Hamlet, Act 2, Scene 2. Polonius.
Modern version:
“You may wonder if the stars are fire, You may wonder if the sun moves across the sky. You may wonder if the truth is a liar, But never wonder if I love.”
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The expense of spirit in a waste o… Is lust in action; and till action… Is perjured, murderous, bloody, fu… Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not… Enjoy’d no sooner but despised str…
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…
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…
COME away, come away, death, And in sad cypres let me be lai… Fly away, fly away, breath; I am slain by a fair cruel maid… My shroud of white, stuck all with…
Let not my love be called idolatry… Nor my belovèd as an idol show, Since all alike my songs and prais… To one, of one, still such, and ev… Kind is my love today, tomorrow ki…
Those parts of thee that the world… Want nothing that the thought of h… All tongues, the voice of souls, g… Utt’ring bare truth, even so as fo… Thy outward thus with outward prai…
O! how I faint when I of you do w… Knowing a better spirit doth use y… And in the praise thereof spends a… To make me tongue-tied speaking of… But since your worth—wide as the o…
Against my love shall be, as I am… With Time’s injurious hand crushe… When hours have drained his blood… With lines and wrinkles; when his… Hath travelled on to age’s steepy…
O, that you were yourself! but, lo… No longer yours than you yourself… Against this coming end you should… And your sweet semblance to some o… So should that beauty which you ho…
O, that you were your self! But,… No longer yours than you yourself… Against this coming end you should… And your sweet semblance to some o… So should that beauty which you ho…
Thine eyes I love, and they, as p… Knowing thy heart torment me with… Have put on black, and loving mour… Looking with pretty ruth upon my p… And truly not the morning sun of h…
O me! what eyes hath love put in m… Which have no correspondence with… Or, if they have, where is my judg… That censures falsely what they se… If that be fair whereon my false e…
O thou, my lovely boy, who in thy… Dost hold Time’s fickle glass his… Who hast by waning grown, and ther… Thy lovers withering, as thy sweet… If Nature, sovereign mistress ove…
I never saw that you did painting… And therefore to your fair no pain… I found, or thought I found, you… The barren tender of a poet’s debt… And therefore have I slept in you…
Poor soul, the centre of my sinful… These rebel powers that thee array… Why dost thou pine within and suff… Painting thy outward walls so cost… Why so large cost, having so short…