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O Mistress mine, where are you roaming ?
O stay and hear your true-love's coming

That can sing both high and low;
Trip no further, pretty sweeting,
Journeys end in lovers meeting-

Every wise man's son doth know.
What is love? 'tis not hereafter ;
Present mirth hath present laughter ;

What's to come is still unsure :
In delay there lies no plenty,-
Then come kiss me, Sweet-and-twenty,
Youth's a stuff will not endure.

W. Shakespeare



Fine knacks for ladies, cheap, choice, brave, and new,

Good penny-worths, --but money cannot move :
I keep a fair but for the Fair to view ;

A beggar may be liberal of love.
Though all my wares be trash, the heart is true--

The heart is true.
Great gifts are guiles and look for gifts again;

My trifles come as treasures from my mind; It is a precious jewel to be plain ;

Sometimes in shell the orient'st pearls we find :-Of others take a sheaf, of me a grain !

Of me a grain !




When icicles hang by the wall

And Dick the shepherd blows his nail, And Tom bears logs into the hall,

And milk comes frozen home in pail ;
When blood is nipt, and ways be foul,
Then nightly sings the staring owl

Tu-who! A merry note!
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.
When all about the wind doth blow

And coughing drowns the parson's saw,
And birds sit brooding in the snow,

And Marian's nose looks red and raw ;
When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl-
Then nightly sings the staring owl

Tu-who! A merry note !
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

W. Shakespeare


That time of year thou may'st in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang:
In me thou see'st the twilight of such day
As after sunset fadeth in the west,
Which by and by black night doth take away,
Death's second self, that seals up all in rest :
In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire,
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie
As the death-bed whereon it must expire,
Consumed with that which it was nourish'd by :

-This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more

strong, To love that well which thou must leave ere long.

W. Shakespeare



When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
I summon up remembrance of things past,
I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,
And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste ;
Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow,
For precious friends hid in death's dateless night,
And weep afresh love's long-since-cancell'd woe,
And moan the expense of many a vanish'd sight.
Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,
And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er
The sad account of fore-bemoanéd moan,
Which I new pay as if not paid before :
-But if the while I think on thee, dear Friend,
All losses are restored, and sorrows end.

W. Shakespeare



Come, Sleep: 0 Sleep! the certain knot of peace,
The baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe,
The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release,
Th' indifferent judge between the high and low;
With shield of proof shield me from out the prease
Of those fierce darts Despair at me doth throw :
O make in me those civil wars to cease ;
I will good tribute pay, if thou do so.

Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest bed,
A chamber deaf of noise and blind of light,
A rosy garland and a weary head :
And if these things, as being thine in right,
Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me,
Livelier than elsewhere, Stella's image see.

Sir P. Sidney



Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore
So do our minutes hasten to their end ;
Each changing place with that which goes before,
In sequent toil all forwards do contend.
Nativity, once in the main of light,
Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crown’d,
Crooked eclipses 'gainst his glory fight,
And Time that gave, doth now his gift confound.
Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth,
And delves the parallels in beauty's brow;
Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth,
And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow :-
And yet, to times in hope, my verse shall stand
Praising Thy worth, despite his cruel hand.

IV. Shakespeare


Farewell ! thou art too dear for my possessing,
And like enough thou know'st thy estimate :
The charter of thy worth gives thee releasing ;
My bonds in thee are all determinate.
For how do I hold thee but by thy granting ?
And for that riches where is my deserving ?
The cause of this fair gift in me is wanting,
And so my patent back again is swerving.

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Thyself thou gav'st, thy own worth then not knowing,
Or me, to whom thou gav'st it, else mistaking ;
So thy great gift, upon misprision growing,
Comes home again, on better judgment making.
Thus have I had thee as a dream doth flatter ;
In sleep, a king ; but waking, no such matter.

W. Shakespeare



They that have power to hurt, and will do none,
That do not do the thing they most do show,
Who, moving others, are themselves as stone,
Unmovéd, cold, and to temptation slow,-
They rightly do inherit heaven's graces,
And husband nature's riches from expense ;
They are the lords and owners of their faces,
Others, but stewards of their excellence.
The summer's flower is to the summer sweet,
Though to itself it only live and die ;
But if that flower with base infection meet,
The basest weed outbraves his dignity :
For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds ;
Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds.

W. Shakespeare



And wilt thou leave me thus ?
Say nay! say nay ! for shame,
To save thee from the blame
Of all my grief and grame.
And wilt thou leave me thus?
Say nay ! say nay !

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