How oft, when thou, my music, music play’st, Upon that blessèd wood whose motion sounds With thy sweet fingers when thou gently sway’st The wiry concord that mine ear confounds, Do I envy those
Say that thou didst forsake me for some fault, And I will comment upon that offence; Speak of my lameness, and I straight will halt, Against thy reasons making no defence. Thou canst not,
O, that you were your self! But, love, you are No longer yours than you yourself here live. Against this coming end you should prepare, And your sweet semblance to some other give. So
Say that thou didst forsake me for some fault, And I will comment upon that offence; Speak of my lameness, and I straight will halt, Against thy reasons making no defence. Thou canst not,
Under the greenwood tree Who loves to lie with me, And turn his merry note Unto the sweet bird’s throat, Come hither, come hither, come hither: Here shall he see No enemy But winter
Some glory in their birth, some in their skill, Some in their wealth, some in their body’s force, Some in their garments though new-fangled ill, Some in their hawks and hounds, some in their
When in the chronicle of wasted time I see descriptions of the fairest wights, And beauty making beautiful old rhyme In praise of ladies dead, and lovely knights, Then, in the blazon of sweet
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
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
Against my love shall be, as I am now, With Time’s injurious hand crushed and o’erworn; When hours have drained his blood and filled his brow With lines and wrinkles; when his youthful morn
My love is as a fever, longing still For that which longer nurseth the disease, Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill, Th’ uncertain sickly appetite to please. My reason, the physician to
How like a winter hath my absence been From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year! What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen! What old December’s bareness everywhere! And yet this time
Let those who are in favour with their stars Of public honour and proud titles boast, Whilst I, whom fortune of such triumph bars, Unlook’d for joy in that I honour most. Great princes’
Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate. Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, And summer’s lease hath all too short a date. Sometime
Some say thy fault is youth, some wantonness; Some say thy grace is youth and gentle sport; Both grace and faults are loved of more and less; Thou mak’st faults graces that to thee
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