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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Sonnet Xxxi by William Shakespeare
Thy bosom is endeared with all hearts,Which I by lacking have supposed dead,And there reigns love and all love’s loving parts,And all those friends which I thought buried.How many a holy and obsequious tearHath dear religious love stol’n from mine eyeAs interest of the dead, which now appearBut things removed that hidden in thee lie!Thou…
Mine eye hath played the painter and hath stelled
My body is the frame wherein ’tis held,And perspective it is best painter’s art.For through the painter must you see his skillTo find where your true image pictured lies,Which in my bosom’s shop is hanging still,That hath his windows glazèd with thine eyes.Now see what good turns eyes for eyes have done:Mine eyes have drawn…
Sonnet Lxxxv by William Shakespeare
My tongue-tied Muse in manners holds her still,While comments of your praise, richly compiled,Reserve their character with golden quillAnd precious phrase by all the Muses filed.I think good thoughts whilst other write good words,And like unletter’d clerk still cry ‘Amen’To every hymn that able spirit affordsIn polish’d form of well-refined pen.Hearing you praised, I say…
Sonnet 57: Being Your Slave, What Should I Do But Tend by William Shakespeare
Being your slave, what should I do but tendUpon the hours and times of your desire?I have no precious time at all to spend,Nor services to do, till you require.Nor dare I chide the world-without-end hour,Whilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for you,Nor think the bitterness of absence sourWhen you have bid your servant…
Sonnet Ix by William Shakespeare
Is it for fear to wet a widow’s eyeThat thou consumest thyself in single life?Ah! if thou issueless shalt hap to die.The world will wail thee, like a makeless wife;The world will be thy widow and still weepThat thou no form of thee hast left behind,When every private widow well may keepBy children’s eyes her…
Being your slave, what should I do but tend
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