And stretched miter of an Antique song.
But were some childe of yours aliue that time, You should liue twise, in it and in my rime. WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.
WHEN in disgrace with Fortune and mens eyes,
I all alone beweepe my out-cast state,
And trouble deafe heauen with my bootlesse cries,
And looke vpon my selfe and curse my fate,
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featur'd like him, like him with friends possest,
Desiring this mans art, and that mans skope,
With what I most inioy contented least,
Yet in these thoughts my selfe almost despising,
Haplye I thinke on thee, and then my state,
(Like to the Larke at breake of daye arising)
From sullen earth sings himns at Heauens gate,
For thy sweet loue remembred such welth, brings,
And then I skorne to change my state with Kings.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.
WHEN to the Sessions of sweet silent thought,
I sommon vp remembrance of things past,
I sigh the lacke of many a thing I sought,
And with old woes new waile my deare times waste:
Then can I drowne an eye (vn-vs'd to flow)
For precious friends hid in deaths dateless night,
And weepe a fresh loues long since canceld woe,
And mone th'expence of many a vannisht sight.
Then can I greeue at greeuances fore-gon,
And heauily from woe to woe tell ore
The sad account of fore-bemoned mone,
Which I new pay as if not payd before.
But if the while I thinke on thee (deere friend)
All losses are restord, and sorrowes end.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.
FVLL many a glorious morning haue I seene,
Flatter the mountaine tops with soueraine eie,
Kissing with golden face the meddowes greene,
Guilding pale streames with heauenly alcumy:
Anon permit the basest cloudes to ride,
With ougly rack on his celestiall face,
And from the for-lorne world his visage hide
Stealing vnseene to west with this disgrace:
Euen so my Sunne one early morne did shine,
With all triumphant splendor on my brow,
But out alack, he was but one houre mine,
The region cloude hath mask'd him from me now.
Yet him for this, my loue no whit disdaineth,
Suns of the world may staine, when heauens sun
staineth.
NoT marble, nor the guilded monuments,
Of Princes shall out-liue this powrefull rime,
But
you shall shine more bright in these contents Then vnswept stone, besmeer'd with sluttish time.
When wastefull warre shall Statues ouer-turne, And broiles roote out the worke of masonry, Nor Mars his sword, nor warres quick fire shall burne
The liuing record of your memory.
Gainst death, and all-obliuious enmity
Shall you pace forth, your praise shall stil finde
Euen in the eyes of all posterity
That weare this world out to the ending doome.
So til the iudgement that your selfe arise,
You liue in this, and dwell in louers eies.
SINCE brasse, nor stone, nor earth nor boundlesse
But sad mortallity ore-swaies their power,
How with this rage shall beautie hold a plea,
Whose action is no stronger then a flower?
O how shall summers hunny breath hold out,
Against the wrackfull siedge of battring dayes.
When rocks impregnable are not so stoute,
Nor gates of steele so strong but time decayes?
O fearefull meditation, where alack,
Shall times best Iewell from times chest lie hid?
Or what strong hand can hold his swift foote back,
Or who his spoile of beautie can forbid?
O none, vnless this miracle haue might,
That in black inck my loue may still shine bright. WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.
THAT time of yeeare thou maist in me behold,
When yellow leaues, or none, or few doe hange
Vpon those boughes which shake against the could,
Bare ruin'd quiers, where late the sweet birds sang.
In me thou seest the twi-light of such day,
As after Sun-set fadeth in the West,
Which by and by blacke night doth take away,
Deaths second selfe that seals vp all in rest.
In me thou seest the glowing of such fire,
That on the ashes of his youth doth lye,
As the death bed, whereon it must expire,
Consum'd with that which it was nurrisht by.
This thou perceu'st, which makes thy loue more
strong,
To loue that well, which thou must leaue ere long.
WHY is my verse so barren of new pride?
So far from variation or quicke change?
Why with the time do I not glance aside
To new found methods, and to compounds strange?
Why write I still all one, euer the same,
And keepe inuention in a noted weed,
That euery word doth almost tel my name,
Shewing their birth, and where they did proceed?
O know sweet loue I alwaies write of you,
And you and loue are still my argument:
So all my best is dressing old words new,
Spending againe what is already spent:
For as the Sun is daily new and old,
So is my loue still telling what is told.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.
COME VNTO THESE YELLOW SANDS,
FROM THE TEMPEST
COME vnto these yellow sands,
and then take hands:
Curtsied when you haue, and kist
the wilde waves whist:
Foote it featly heere, and there, and sweete Sprights beare the burthen.
Harke, harke, bowgh, wawgh: the watch-Dogges barke, bowgh-wawgh,
Harke, harke, I heare, the straine of strutting Chanticlere cry cockadidle-dowe.
FEARE NO MORE THE HEATE O’TH'
SUN, FROM CYMBELINE
FEARE no more the heate o' th' Sun,
Nor the furious Winters rages,
Thou thy worldly task hast don,
Home art gon, and tane thy wages.
Golden Lads and Girles all must,
As Chimney-Sweepers come to dust.
Feare no more the frowne o' th' Great,
Thou art past the Tirants stroake,
Care no more to cloath and eat,
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