bath, which still people find
A cure for strange ailments.
But at my mistress’ eye Love’s spark was reignited,
The boy needed to test it on my heart;
I, suffering from it, sought the healing bath,
And went there, a sad and troubled guest,
    But found no cure, the remedy I need lies
    Where Cupid ignited new fire; in my mistress’ eyes.

The little Love-god was once asleep,
With his heart-burning torch beside him,
While many nymphs who vowed to live a chaste life
Passed by; but in her maiden hand
The most beautiful devotee picked up that fire
Which had warmed many true hearts;
And so the general of intense desire
Was, while sleeping, disarmed by a virgin hand.
She quenched that flame in a cool well nearby,
Which took on Love’s heat forever,
Becoming a bath and a healing remedy,
For those afflicted; but I, my mistress’ servant,
Came there for healing and this I prove,
Love’s fire heats water, but water doesn’t cool love.