shakespeare sonnets 10/121/91/20/40/143/102/29/23/144

 

shakespeare sonnets 10/121/91/20/40/143/102/29/23/144

아 되게많네 진짜..

순서는 임의대로 정한게 아니라

Robert Wilson의 SHAKESPEARES SONNETTE 일부를 순서대로 구성한 거에요.

독일어 공연인게 함정~

 

 

 

 

sonnet 10

ORIGINAL TEXT

MODERN TEXT

For shame deny that thou bear’st love to any, Who for thyself art so unprovident. Grant if thou wilt, thou art belov’d of many, But that thou none lov’st is most evident; For thou art so possessed with murd'rous hate That ‘gainst thyself thou stick’st not to conspire, Seeking that beauteous roof to ruinate Which 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.

If you have any sense of shame, admit that you don’t have any love in your heart for anyone, since you’re so unwilling to care about yourself. I’ll admit, if you like, that many people love you, but it’s also obvious that you love no one. For you are so possessed with murderous hatred that you have no problem plotting against yourself, seeking to destroy the house that you should want to repair. Oh, change your way of thinking, so I can change my mind about you. Should hate have a more beautiful home than love? Be gracious and kind, like your appearance—or at least be kind-hearted to yourself. Have a child out of love for me, so your beauty will live on in your children, if not in you.

 

sonnet 121

ORIGINAL TEXT

MODERN TEXT

'Tis better to be vile than vile esteemed, When not to be receives reproach of being, And the just pleasure lost which is so deemed Not by our feeling but by others' seeing. For why should others' false adulterate eyes Give salutation to my sportive blood? Or on my frailties why are frailer spies, Which in their wills count bad what I think good? No, I am that I am, and they that level At my abuses reckon up their own; I may be straight, though they themselves be bevel. By their rank thoughts my deeds must not be shown,   Unless this general evil they maintain:   All men are bad, and in their badness reign.

It’s better to be vile than to have people think you’re vile, especially when they accuse you of being vile and you’re really not, and then you don’t even get to enjoy doing the thing that people say is vile but that you don’t think is. For why should people who are corrupt themselves get to wink knowingly at my lustful inclinations? And why should people who are even weaker than I pry into my weaknesses, deciding that what I think is good is bad? No, I am what I am, and the people who accuse me are only revealing their own corruptions. Maybe I’m straight, and they’re the ones who are crooked; you can’t measure my actions by their foul thoughts, unless they’re willing to believe that all men are bad and thrive in their badness.

 

sonnet 91

ORIGINAL TEXT

MODERN TEXT

Some glory in their birth, some in their skill, Some in their wealth, some in their body’s force, Some in their garments, though new-fangled ill, Some in their hawks and hounds, some in their horse; And every humor hath his adjunct pleasure, Wherein it finds a joy above the rest. But these particulars are not my measure; All these I better in one general best. Thy love is better than high birth to me, Richer than wealth, prouder than garments' cost, Of more delight than hawks or horses be; And having thee, of all men’s pride I boast;   Wretched in this alone, that thou mayst take   All this away, and me most wretched make.

Some people are proud of the social status they’ve inherited; some people of their abilities; some of their wealth; some of how strong they are; some of their clothes, though the clothes are trendy and weird; some are proud of their hawks and hounds; some of their horses; and every individual temperament has its particular pleasure, something the person enjoys above everything else. But I don’t measure happiness by any of these things. There’s something else that’s better than them all. To me, your love is better than high social status, more valuable than wealth, more worth being proud of than expensive clothes, and more enjoyable than hawks or horses. And having you, I have something better than what other men are proud of—except I’m wretched in this one respect: You can take all this away from me and make me completely wretched.

 

sonnet 20

ORIGINAL TEXT

MODERN TEXT

A woman’s face, with nature’s own hand painted, Hast thou, the master-mistress of my passion; A woman’s gentle heart, but not acquainted With shifting change, as is false women’s 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 men’s eyes and women’s 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 pricked thee out for women’s pleasure,   Mine be thy love, and thy love’s use their treasure.

Your face is as pretty as a woman’s, but you don’t even have to use makeup—you, the man (or should I say woman?) I love. Your heart is as gentle as a woman’s, but it isn’t cheating like theirs. Your eyes are prettier than women’s, but not as roving—you bless everything you look at. You’ve got the good looks of a handsome man, but you attract both women and men. When Mother Nature made you, she originally intended to make you a woman, but then she got carried away with her creation and screwed me by adding a certainthing that I have no use for. But since she gave you a prick to please women, I’ll keep your love, and they can enjoy your body.

 

sonnet 40

ORIGINAL TEXT

MODERN TEXT

Take all my loves, my love; yea, take them all. What hast thou then more than thou hadst before? No love, my love, that thou mayst true love call. All mine was thine before thou hadst this more. Then if for my love thou my love receivest, I cannot blame thee, for my love thou usest. But yet be blamed, if thou thyself deceivest By wilful taste of what thyself refusest. I do forgive thy robb'ry, gentle thief, Although thou steal thee all my poverty; And yet love knows it is a greater grief To bear love’s wrong than hate’s known injury.   Lascivious grace, in whom all ill well shows,   Kill me with spites; yet we must not be foes.

Take all my loves, my love—yes, take them all: Take my love for you, take away your love for me, and take a lover from me. What do you have now that you didn’t have before? My love, you haven’t acquired true love, because my true love was yours to begin with, before you took this extra from me. If, instead of accepting my love, you make love to the person, love, I can’t blame you, because you’re only taking advantage of my love. But, you should be blamed if you deceive yourself by taking from one person what you won’t take from another—if you willingly make love to one person while refusing to make love to me. I forgive you for stealing from me, gentle thief, although you’re taking the little I have. And yet every lover knows that it hurts more to be injured by a lover than by an enemy. You, who are gracious even when succumbing to lust, you in whom everything bad looks good—even if you kill me with injuries, let’s not become enemies.

 

sonnet 143

ORIGINAL TEXT

MODERN TEXT

Lo, as a careful housewife runs to catch One of her feathered creatures broke away, Sets down her babe and makes all swift dispatch In pursuit of the thing she would have stay; Whilst her neglected child holds her in chase, Cries to catch her whose busy care is bent To follow that which flies before her face, Not prizing her poor infant’s discontent: So run’st thou after that which flies from thee, Whilst I, thy babe, chase thee afar behind. But if thou catch thy hope, turn back to me, And play the mother’s part, kiss me, be kind.   So will I pray that thou mayst have thy Will,   If thou turn back and my loud crying still.

Like an anxious housewife who runs to catch one of her chickens that’s run away, setting down her baby to follow it while her neglected child chases after her and cries out to get her attention—she focusing all of her mind on trying to catch the chicken that’s flying in front of her, not caring about her infant’s distress—in the same way, you’re running after someone who’s running from you, while I, your baby, chase after you from far behind. But if you catch the one you’re hoping for, turn back to me and act like a mother. Kiss me, be kind. If you’ll turn back and stop my loud crying, I’ll pray that you’ll get to have your WILL As in Sonnets 135 and 136, the speaker’s mistress loves a man named Will who is not the speaker. Will.

 

sonnet 102

ORIGINAL TEXT

MODERN TEXT

My love is strengthened, though more weak in seeming; I love not less, though less the show appear. That love is merchandised whose rich esteeming The owner’s tongue doth publish everywhere. Our love was new, and then but in the spring, When I was wont to greet it with my lays, As Philomel in summer’s front doth sing, And stops his pipe in growth of riper days. Not that the summer is less pleasant now Than when her mournful hymns did hush the night, But that wild music burthens every bough, And sweets grown common lose their dear delight.   Therefore, like her, I sometime hold my tongue,   Because I would not dull you with my song.

My love is stronger, though it seems weaker. I don’t love less, but I show my love less. When a person broadcasts how he loves and how richly he esteems the person he loves, he turns his love into a commodity. Our love was still new when I used to write poems about it, just as the nightingale sings at the beginning of summer, then stops singing as the summer progresses. It’s not that summer is less pleasant now than the nights when the nightingale sang. It’s just that every tree branch is filled with songbirds, and when things are common they’re less delightful. Therefore, like the nightingale, sometimes I keep silent because I don’t want to bore you with my song.

 

sonnet 29

ORIGINAL TEXT

MODERN TEXT

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.

 

 소넷 29 

 

운명과 사람들에게서 버림받았을 때,

 

WHEN in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes

 

혼자서 버림받은 신세를 한탄하고 혼자 흐느껴 운다,

 

I all alone beweep my outcast state,

 

부질없는 울부짖음으로 귀머거리 하늘을 괴롭히고

 

And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,

 

내 자신을 살펴보면서 나의 운명을 저주하도다.

 

And look upon myself, and curse my fate,

 

나도 희망이 보다 풍부한 그런 사람이 되기를 바라며,

 

Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,

 

누굴 닮아 얼굴이 잘 생기고 친구가 많기를 바라며,

 

Featured like him, like him with friends possess’d,

 

이 사람의 재주와 저 사람의 역량을 탐하며,

 

Desiring this man’s art, and that man’s scope,

 

내가 가진것에 무엇보다도 불만을 느끼도다.

 

With what I most enjoy contented least;

 

그러나 이런 생각에 젖어 내 자신을 거의 경멸하다가도,

 

Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,

 

문득 그대를 생각하면- 그때의 내 기분은 곧,

 

Haply I think on thee, and then my state,

 

새벽녘에 어두운 대지에서 솟아 올라

 

Like to the lark at break of day arising

 

천국의 문전에서 노래부르는 종달새와 같아라,

 

From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven’s gate;

 

그대의 고운 사랑 생각하면 나는 부귀에 넘쳐

 

For thy sweet love remember’d such wealth brings

 

나는 내 처지를 제왕과도 바꾸지 아니하리라.

 

That then I scorn to change my state with kings.

sonnet 23

ORIGINAL TEXT

MODERN TEXT

As an unperfect actor on the stage, Who with his fear is put besides his part, Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage, Whose strength’s abundance weakens his own heart; So I, for fear of trust, forget to say The perfect ceremony of love’s rite, And in mine own love’s strength seem to decay, O'ercharged with burden of mine own love’s might. O let my books be then the eloquence And dumb presagers of my speaking breast, Who plead for love and look for recompense More than that tongue that more hath more expressed.   O learn to read what silent love hath writ!   To hear with eyes belongs to love’s fine wit.

Like an actor who hasn’t learned his lines perfectly and forgets his part because of stage fright, or like some raging animal or human whose excessive passion makes it weak, so I, because I can’t trust myself, forget to say the things a lover should say to his darling; just when my love is strongest it seems to be getting weak. So let my writings speak for my heart instead. They plead for love better than I could if I spoke, even if I said more and more eloquently. Oh, read in these silent lines the love I cannot express in speech. Love will give you the insight to read between the lines.

 

sonnet 144

ORIGINAL TEXT

MODERN TEXT

Two loves I have, of comfort and despair, Which, like two spirits, do suggest me still; The better angel is a man right fair, The worser spirit a woman colored ill. To win me soon to hell, my female evil Tempteth my better angel from my side, And would corrupt my saint to be a devil, Wooing his purity with her foul pride. And whether that my angel be turned fiend Suspect I may, but not directly tell; But being both from me both to each friend, I guess one angel in another’s hell.   Yet this shall I ne'er know, but live in doubt,   Till my bad angel fire my good one out.

I love two people. One comforts me and the other makes me despair. Like two spirits both constantly point me in different directions. The better angel is a beautiful, fair-haired man. The bad one is an evil-looking woman. To help put me in hell sooner, my evil female tempts my angel away from my side. She hopes to make my saint into a devil, seducing him to impure acts in her foul and self-assured way. And though I can suspect him, there’s no way I can tell directly whether my angel has turned into a fiend. But since the two of them are away from me and friendly with each other, I’m guessing that one angel is inside the other—and in hell with her. Yet I’ll never know this for sure, instead living in doubt until my bad angel FIRES The bad angel’s “fire” suggests the burning sensations of venereal disease. fires the good one out of hell.