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William shakespeare

William Shakespeare


Through the house give glimmering light
By the dead and drowsy fire;
Every elf and fairy sprite
hop as light as bird from brier.

Now, until the break of day
Through this house each fairy stray.

Then hate me when thou wilt; if ever, now;
Now, while the world is bent my deeds to cross,
join with the spite of fortune, make me bow,
And do not drop in for an after-loss.
Ah, do not, when my heart hath 'scaped this sorrow,
Come in the rearward of a conquered woe;
Give not a windy night a rainy morrow,
To linger out a purposed overthrow.
If thou wilt leave me, do not leave me last,
When other petty griefs have done their spite,
But in the onset come; so shall I taste
At first the very worst of fortune’s might,
    And other strains of woe, which now seem woe,
    Compared with loss of thee will not seem so.

O, for my sake do you with Fortune chide,
     The guilty goddess of my harmful deeds,
     That did not better for my life provide
     Than public means which public manners breeds.
     Thence comes it that my name receives a brand,
     And almost thence my nature is subdued
     To what it works in, like the dyer’s hand:
     Pity me then and wish I were renew’d;
     Whilst, like a willing patient, I will drink
     Potions of eisel 'gainst my strong infection
     No bitterness that I will bitter think,
     Nor double penance, to correct correction.
     Pity me then, dear friend, and I assure ye
     Even that your pity is enough to cure me.

O truant Muse, what shall be thy amends
     For thy neglect of truth in beauty dyed?
     Both truth and beauty on my love depends;
     So dost thou too, and therein dignified.
     Make answer, Muse: wilt thou not haply say
     'Truth needs no colour, with his colour fix’d;
     Beauty no pencil, beauty’s truth to lay;
     But best is best, if never intermix’d?'
     Because he needs no praise, wilt thou be dumb?
     Excuse not silence so; for’t lies in thee
     To make him much outlive a gilded tomb,
     And to be praised of ages yet to be.
     Then do thy office, Muse; I teach thee how
     To make him seem long hence as he shows now.

In faith, I do not love thee with mine eyes,
     For they in thee a thousand errors note;
     But 'tis my heart that loves what they despise,
     Who in despite of view is pleased to dote;

Some glory in their birth, some in their skill,
     Some in their wealth, some in their bodies’ force,
     Some in their garments, though new-fangled ill,
     Some in their hawks and hounds, some in their horse;
     And every humour hath his adjunct pleasure,
     Wherein it finds a joy above the rest:
     But these particulars are not my measure;
     All these I better in one general best.
     Thy love is better than high birth to me,
     Richer than wealth, prouder than garments’ cost,
     Of more delight than hawks or horses be;
     And having thee, of all men’s pride I boast:
     Wretched in this alone, that thou mayst take
     All this away and me most wretched make.

Thus can my love excuse the slow offence
Of my dull bearer, when from thee I speed:
From where thou art, why should I haste me thence?
Till I return, of posting is no need.
O, what excuse will my poor beast then find
When swift extremity can seem but slow?
Then should I spur, though mounted on the wind;
In wingèd speed no motion shall I know.
Then can no horse with my desire keep pace;
Therefore desire, of perfect’st love being made,
Shall neigh—no dull flesh—in his fiery race.
But love, for love, thus shall excuse my jade:
    Since from thee going he went wilful-slow,
    Towards thee I’ll run, and give him leave to go.

As an unperfect actor on the stage
Who with his fear is put besides his part,
Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage,
Whose strength’s abundance weakens his own heart.
So I, for fear of trust, forget to say
The perfect ceremony of love’s rite,
And in mine own love’s strength seem to decay,
O’ercharged with burden of mine own love’s might.
O, let my books be then the eloquence
And dumb presagers of my speaking breast,
Who plead for love and look for recompense
More than that tongue that more hath more express’d.
   O, learn to read what silent love hath writ:
   To hear with eyes belongs to love’s fine wit.

The expense of spirit in a waste of shame
     Is lust in action; and till action, lust
     Is perjured, murderous, bloody, full of blame,
     Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust,
     Enjoy’d no sooner but despised straight,
     Past reason hunted, and no sooner had
     Past reason hated, as a swallow’d bait
     On purpose laid to make the taker mad;
     Mad in pursuit and in possession so;
     Had, having, and in quest to have, extreme;
     A bliss in proof, and proved, a very woe;
     Before, a joy proposed; behind, a dream.
     All this the world well knows; yet none knows well
     To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell.

TO me, fair friend, you never can be old;
For as you were when first your eye I eyed,
Such seems your beauty still. Three Winters cold
Have from the forests shook three Summers’ pride;
Three beauteous springs to yellow Autumn turn’d
In process of the seasons have I seen,
Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burn’d,
Since first I saw you fresh, which yet are green.
Ah! yet doth beauty, like a dial-hand,
Steal from his figure, and no pace perceived;
So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand,
Hath motion, and mine eye may be deceived:
   For fear of which, hear this, thou age unbred:
   Ere you were born was beauty’s summer dead.

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 th’ 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-bemoaned 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.

Our revels now are ended. These our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits and
Are melted into air, into thin air:
And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capp’d towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.