domingo, 29 de diciembre de 2013

Sonnet C

Where art thou, Muse, that thou forget'st so long
To speak of that which gives thee all thy might?
Spend'st thou thy fury on some worthless song,
Darkening thy power to lend base subjects light?
Return, forgetful Muse, and straight redeem
In gentle numbers time so idly spent;
Sing to the ear that doth thy lays esteem
And gives thy pen both skill and argument.
Rise, restive Muse, my love's sweet face survey,
If Time have any wrinkle graven there;
If any, be a satire to decay,
And make Time's spoils despised every where.
Give my love fame faster than Time wastes life;
So thou prevent'st his scythe and crooked knife.

Soneto de amor C

Oh, Musa, ¿dónde has ido que te olvidas
de hablar de aquello que te da sustancia?
¿Malgastas tu furor en cancioncillas
vulgares que al brillar a ti te opacan?
Regresa, olvidadiza, y rinde cuenta
del tiempo malgastado como debes:
cantándole al oído que te aprecia
y que da rumbo y tino a tus haberes.
Levanta y dime, Musa perezosa,
¿ha ajado el Tiempo el rostro que yo adoro?
Si fuera así, pon a la ruina en solfa
y búrlate del Tiempo y sus despojos.
Haz célebre a mi amor antes que caiga
el Tiempo encima de él con su guadaña.

Sonnet XCIX

The forward violet thus did I chide:
Sweet thief, whence didst thou steal thy sweet that smells,
If not from my love's breath? The purple pride
Which on thy soft cheek for complexion dwells
In my love's veins thou hast too grossly dyed.
The lily I condemned for thy hand,
And buds of marjoram had stol'n thy hair:
The roses fearfully on thorns did stand,
One blushing shame, another white despair;
A third, nor red nor white, had stol'n of both
And to his robbery had annex'd thy breath;
But, for his theft, in pride of all his growth
A vengeful canker eat him up to death.
More flowers I noted, yet I none could see
But sweet or colour it had stol'n from thee.

Soneto de amor XCIX

Ladrona -reprendí yo a la violeta
precoz-, ¿no habrás robado tu perfume
del soplo de mi amada? De sus venas
sacaste el noble tinte con que cubres
de púrpura tu suave consistencia.
Copió tu mano el lirio y lo juzgué;
el haz de mejorana hurtó tu pelo;
las rosas, espigadas, eran tres:
color rubor y blanco desespero,
y una tercera, a medias roja y blanca,
que aunaba a sus colores tu frescor:
por ese robo en plena esuberancia,
un verme vengador la carcomió.
Había muchas flores, pero todas
robaban tus colores o tu aroma.


From you have I been absent in the spring,  
When proud pied April, dressed in all his trim,  
Hath put a spirit of youth in every thing,  
That heavy Saturn laughed and leapt with him. 
Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell  
Of different flowers in odour and in hue,  
Could make me any summer's story tell,  
Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew:  
Nor did I wonder at the lily's white,  
Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose;  
They were but sweet, but figures of delight,  
Drawn after you, you pattern of all those. 
Yet seemed it winter still, and you away,
As with your shadow I with these did play.

Soneto de amor XCVIII

En primavera tuve que ausentarme;
abril, luciendo sus mejores galas,
sembraba juventud por todas partes
y hasta Saturno el grave retozaba.
Mas ni los cantos de las avecillas
me inspirarían cuentos de verano
ni, oliendo tantas flores coloridas,
así sus tallos para hacerme un ramo:
no me extasiaba el blanco de los lirios
ni el bermellón profundo de la rosa,
figuras que arrebatan los sentidos,
copiadas de tu molde, como todas.
Y si jugué con ellas, fue siguiendo
tu sombra, pues no estabas y era invierno.

lunes, 16 de diciembre de 2013

Sonnet XCVII

How like a winter hath my absence been
From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year!
What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen!
What old December's bareness every where!
And yet this time removed was summer's time,
The teeming autumn, big with rich increase,
Bearing the wanton burden of the prime,
Like widow'd wombs after their lords' decease:
Yet this abundant issue seem'd to me
But hope of orphans and unfather'd fruit;
For summer and his pleasures wait on thee,
And, thou away, the very birds are mute;
Or, if they sing, 'tis with so dull a cheer
That leaves look pale, dreading the winter's near.