#EnglishWriters
What is your substance, whereof ar… That millions of strange shadows o… Since every one hath, every one, o… And you, but one, can every shadow… Describe Adonis, and the counterf…
YOU spotted snakes with double to… Thorny hedgehogs, be not seen; Newts and blind-worms, do no wrong… Come not near our fairy queen. Philomel, with melody,
For shame, deny that thou bear’st… Who for thy self art so unproviden… Grant, if thou wilt, thou art belo… But that thou none lov’st is most… For thou art so possessed with mur…
O, lest the world should task you… What merit lived in me that you sh… After my death, dear love, forget… For you in me can nothing worthy p… Unless you would devise some virtu…
THY bosom is endeared with all he… Which I, by lacking, have suppose… And there reigns Love, and all Lo… And all those friends which I tho… How many a holy and obsequious tea…
Thou blind fool, Love, what dost… That they behold and see not what… They know what beauty is, see wher… Yet what the best is, take the wor… If eyes corrupt by overpartial loo…
Be wise as thou art cruel; do not… My tongue-tied patience with too m… Lest sorrow lend me words and word… The manner of my pity-wanting pain… If I might teach thee wit, better…
When thou shalt be disposed to set… And place my merit in the eye of s… Upon thy side, against myself I’l… And prove thee virtuous, though th… With mine own weakness being best…
Then let not winter’s ragged hand… In thee thy summer, ere thou be di… Make sweet some vial; treasure tho… With beauty’s treasure ere it be s… That use is not forbidden usury,
When forty winters shall besiege t… And dig deep trenches in thy beaut… Thy youth’s proud livery, so gazed… Will be a tatter’d weed, of small… Then being ask’d where all thy bea…
Your love and pity doth th’ impres… Which vulgar scandal stamped upon… For what care I who calls me well… So you o’ergreen my bad, my good a… You are my all the world, and I m…
Thus can my love excuse the slow o… Of my dull bearer, when from thee… From where thou art, why should I… Till I return, of posting is no n… O, what excuse will my poor beast…
? or John Fletcher. ORPHEUS with his lute made tree… And the mountain tops that freeze Bow themselves when he did sing… To his music plants and flowers
When icicles hang by the wall, And Dick the shepherd blows his n… And Tom bears logs into the hall, And milk comes frozen home in pail… When blood is nipp’d and ways be f…
If music be the food of love, play… Give me excess of it, that, surfei… The appetite may sicken, and so di… That strain again! it had a dying… O, it came o’er my ear like the sw…