资源描述
IFrom fairest creatures we desire increase,That thereby beautys rose might never die,But as the riper should by time decease,His tender heir might bear his memory:But thou contracted to thine own bright eyes,Feedst thy lights flame with self-substantial fuel,Making a famine where abundance lies,Thy self thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel:Thou that art now the worlds fresh ornament,And only herald to the gaudy spring,Within thine own bud buriest thy content,And, tender churl, makst waste in niggarding:Pity the world, or else this glutton be,To eat the worlds due, by the grave and thee.一对天生的尤物我们要求蕃盛，以便美的玫瑰永远不会枯死，但开透的花朵既要及时雕零，就应把记忆交给娇嫩的后嗣；但你，只和你自己的明眸定情，把自己当燃料喂养眼中的火焰，和自己作对，待自己未免太狠，把一片丰沃的土地变成荒田。你现在是大地的清新的点缀，又是锦绣阳春的唯一的前锋，为什么把富源葬送在嫩蕊里，温柔的鄙夫，要吝啬，反而浪用？可怜这个世界吧，要不然，贪夫，就吞噬世界的份，由你和坟墓。IIWhen forty winters shall besiege thy brow,And dig deep trenches in thy beautys field,Thy youths proud livery so gazed on now,Will be a totterd weed of small worth held:Then being asked, where all thy beauty lies,Where all the treasure of thy lusty days;To say, within thine own deep sunken eyes,Were an all-eating shame, and thriftless praise.How much more praise deservd thy beautys use,If thou couldst answer This fair child of mineShall sum my count, and make my old excuse,Proving his beauty by succession thine!This were to be new made when thou art old,And see thy blood warm when thou feelst it cold.二当四十个冬天围攻你的朱颜，在你美的园地挖下深的战壕，你青春的华服，那么被人艳羡，将成褴褛的败絮，谁也不要瞧：那时人若问起你的美在何处，哪里是你那少壮年华的宝藏，你说，“在我这双深陷的眼眶里，是贪婪的羞耻，和无益的颂扬。”你的美的用途会更值得赞美，如果你能够说，“我这宁馨小童将总结我的账，宽恕我的老迈，”证实他的美在继承你的血统！这将使你在衰老的暮年更生，并使你垂冷的血液感到重温。IIILook in thy glass and tell the face thou viewestNow is the time that face should form another;Whose fresh repair if now thou not renewest,Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother.For where is she so fair whose uneard wombDisdains the tillage of thy husbandry?Or who is he so fond will be the tombOf his self-love, to stop posterity?Thou art thy mothers glass and she in theeCalls back the lovely April of her prime;So thou through windows of thine age shalt see,Despite of wrinkles this thy golden time.But if thou live, rememberd not to be,Die single and thine image dies with thee.三照照镜子，告诉你那镜中的脸庞，说现在这庞儿应该另造一副；如果你不赶快为它重修殿堂，就欺骗世界，剥掉母亲的幸福。因为哪里会有女人那么淑贞她那处女的胎不愿被你耕种？哪里有男人那么蠢，他竟甘心做自己的坟墓，绝自己的血统？你是你母亲的镜子，在你里面她唤回她的盛年的芳菲四月：同样，从你暮年的窗你将眺见纵皱纹满脸你这黄金的岁月。但是你活着若不愿被人惦记，就独自死去，你的肖像和你一起。IVUnthrifty loveliness, why dost thou spendUpon thy self thy beautys legacy?Natures bequest gives nothing, but doth lend,And being frank she lends to those are free:Then, beauteous niggard, why dost thou abuseThe bounteous largess given thee to give?Profitless usurer, why dost thou useSo great a sum of sums, yet canst not live?For having traffic with thy self alone,Thou of thy self thy sweet self dost deceive:Then how when nature calls thee to be gone,What acceptable audit canst thou leave?Thy unused beauty must be tombed with thee,Which, used, lives th executor to be.四俊俏的浪子，为什么把你那份美的遗产在你自己身上耗尽？造化的馈赠非赐予，她只出赁；她慷慨，只赁给宽宏大量的人。那么，美丽的鄙夫，为什么滥用那交给你转交给别人的厚礼？赔本的高利贷者，为什么浪用那么一笔大款，还不能过日子？因为你既然只和自己做买卖，就等于欺骗你那妩媚的自我。这样，你将拿什么账目去交代，当造化唤你回到她怀里长卧？你未用过的美将同你进坟墓；用呢，就活着去执行你的遗嘱。VThose hours, that with gentle work did frameThe lovely gaze where every eye doth dwell,Will play the tyrants to the very sameAnd that unfair which fairly doth excel;For never-resting time leads summer onTo hideous winter, and confounds him there;Sap checked with frost, and lusty leaves quite gone,Beauty oer-snowed and bareness every where:Then were not summers distillation left,A liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass,Beautys effect with beauty were bereft,Nor it, nor no remembrance what it was:But flowers distilld, though they with winter meet,Leese but their show; their substance still livessweet.五那些时辰曾经用轻盈的细工织就这众目共注的可爱明眸，终有天对它摆出魔王的面孔，把绝代佳丽剁成龙锺的老丑：因为不舍昼夜的时光把盛夏带到狰狞的冬天去把它结果；生机被严霜窒息，绿叶又全下，白雪掩埋了美，满目是赤裸裸：那时候如果夏天尚未经提炼，让它凝成香露锁在玻璃瓶里，美和美的流泽将一起被截断，美，和美的记忆都无人再提起：但提炼过的花，纵和冬天抗衡，只失掉颜色，却永远吐着清芬。VIThen let not winters ragged hand deface,In thee thy summer, ere thou be distilled:Make sweet some vial; treasure thou some placeWith beautys treasure ere it be self-killed.That use is not forbidden usury,Which happies those that pay the willing loan;Thats for thy self to breed another thee,Or ten times happier, be it ten for one;Ten times thy self were happier than thou art,If ten of thine ten times refigured thee:Then what could death do if thou shouldst depart,Leaving thee living in posterity?Be not self-willed, for thou art much too fairTo be deaths conquest and make worms thineheir.六那么，别让冬天嶙峋的手抹掉你的夏天，在你未经提炼之前：熏香一些瓶子；把你美的财宝藏在宝库里，趁它还未及消散。这样的借贷并不是违禁取利，既然它使那乐意纳息的高兴；这是说你该为你另生一个你，或者，一个生十，就十倍地幸运；十倍你自己比你现在更快乐，如果你有十个儿子来重现你：这样，即使你长辞，死将奈你何，既然你继续活在你的后裔里？别任性：你那么标致，何必甘心做死的胜利品，让蛆虫做子孙。VIILo! in the orient when the gracious lightLifts up his burning head, each under eyeDoth homage to his new-appearing sight,Serving with looks his sacred majesty;And having climbed the steep-up heavenly hill,Resembling strong youth in his middle age,Yet mortal looks adore his beauty still,Attending on his golden pilgrimage:But when from highmost pitch, with weary car,Like feeble age, he reeleth from the day,The eyes, fore duteous, now converted areFrom his low tract, and look another way:So thou, thyself outgoing in thy noonUnlooked on diest unless thou get a son.七看，当普照万物的太阳从东方抬起了火红的头，下界的眼睛都对他初升的景象表示敬仰，用目光来恭候他神圣的驾临；然后他既登上了苍穹的极峰，像精力饱满的壮年，雄姿英发，万民的眼睛依旧膜拜他的峥嵘，紧紧追随着他那疾驰的金驾。但当他，像耄年拖着尘倦的车轮，从绝顶颤巍巍地离开了白天，众目便一齐从他下沉的足印移开它们那原来恭顺的视线。同样，你的灿烂的日中一消逝，你就会悄悄死去，如果没后嗣。VIIIMusic to hear, why hearst thou music sadly?Sweets with sweets war not, joy delights in joy:Why lovst thou that which thou receivst not gladly,Or else receivst with pleasure thine annoy?If the true concord of well-tuned sounds,By unions married, do offend thine ear,They do but sweetly chide thee, who confoundsIn singleness the parts that thou shouldst bear.Mark how one string, sweet husband to another,Strikes each in each by mutual ordering;Resembling sire and child and happy mother,Who, all in one, one pleasing note do sing:Whose speechless song being many, seeming one,Sings this to thee: Thou single wilt prove none.IXIs it for fear to wet a widows eye,That thou consumst thy self in single life?Ah! if thou issueless shalt hap to die,The world will wail thee like a makeless wife;The world will be thy widow and still weepThat thou no form of thee hast left behind,When every private widow well may keepBy childrens eyes, her husbands shape in mind:Look what an unthrift in the world doth spendShifts but his place, for still the world enjoys it;But beautys waste hath in the world an end,And kept unused the user so destroys it.No love toward others in that bosom sitsThat on himself such murdrous shame commits.XFor shame deny that thou bearst love to any,Who for thy self art so unprovident.Grant, if thou wilt, thou art beloved of many,But that thou none lovst is most evident:For thou art so possessed with murderous hate,That gainst thy self thou stickst not to conspire,Seeking that beauteous roof to ruinateWhich to repair should be thy chief desire.O! change thy thought, that I may change my mind:Shall hate be fairer lodged than gentle love?Be, as thy presence is, gracious and kind,Or to thyself at least kind-hearted prove:Make thee another self for love of me,That beauty still may live in thine or thee.XIAs fast as thou shalt wane, so fast thou growstIn one of thine, from that which thou departest;And that fresh blood which youngly thou bestowst,Thou mayst call thine when thou from youth convertest.Herein lives wisdom, beauty, and increase;Without this folly, age, and cold decay:If all were minded so, the times should ceaseAnd threescore year would make the world away.Let those whom nature hath not made for store,Harsh, featureless, and rude, barrenly perish:Look whom she best endowd, she gave the more;Which bounteous gift thou shouldst in bounty cherish:She carvd thee for her seal, and meant thereby,Thou shouldst print more, not let that copy die.XIIWhen I do count the clock that tells the time,And see the brave day sunk in hideous night;When I behold the violet past prime,And sable curls, all silvered oer with white;When lofty trees I see barren of leaves,Which erst from heat did canopy the herd,And summers green all girded up in sheaves,Borne on the bier with white and bristly beard,Then of thy beauty do I question make,That thou among the wastes of time must go,Since sweets and beauties do themselves forsakeAnd die as fast as they see others grow;And nothing gainst Times scythe can make defenceSave breed, to brave him when he takes theehence.XIIIO! that you were your self; but, love, you areNo longer yours, than you your self here live:Against this coming end you should prepare,And your sweet semblance to some other give:So should that beauty which you hold in leaseFind no determination; then you wereYourself again, after yourselfs decease,When your sweet issue your sweet form should bear.Who lets so fair a house fall to decay,Which husbandry in honour might uphold,Against the stormy gusts of winters dayAnd barren rage of deaths eternal cold?O! none but unthrifts. Dear my love, you know,You had a father: let your son say so.XIVNot from the stars do I my judgement pluck;And yet methinks I have Astronomy,But not to tell of good or evil luck,Of plagues, of dearths, or seasons quality;Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell,Pointing to each his thunder, rain and wind,Or say with princes if it shall go wellBy oft predict that I in heaven find:But from thine eyes my knowledge I derive,And, constant stars, in them I read such artAs truth and beauty shall together thrive,If from thyself, to store thou wouldst convert;Or else of thee this I prognosticate:Thy end is truths and beautys doom and date.XVWhen I consider every thing that growsHolds in perfection but a little moment,That this huge stage presenteth nought but showsWhereon the stars in secret influence comment;When I perceive that men as plants increase,Cheered and checked even by the self-same sky,Vaunt in their youthful sap, at height decrease,And wear their brave state out of memory;Then the conceit of this inconstant staySets you most rich in youth before my sight,Where wasteful Time debateth with decayTo change your day of youth to sullied night,And all in war with Time for love of you,As he takes from you, I engraft you new.XVIBut wherefore do not you a mightier wayMake war upon this bloody tyrant, Time?And fortify your self in your decayWith means more blessed than my barren rhyme?Now stand you on the top of happy hours,And many maiden gardens, yet unset,With virtuous wish would bear you living flowers,Much liker than your painted counterfeit:So should the lines of life that life repair,Which this, Times pencil, or my pupil pen,Neither in inward worth nor outward fair,Can make you live your self in eyes of men.To give away yourself, keeps yourself still,And you must live, drawn by your own sweetskill.XVIIWho will believe my verse in time to come,If it were filld with your most high deserts?Though yet heaven knows it is but as a tombWhich hides your life, and shows not half your parts.If I could write the beauty of your eyes,And in fresh numbers number all your graces,The age to come would say This poet lies;Such heavenly touches neer touchd earthly faces.So should my papers, yellowd with their age,Be scornd, like old men of less truth than tongue,And your true rights be termd a poets rageAnd stretched metre of an antique song:But were some child of yours alive that time,You should live twice, in it, and in my rhyme.XVIIIShall I compare thee to a summers day?Thou art more lovely and more temperate:Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,And summers lease hath all too short a date:Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,And often is his gold complexion dimmed,And every fair from fair sometime declines,By chance, or natures changing course untrimmed:But thy eternal summer shall not fade,Nor lose possession of that fair thou owst,Nor shall death brag thou wanderst in his shade,When in eternal lines to time thou growst,So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.XIXDevouring Time, blunt thou the lions paws,And make the earth devour her own sweet brood;Pluck the keen teeth from the fierce tigers jaws,And burn the long-livd phoenix, in her blood;Make glad and sorry seasons as thou fleetst,And do whateer thou wilt, swift-footed Time,To the wide world and all her fading sweets;But I forbid thee one most heinous crime:O! carve not with thy hours my loves fair brow,Nor draw no lines there with thine antique pen;Him in thy course untainted do allowFor beautys pattern to succeeding men.Yet, do thy worst old Time: despite thy wrong,My love shall in my verse ever live young.XXA womans face with natures own hand painted,Hast thou, the master mistress of my passion;A womans gentle heart, but not acquaintedWith shifting change, as is false womens fashion:An eye more bright than theirs, less false in rolling,Gilding the object whereupon it gazeth;A man in hue all hues in his controlling,Which steals mens eyes and womens souls amazeth.And for a woman wert thou first created;Till Nature, as she wrought thee, fell a-doting,And by addition me of thee defeated,By adding one thing to my purpose nothing.But since she prickd thee out for womens pleasure,Mine be thy love and thy loves use theirtreasure.XXISo is it not with me as with that Muse,Stirred by a painted beauty to his verse,Who heaven itself for ornament doth useAnd every fair with his fair doth rehearse,Making a couplement of proud compareWith sun and moon, with earth and seas rich gems,With Aprils first-born flowers, and all things rare,That heavens air in this huge rondure hems.O! let me, true in love, but truly write,And then believe me, my love is as fairAs any mothers child, though not so brightAs those gold candles fixed in heavens air:Let them say more that like of hearsay well;I will not praise that purpose not to sell.XXIIMy glass shall not persuade me I am old,So long as youth and thou are of one date;But when in thee times furrows I behold,Then look I death my days should expiate.For all that beauty that doth cover thee,Is but the seemly raiment of my heart,Which in thy breast doth live, as thine in me:How can I then be elder than thou art?O! therefore love, be of thyself so waryAs I, not for myself, but for thee will;Bearing thy heart, which I will keep so charyAs tender nurse her babe from faring ill.Presume not on thy heart when mine is slain,Thou gavst me thine not to give back again.XXIIIAs an unperfect actor on the stage,Who with his fear is put beside his part,Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage,Whose strengths abundance weakens his own heart;So I, for fear of trust, forget to sayThe perfect ceremony of loves rite,And in mine own loves strength seem to decay,Oerchargd with burthen of mine own loves might.O! let my looks be then the eloquenceAnd dumb presagers of my speaking breast,Who plead for love, and look for recompense,More than that tongue that more hath moreexpressd.O! learn to read what silent love hath writ:To hear with eyes belongs to loves fine wit.XXIVMine eye hath playd the painter and hath steeld,Thy beautys form in table of my heart;My body is the frame wherein tis held,And perspective it is best painters art.For through the painter must you see his skill,To find where your true image picturd lies,Which in my bosoms shop is hanging still,That hath his windows glazed with thine eyes.Now see what good turns eyes for eyes have done:Mine eyes have drawn thy shape, and thine for meAre windows to my breast, where-through the sunDelights to peep, to gaze therein on thee;Yet eyes this cunning want to grace their art,They draw but what they see, know not the heart.XXVLet those who are in favour with their starsOf public honour and proud titles boast,Whilst I, whom fortune of such triumph barsUnlookd for joy in that I honour most.Great princes favourites their fair leaves spreadBut as the marigold at the suns eye,And in themselves their pride lies buried,For at a frown they in their glory die.The painful warrior famoused for fight,After a thousand victories once foiled,Is from the book of honour razed quite,And all the rest forgot for which he toiled:Then happy I, that love and am beloved,Where I may not remove nor be removed.XXVILord of my love, to whom in vassalageThy merit hath my duty strongly knit,To thee I send this written embassage,To witness duty, not to show my wit:Duty so great, which wit so poor as mineMay make seem bare, in wanting words to show it,But that I hope some good conceit of thineIn thy souls thought, all naked, will bestow it:Till whatsoever star that guides my moving,Points on me graciously with fair aspect,And puts apparel on my tottered loving,To show me worthy of thy sweet respect:Then may I dare to boast how I do love thee;Till then, not show my head where thou mayst proveme.XXVIIWeary with toil, I haste me to my bed,The dear repose for limbs with travel tired;But then begins a journey in my headTo work my mind, when bodys works expired:For then my thoughts-from far where I abide-Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee,And keep my drooping eyelids open wide,Looking on darkness which the blind do see:Save that my souls imaginary sightPresents thy shadow to my sightless view,Which, like a jewel hung in ghastly night,Makes black night beauteous, and her old face new.Lo! thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind,For thee, and for myself, no quiet find.XXVIIIHow can I then return in happy plight,That am debarred the benefit of rest?When days oppression is not easd by night,But day by night and night by day oppressd,And each, though enemies to eithers reign,Do in consent shake hands to torture me,The one by toil, the other to complainHow far I toil, still farther off from thee.I tell the day, to please him thou art bright,And dost him grace when clouds do blot the heaven:So flatter I the swart-complexiond night,When sparkling stars twire not thou gildst the even.But day doth daily draw my sorrows longer,And night doth nightly make griefs length seemstronger.XXIXWhen in disgrace with fortune and mens eyesI all alone beweep my outcast state,And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,And look upon myself, and curse my fate,Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,Featured like him, like him with friends possessed,Desiring this mans art, and that mans scope,With what I most enjoy contented least;Yet in these thoughts my self almost despising,Haply I think on thee, and then my state,Like to the lark at break of day arisingFrom sullen earth, sings hymns at heavens gate;For thy sweet love remembered such wealth bringsThat then I scorn to change my state with kings.XXXWhen to the sessions of sweet silent thoughtI summon up re
展开阅读全文