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 possess’d with murderous 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 lodg’d 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.
In plain English
You claim to love others, but you're destroying yourself—that makes no sense. Yes, people love you, but you love no one in return. You're consumed by hatred so fierce that you'd rather wreck yourself than preserve what makes you beautiful.
Your refusal to have children is like deliberately burning down a house you should be restoring. Change your mind, and maybe I can stop being angry with you. Why should hate get a better home inside you than love does?
You're kind and graceful to the world—be the same to yourself. Or at the very least, have a child who carries your beauty forward. That way, your looks won't die when you do.
