LV 別嚇到! (可是這樣下標題的意思不就是故意要 LV 嚇到嗎? 好吧!那 LV 就假裝嚇一跳好了。)
只是第五十五首商籟的意思啦！今天要教，順便讓大家讀一讀。連解釋都幫大家找到了。
我喜歡這首商籟，和最後的情人不情人沒啥關係。好的文學作品假如不被焚掉坑掉，最終當人比任何王公金所鑲出來大理石紀念碑都來得保久而不朽頹。
Sparknotes: No Fear Shakespeare
Sonnet 55
Not marble nor the gilded monuments |
Of princes shall outlive this pow'rful rhyme, |
But you shall shine more bright in these conténts |
Than unswept stone, besmeared with sluttish time. |
When wasteful war shall statues overturn, |
And broils root out the work of masonry, |
Nor Mars his sword, nor war's quick fire, shall burn |
The living record of your memory. |
'Gainst death and all oblivious enmity |
Shall you pace forth; your praise shall still find room |
Even in the eyes of all posterity |
That wear this world out to the ending doom. |
So till the judgment that yourself arise, |
You live in this, and dwell in lovers' eyes. |
Neither marble nor the gold-plated monuments of princes will outlive this powerful poetry. You will shine more brightly in these poems than those stones that crumble to dust, blackened by time. When devastating war overturns statues, with its battles uprooting buildings, neither the god of war nor his quick-burning fires shall destroy this record of you. Despite death and ignorant enmity, you shall continue on. All those generations to come, down to the weary end of time, will devote space to praising you. So until Judgment Day, when you are raised up, you will live in this poetry, and in the eyes of lovers who read this.
Sonnet 18
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? |
Thou art more lovely and more temperate: |
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, |
And summer's lease hath all too short a date: |
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, |
And often is his gold complexion dimm'd; |
And every fair from fair sometime declines, |
By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd; |
But thy eternal summer shall not fade |
Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest; |
Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade, |
When in eternal lines to time thou growest: |
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, |
So long lives this and this gives life to thee. |
Shall I compare you to a summer day? You're lovelier and milder. Rough winds shake the pretty buds of May, and summer doesn't last nearly long enough. Sometimes the sun shines too hot, and often its golden face is darkened by clouds. And everything beautiful stops being beautiful, either by accident or simply in the course of nature. But your eternal summer will never fade, nor will you lose possession of your beauty, nor shall death brag that you are wandering in the underworld, once you're captured in my eternal verses. As long as men are alive and have eyes with which to see, this poem will live and keep you alive.
Sonnet 29
When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes |
I all alone beweep my outcast state, |
And trouble deaf heav'n 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 man's art, and that man's scope, |
With what I most enjoy contented least; |
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising, |
Haply I think on thee, and then my state, |
Like to the lark at break of day arising |
From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate. |
For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings |
That then I scorn to change my state with kings. |
When I'm in disgrace with everyone and my luck has deserted me, I sit all alone and cry about the fact that I'm an outcast, and bother God with useless cries, which fall on deaf ears, and look at myself and curse my fate, wishing that I had more to hope for, wishing I had this man's good looks and that man's friends, this man's skills and that man's opportunities, and totally dissatisfied with the things I usually enjoy the most. Yet, as I'm thinking these thoughts and almost hating myself, I happen to think about you, and then my condition improves—like a lark at daybreak rising up and leaving the earth far behind to sing hymns to God. For when I remember your sweet love, I feel so wealthy that I'd refuse to change places even with kings.
Sonnet 30
When to the sessions of sweet silent thought |
I summon up remembrance of things past, |
I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought, |
And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste: |
Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow, |
For precious friends hid in death's dateless night, |
And weep afresh love's long since cancell'd woe, |
And moan the expense of many a vanish'd sight: |
Then can I grieve at grievances foregone, |
And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er |
The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan, |
Which I new pay as if not paid before. |
But if the while I think on thee, dear friend, |
All losses are restored and sorrows end. |
When I sit alone in silence and remember the past, I get depressed about all the things I don't have that I once strived for, and I add to old griefs new tears for all the valuable time I've wasted. Then I can drown my eyes, which are not usually wet from crying, in tears for precious friends who are dead, and I can weep again for hurts in loves that are long since over and moan about the loss of many things I'll never see again. Then I can grieve about grievances I had let go of and sadly recount each woe that I'd already cried about in the past, feeling the pain all over again, as if I hadn't suffered over these things already. But if I think about you, my dear friend, while I'm doing all of this, I get back everything I'd lost, and all my sorrows end.
Sonnet 65
Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea, |
But sad mortality o'er-sways their power, |
How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea, |
Whose action is no stronger than a flower? |
O, how shall summer's honey breath hold out |
Against the wreckful siege of battering days, |
When rocks impregnable are not so stout, |
Nor gates of steel so strong, but Time decays? |
O fearful meditation! where, alack, |
Shall Time's best jewel from Time's chest lie hid? |
Or what strong hand can hold his swift foot back? |
Or who his spoil of beauty can forbid? |
O, none, unless this miracle have might, |
That in black ink my love may still shine bright. |
Since neither brass nor stone nor earth nor the limitless ocean is strong enough to resist the sad force of mortality, how can beauty possibly resist death's rage when beauty is no stronger than a flower? How could your beauty, which is as fragile as the sweet breath of summer, hold out against the destructive assaults of time when neither invulnerable rocks nor gates of steel are strong enough to resist its decaying power? What a frightening thing to think about! Alas, where can I put your beauty, time's most precious creation, to hide it from time itself? Whose hand is strong enough to slow time down? Who will forbid its destruction of your beauty? Oh, no one, unless this miracle proves effective: that in the black ink of my poetry, the one I love may still shine bright.
Sonnet 106
When in the chronicle of wasted time |
I see descriptions of the fairest wights, |
And beauty making beautiful old rhyme |
In praise of ladies dead and lovely knights, |
Then, in the blazon of sweet beauty's best, |
Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow, |
I see their antique pen would have express'd |
Even such a beauty as you master now. |
So all their praises are but prophecies |
Of this our time, all you prefiguring; |
And, for they look'd but with divining eyes, |
They had not skill enough your worth to sing: |
For we, which now behold these present days, |
Had eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise. |
When in accounts of historic times I come upon descriptions of very beautiful people and read the beautiful poems inspired by them, in praise of ladies now dead and lovely knights; when I see the poems catalog their beauty—their hands, feet, lips, eyes, foreheads—I realize that these ancient writers were trying to describe the same kind of beauty that you possess now. So all the praises of these writers are actually prophecies of our time; all of them prefigure you. If the writers hadn't been divinely inspired with this gift of prophecy, they wouldn't have had the skill to describe your worth. Those of us who live now may be able to see your beauty firsthand and be amazed by it, but we lack the poetic skill to describe it.
文章定位：
