Our dole more deadly looks than dying;
Balms and gums and heavy cheers,
Sacred vials fill’d with tears,
And clamours through the wild air flying!
Come, all sad and solemn shows,
That are quick-eyed Pleasure’s foes!
We convent naught else but woes.
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Love by William Shakespeare
TELL me where is Fancy bred,Or in the heart or in the head?How begot, how nourished?Reply, reply.It is engender’d in the eyes,With gazing fed; and Fancy diesIn the cradle where it lies.Let us all ring Fancy’s knell:I’ll begin it,–Ding, dong, bell.All. Ding, dong, bell.
Double, double toil and trouble;
Fillet of a fenny snake,In the caldron boil and bake;Eye of newt and toe of frog,Wool of bat and tongue of dog,Adder’s fork and blind-worm’s sting,Lizard’s leg and howlet’s wing,For a charm of powerful trouble,Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.Double, double toil and trouble;Fire burn and caldron bubble.Cool it with a baboon’s blood,Then the charm…
Sonnet Cxxxii by William Shakespeare
Thine eyes I love, and they, as pitying me,Knowing thy heart torments me with disdain,Have put on black and loving mourners be,Looking with pretty ruth upon my pain.And truly not the morning sun of heavenBetter becomes the grey cheeks of the east,Nor that full star that ushers in the evenDoth half that glory to the…
Like as, to make our appetites more keen,
As, to prevent our maladies unseen,We sicken to shun sickness when we purge,Even so, being tuff of your ne’er-cloying sweetness,To bitter sauces did I frame my feedingAnd, sick of welfare, found a kind of meetnessTo be diseased ere that there was true needing.Thus policy in love, to anticipateThe ills that were not, grew to faults…
Was it the proud full sail of his great verse,
That did my ripe thoughts in my brain inhearse,Making their tomb the womb wherein they grew?Was it his spirit, by spirits taught to writeAbove a mortal pitch, that struck me dead?No, neither he, nor his compeers by nightGiving him aid, my verse astonishèd.He nor that affable familiar ghostWhich nightly gulls him with intelligence,As victors of…
Sonnet Xxvi by William Shakespeare
Lord of my love, to whom in vassalageThy merit hath my duty strongly knit,To thee I send this written embassage,To witness duty, not to show my wit:Duty so great, which wit so poor as mineMay make seem bare, in wanting words to show it,But that I hope some good conceit of thineIn thy soul’s thought,…