Thy gift, thy tables, are within my brain
Full character’d with lasting memory,
Which shall above that idle rank remain,
Beyond all date; even to eternity:
Or, at the least, so long as brain and heart
Have faculty by nature to subsist;
Till each to raz’d oblivion yield his part
Of thee, thy record never can be miss’d.
That poor retention could not so much hold,
Nor need I tallies thy dear love to score;
Therefore to give them from me was I bold,
To trust those tables that receive thee more:
To keep an adjunct to remember thee
Were to import forgetfulness in me.
In plain English
You gave me tablets or a notebook, but I've inscribed what matters most—you—directly into my mind and heart, where it will last far longer than any physical object. As long as I have a brain and a beating heart, your memory is safe there.
I don't need written records or tally marks to measure or prove your love. In fact, I gave away those tablets you gave me because my own mind is a better keeper of you than any notebook could be.
To hold onto a physical keepsake would actually suggest I'm afraid of forgetting you—and that would be an insult to the bond between us. You live in me; no external prop is needed.
