Sonnet 107 (Không phải nỗi sợ của anh, hay tiên đoán) Sonnet 107 (Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul)

Sonnet 107 (Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul)

Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul
Of the wide world, dreaming on things to come,
Can yet the lease of my true love control,
Supposed as forfeit to a confined doom.

The mortal moon hath her eclipse endured
And the sad augurs mock their own presge,
Incertainties now crown themselves assured,
And peace proclaims olives of endless age.

Now with the drops of this most balmy time
My love looks fresh, and Death to me subscribes,
Since spite of him I’ll live in this poor rhyme,
While he insults o’er dull and speechless tribes.

And thou in this shalt find thy monument,
When tyrants’ crests and tombs of brass are spent.