Shakespeare's Poetry All Love's Pleasure will Never Match its Pain

189 ...‘Wonder of all time,’ she says. ‘This is my punishment That you, being dead, the day is still light. 190 Since you are dead I prophesy here That from now on sorrow will always accompany love. It will be accompanied by jealousy, Begin sweetly but end badly, Never be smooth but grows or wanes. All love’s pleasure will never match its pain. 191 It will be fickle, dishonest, and fraudulent, Begin in the bud and be destroyed in a breath. At the bottom will be poison and the top strewn With sweets that will deceive the truest sight. It will make the strongest body weak, Make the wise silent and teach the fool to speak. 192 It will be mean and too full of excess, Teaching decrepit, old people to dance. The wild ruffian will keep it in secret, Pull down the rich and enrich the poor with treasures. It will be raving mad and foolishly mild, Make young people old and old people childish. 193 It will be suspicious where there is no reason to fear. It won’t fear where it should be most mistrusting. It will be merciful and too severe And most deceitful when it seems most honest. It will be perverse where it appears boldest, Give fear to the brave and courage to the coward. 194 It will be the cause of war and terrible events And set dissension between sons and fathers, Subject and servile to all rebels Like dry combustible matter is to fire. Since Death destroyed my love in his youth, They that love best will not enjoy their loves.’ 195 With this, the boy who lay killed by her side Melted like a cloud from her sight And in his blood that lay spilled on the ground A purple flower patterned with white sprang up Resembling his pale cheeks well and the blood Which stood in round drops on their whiteness.   196 She bends her head to smell the new sprung flower Comparing it to her Adonis’ breath And says that it will live in her breast Since he himself has been taken from her by Death. She cuts the stalk and in the cut appears Green-dropping sap which she compares to tears. 197 ‘Poor flower,’ she says. ‘This is the way your father was— Sweet son of a more sweet-smelling father— For every little grief to wet his eyes. To grow to be himself was what he wanted And so it’s yours. But know it’s as good To wither in my breast as in his blood. 198 Your father’s bed was here—here in my breast. You are the next of kin and it’s your inheritance. Take your rest in this hollow cradle. My throbbing heart will rock you day and night. There won’t be a minute in an hour In which I won’t kiss my love’s sweet flower.’ 199 So, weary of the world she hurries away And harnesses her silver doves with whose swift aid Their mistress, mounted in her light chariot, is quickly conveyed Through the empty skies holding their course To Paphos where their Queen Means to shut herself away and not be seen.