No more be grieved at that which thou hast done:
Roses have thorns, and silver fountains mud;
Clouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun,
And loathsome canker lives in sweetest bud.
All men make faults, and even I in this,
Authorizing thy trespass with compare,
Myself corrupting, salving thy amiss,
Excusing thy sins more than thy sins are;
For to thy sensual fault I bring in sense
(Thy adverse party is thy advocate)
And 'gainst myself a lawful plea commence;
Such civil war is in my love and hate
That I an accessory needs must be
To that sweet thief which sourly robs me.
Las horas que gentiles compusieron
tal visión para encanto de los ojos,
sus tiranos serán cuando destruyan
una belleza de suprema gracia:
porque el tiempo incansable, en torvo invierno,
muda al verano que en su seno arruina;
la savia hiela y el follaje esparce
y a la hermosura agosta entre la nieve.
Si no quedara la estival esencia,
en muros de cristal cautivo líquido,
la belleza y su fruto morirían
sin dejar ni el recuerdo de su forma.
Mas la flor destilada, hasta en invierno,
su ornato pierde y en perfume vive.
Derrochador de encanto, ¿por qué gastas
en ti mismo tu herencia de hermosura?
Naturaleza presta y no regala,
y, generosa, presta al generoso.
Luego, bello egoísta, ¿por qué abusas
de lo que se te dio para que dieras?
Avaro sin provecho, ¿por qué empleas
suma tan grande, si vivir no logras?
Al comerciar así sólo contigo,
defraudas de ti mismo a lo más dulce.
Cuando te llamen a partir, ¿qué saldo
podrás dejar que sea tolerable?
Tu belleza sin uso irá a la tumba;
usada, hubiera sido tu albacea.
Those hours that with gentle work did frame
The lovely gaze where every eye doth dwell
Will play the tyrants to the very same
And that unfair which fairly doth excel;
For never-resting time leads summer on
To hideous winter and confounds him there,
Sap checked with frost and lusty leaves quite gone,
Beauty o'ersnowed and bareness everywhere.
Then, were not summer's distillation left
A liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass,
Beauty's effect with beauty were bereft,
Nor it nor no remembrance what it was:
But flowers distilled, though they with winter meet,
Leese but there snow; their substance still lives sweet.
