Let those who are in favour with their stars
Of public honour and proud titles boast,
Whilst I, whom fortune of such triumph bars
Unlook’d for joy in that I honour most.
Great princes’ favourites their fair leaves spread
But as the marigold at the sun’s eye,
And in themselves their pride lies buried,
For at a frown they in their glory die.
The painful warrior famoused for fight,
After a thousand victories once foil’d,
Is from the book of honour razed quite,
And all the rest forgot for which he toil’d:
Then happy I, that love and am belov’d,
Where I may not remove nor be remov’d.
In plain English
Let people with good fortune brag about their public status and fancy titles. I don't have those things, but I've found something better in what I treasure most — unexpected happiness just from loving someone.
Powerful people's favorites are like marigolds that turn toward the sun, showing off their petals. But their worth is fragile: one disapproving look from those in power, and their reputation vanishes. Even a great warrior who won a thousand battles loses everything the moment he loses once — history forgets all his hard work.
So I'm the lucky one. I have love, and I'm loved back. That's a kind of fortune no one can take away or make me lose.
