Finjamos Que Soy FelizLet us pretend that I'm happySor Juana Ines de la Cruz (1648-1695)

Finjamos Que Soy Feliz

Let us pretend that I'm happy,
Sad thought, for a while;
You may actually persuade me
but I know otherwise

(alt.) Feign we that I am happy
Sad thought, a little while,
For, though ‘twere but dissembling,
Would thou couldst me beguile.

In feeling apprehension
They say the trouble lies:
If you’ll only feel you’re happy,
You needn’t be otherwise.

(alt.) Yet since but in our terrors
They say our miseries grow,
If joy we can imagine,
The less will seem our woe.

Let my intelligence serve,
For once, as a source of comfort.
Must wit forever be
The enemy of profit?

(alt.) Must our intelligences
Some time of quiet find
Not always may our genius
With profit rule the mind.

The world is full of opinions
Of what is or is not true;
Whatever is black for one
Will be white in another’s view.

(alt.) The world’s full of opinions,
And these so different quite,
That what to one black seemeth
Another proves is white.

What one man finds attractive
Will make another recoil.
What is relief for one.
Another rejects as toil.

(alt.) To some appears attractive
What many deem a bore:
And that which thee delighted
Thy fellow labors o’er

The man who is sad condemns
The cheerful man as inane.
While the cheerful are greatly amused
When they hear the sad complain.

(alt.) He who is sad condemneth
They gay one’s gleeful tones;
He who is merry jests
Whenever the sad one groans

The two Greek philosophers (Democritus and Heraclitus)
Were always of opposite cheer:
What split the one with laughter
Reduced the other to tears.

(alt.) By two old Greek wiseacres
This truth well proved appears
Since what in one caused laughter,
The other moved to tears.

Renowned has been this contest
For ages, without fruit,
And what one age asserted
Till now is in dispute.

Into two lists divided
The world’s opinions stand,
And as his humor leads him
Follows each one his band.

One says the world is worthy
Only of merriment;
Another, its distresses
Call for our loud lament.

For all opinions various
Some proof or reason’s brought,
And for so much there’s reason
That reason is for naught.

All, all are equal judges,
And all of different view,
And none can make decision
Of what is best or true.

Then since can none determine,
Think you, whose reason strays,
To you God has committed
The judgment of the case?

O why to yourself cruel,
Do you your peace reject?
Between the sweet and bitter,
The bitter you elect?

If its mine my understanding,
Why always must it be
So dull and slow to pleasure,
So keen for injury?

A sharp blade is our learning
Which serves us at both ends:
Death by the point it gives
By the handle, it defends.

And if, aware of peril,
Its point you will demand,
How do you blame the weapon
For the folly of your hand?

Not is true wisdom knowing
Most subtle speech and vain;
Best knowledge is in choosing
That which is safe and sane.

To speculate disaster,
To seek for presages,
Serves to increase affliction,
Anticipate distress.

In the troubles of the future
The anxious mind is lost,
And more than any danger
Does danger’s menace cost

Of him the unschooled wise man
How happy is the chance!
He finds from suffering refuge
In simple ignorance

Not always safe aspire
The wings that genius bears;
Which seek a throne in fire,
And find a grave in tears.

And vicious is the knowledge
That seeking swift its end
Is all the more unwary
Of the woe that does impend.

And if its flight it stops not
In pampered, strange deceits,
Then for the curious searching
The needful it defeats.

If culture’s hand doesn’t prune
The leaves of the tree
Takes from the fruit’s sustainment
The rank, wild greenery.

If all its ballast heavy
Yon light ship not prevents,
Will it help the flight of pionions
From nature’s battlements?

In verdant beauty useless,
What profits the fair field
If the blooming growths of springtime
No autumn fruitage yields?

And of what use is gen;ius
With all its work of might,
If are its toils rewarded
By failure and despite?

And perforce to this misfortune
Must that despair succeed,
Which, if its arrows kills not,
Must make the bosom bleed.

Like to a fire does genius
In thankless matter grow;
The more that it consumes
It boasts the brighter glow.

It is of it own master
So rebellious a slave,
That to offence it turns
The weapons that should save

Such exercise distressful,
Such hard anxiety
To all the sad world’s children
God gave their souls to try

What mad ambition takes us
From self-forgetful state,
If it’s to live so little
We make our knowledge great?

Oh! If we must have knowledge,
I would there were some school
Where to teach not knowing
Life’s woes, should be the rule.

Happy shall be his living
Whose life no rashness mars;
He shall laugh at all the threatenings
Of the magic of the stars!

Learn we the wise unknowing,
Since it so well appears
That what to learning’s added
Is taken from our years.