Hamlet, Act 2, Scene 2. Polonius.
Modern version:
“You may wonder if the stars are fire, You may wonder if the sun moves across the sky. You may wonder if the truth is a liar, But never wonder if I love.”
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So is it not with me as with that… Stirred by a painted beauty to his… Who heaven it self for ornament do… And every fair with his fair doth… Making a couplement of proud compa…
Poor soul, the centre of my sinful… These rebel powers that thee array… Why dost thou pine within and suff… Painting thy outward walls so cost… Why so large cost, having so short…
Full many a glorious morning have… Flatter the mountain-tops with sov… Kissing with golden face the meado… Gilding pale streams with heavenly… Anon permit the basest clouds to r…
Look in thy glass, and tell the fa… Now is the time that face should f… Whose fresh repair if now thou not… Thou dost beguile the world, unble… For where is she so fair whose une…
Enter THESEUS, HIPPOLY… Now, fair Hippolyta, our nuptial… Draws on apace; four happy days br… Another moon: but, O, methinks, h… This old moon wanes! she lingers m…
Or whether doth my mind, being cro… Drink up the monarch’s plague, thi… Or whether shall I say mine eye s… And that your love taught it this… To make of monsters, and things in…
O, how I faint when I of you do w… Knowing a better spirit doth use y… And in the praise thereof spends a… To make me tongue-tied, speaking o… But since your worth, wide as the…
Tir’d with all these, for restful… As, to behold desert a beggar born… And needy nothing trimm’d in jolli… And purest faith unhappily forswor… And gilded honour shamefully mispl…
How can my Muse want subject to i… While thou dost breathe, that pour… Thine own sweet argument, too exce… For every vulgar paper to rehearse… O, give thyself the thanks, if aug…
My mistress’ eyes are nothing like… Coral is far more red than her lip… If snow be white, why then her bre… If hairs be wires, black wires gro… I have seen roses damasked, red an…
O, how much more doth beauty beaut… By that sweet ornament which truth… The rose looks fair, but fairer we… For that sweet odour, which doth i… The canker blooms have full as dee…
Whilst I alone did call upon thy… My verse alone had all thy gentle… But now my gracious numbers are de… And my sick Muse doth give an oth… I grant, sweet love, thy lovely ar…
But wherefore do not you a mightie… Make war upon this bloody tyrant,… And fortify your self in your deca… With means more blessèd than my ba… Now stand you on the top of happy…
Thus can my love excuse the slow o… Of my dull bearer, when from thee… From where thou art, why should I… Till I return, of posting is no n… O, what excuse will my poor beast…