#English #XVICentury #XVIICentury
Is it thy will thy image should ke… My heavy eyelids to the weary nigh… Dost thou desire my slumbers shoul… While shadows like to thee do mock… Is it thy spirit that thou send’st…
When my love swears that she is ma… I do believe her, though I know s… That she might think me some untut… Unlearned in the world’s false sub… Thus vainly thinking that she thin…
O truant Muse, what shall be thy… For thy neglect of truth in beauty… Both truth and beauty on my love d… So dost thou too, and therein dign… Make answer, Muse. Wilt thou not…
Love is my sin and thy dear virtue… Hate of my sin, grounded on sinful… O, but with mine compare thou thin… And thou shalt find it merits not… Or, if it do, not from those lips…
No, Time, thou shalt not boast th… Thy pyramids built up with newer m… To me are nothing novel, nothing s… They are but dressings of a former… Our dates are brief, and therefore…
Come away, come away, death, And in sad cypress let me be laid. Fly away, fly away, breath; I am slain by a fair cruel maid. My shroud of white, stuck all with…
Alack, what poverty my Muse bring… That having such a scope to show h… The argument all bare is of more w… Than when it hath my added praise… O, blame me not if I no more can…
O thou, my lovely boy, who in thy… Dost hold Time’s fickle glass his… Who hast by waning grown, and ther… Thy lovers withering, as thy sweet… If Nature, sovereign mistress ove…
If music be the food of love, play… Give me excess of it, that, surfei… The appetite may sicken, and so di… That strain again! it had a dying… O, it came o’er my ear like the sw…
From “A Midsummer-Night’s Dream,… PUCK sings: NOW the hungry lion roars, And the wolf behowls the moon; Whilst the heavy ploughman snores,
What’s in the brain that ink may c… Which hath not figured to thee my… What’s new to speak, what now to r… That may express my love, or thy d… Nothing, sweet boy, but yet, like…
Canst thou, O cruel, say I love t… When I against my self with thee… Do I not think on thee when I for… Am of my self, all tyrant, for thy… Who hateth thee that I do call my…
Those hours, that with gentle work… The lovely gaze where every eye do… Will play the tyrants to the very… And that unfair which fairly doth… For never-resting time leads summe…
Not marble, nor the gilded monumen… Of princes, shall outlive this pow… But you shall shine more bright in… Than unswept stone besmear’d with… When wasteful war shall statues ov…
Not mine own fears, nor the prophe… Of the wide world dreaming on thin… Can yet the lease of my true love… Suppos’d as forfeit to a confin’d… The mortal moon hath her eclipse e…