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William Shakespeare
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William Shakespeare
(1564–1616)
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A
A womans face with natures owne hande painted
Accuse me thus: that I have scanted all
Against my loue shall be as I am now
Against that time (if euer that time come)
Ah, wherefore with infection should he liue
Alack, what poverty my Muse brings forth
Alas, ’tis true, I have gone here and there
As a decrepit father takes delight
As an vnperfect actor on the stage
As fast as thou shalt wane, so fast thou grow’st
B
Be wise as thou art cruel, do not press
Being your slaue what should I doe but tend
Beshrew that heart that makes my heart to groan
Betwixt mine eye and heart a league is tooke
But be contented when that fell arest
But do thy worst to steal thyself away
But wherefore do not you a mightier waie
C
Canst thou, O cruel, say I love thee not
Cupid laid by his brand, and fell asleep
D
Deuouring time, blunt thou the Lyons pawes
F
Farewell, thou art too dear for my possessing
Fear no more the heat o’ the sun
For shame deny that thou bear’st loue to any
From fairest creatures we desire increase
From off a hill whose concave womb reworded
From you have I been absent in the spring
Full many a glorious morning haue I seene
H
How can I then returne in happy plight
How can my Muse want subiect to inuent
How carefull was I when I tooke my way
How heauie doe I iourney on the way
How like a winter hath my absence been
How oft when thou, my music, music play’st
How sweet and lovely dost thou make the shame
I
I grant thou wert not married to my Muse
I never saw that you did painting need
If my dear love were but the child of state
If the dull substance of my flesh were thought
If there bee nothing new, but that which is
If thou suruiue my well contented daie
If thy soul check thee that I come so near
In faith, I do not love thee with mine eyes
In loving thee thou knowst I am forsworn
In the old age black was not counted fair
Is it for feare to wet a widdowes eye
Is it thy wil, thy Image should keepe open
L
Let me confesse that we two must be twaine
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Let not my love be called idolatry
Let those who are in fauor with their stars
Like as the waues make towards the pibled shore
Like as, to make our appetites more keen
Lo, as a careful housewife runs to catch
Loe in the Orient when the gracious light
Looke in thy glasse and tell the face thou vewest
Lord of my loue, to whome in vassalage
Love is my sin, and thy dear virtue hate
Love is too young to know what conscience is
M
Mine eye and heart are at a mortall warre
Mine eye hath play’d the painter and hath stelld
Musick to heare, why hear’st thou musick sadly?
My glasse shall not perswade me I am ould
My love is as a fever, longing still
My love is strength’ned, though more weak in seeming
My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun
My tongue-tied Muse in manners holds her still
N
No more bee greeu’d at that which thou hast done
No! Time, thou shalt not boast that I do change
Noe Longer mourne for me when I am dead
Not from the stars do I my iudgement plucke
Not marble, nor the guilded monuments
Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul
O
O call not me to justify the wrong
O, for my sake do you with Fortune chide
O from what power hast thou this powerful might
O how I faint when I of you do write
O Least the world should taske you to recite
O me! What eyes hath Love put in my head
O never say that I was false of heart
O that you were your selfe, but, loue, you are
O thou my lovely Boy, who in thy power
O truant Muse, what shall be thy amends
Oh how much more doth beautie beautious seeme
Oh how thy worth with manners may I singe
Or I shall live, your epitaph to make
Or whether doth my mind, being crowned with you
P
Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth
S
Say that thou didst forsake me for some fault
Shall I compare thee to a Summers day?
Since brasse, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundlesse sea
Since I left you, mine eye is in my mind
Sinne of selfe-loue possesseth al mine eie
So am I as the rich whose blessed key
So are you to my thoughts as food to life
So is it not with me as with that Muse
So now I have confessed that he is thine
So oft haue I inuok’d thee for my Muse
So shall I live, supposing thou art true
Some glory in their birth, some in their skill
Some say thy fault is youth, some wantonness
Sweet loue renew thy force, be it not said
T
Take all my loues, my loue, yea take them all
Th’expense of spirit in a waste of shame
That God forbid, that made me first your slaue
That thou are blam’d shall not be thy defect
That thou hast her it is not all my griefe
That time of yeeare thou maist in me behold
That you were once unkind befriends me now
The forward violet thus did I chide
The little Love-god lying once asleep
The other two, slight ayre, and purging fire
The poor soul sat sighing by a sycamore tree
Then hate me when thou wilt, if ever, now
Then let not winters wragged hand deface
They that have power to hurt, and will do none
Thine eyes I love, and they, as pitying me
Those howers that with gentle worke did frame
Those lines that I before have writ do lie
Those lips that Love’s own hand did make
Those parts of thee that the worlds eye doth view
Those pretty wrongs that liberty commits
Thou art as tyrannous, so as thou art
Thou blind fool Love, what dost thou to mine eyes
Thus can my love excuse the slow offence
Thus is his cheeke the map of daies out-worne
Thy bosome is indeared with all hearts
Thy gift, thy tables, are within my brain
Thy glasse will shew thee how thy beauties were
Tis better to be vile than vile esteemed
To me, fair friend, you never can be old
Two loves I have, of comfort and despair
Tyr’d with all these for restfull death I cry
V
Vnthrifty louelinesse, why dost thou spend
W
Was it the proud full sail of his great verse
Weary with toyle, I hast me to my bed
Were’t aught to me I bore the canopy
What is your substance, whereof are you made
What potions have I drunk of Siren tears
What’s in the brain that ink may character
When fortie Winters shall beseige thy brow
When I consider euery thing that growes
When I doe count the clock that tels the time
When I haue seene by times fell hand defaced
When in disgrace with Fortune and mens eyes
When in the chronicle of wasted time
When most I winke, then doe mine eyes best see
When my loue sweares that she is made of truth
When thou shalt be disposed to set me light
When to the Sessions of sweet silent thought
Where art thou, Muse, that thou forget’st so long
Whilst I alone did call vpon thy ayde
Who is it that says most? Which can say more
Who will beleeue my verse in time to come
Whoever hath her wish, thou hast thy Will
Why didst thou promise such a beautious day
Why is my verse so barren of new pride
Y
Your love and pity doth th’impression fill