#EnglishWriters
Blow, blow, thou winter wind Thou art not so unkind As man’s ingratitude; Thy tooth is not so keen, Because thou art not seen,
WHO is Silvia? What is she? That all our swains commend her… Holy, fair, and wise is she; The heaven such grace did lend… That she might admired be.
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…
King Henry to Westmoreland What’s he that wishes so? My cousin Westmoreland? No my fai… If we are mark’d to die, we are en… To do our country loss; and if to…
Accuse me thus: that I have scant… Wherein I should your great deser… Forgot upon your dearest love to c… Whereto all bonds do tie me day by… That I have frequent been with un…
Not from the stars do I my judgem… And yet methinks I have astronomy… But not to tell of good or evil lu… Of plagues, of dearths, or seasons… Nor can I fortune to brief minute…
When forty winters shall beseige 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…
When that I was and a little tiny… With hey, ho, the wind and the rai… A foolish thing was but a toy, For the rain it raineth every day. But when I came to man’s estate,
Who will believe my verse in time… If it were fill’d with your most h… Though yet, heaven knows, it is bu… Which hides your life and shows no… If I could write the beauty of yo…
Say that thou didst forsake me for… And I will comment upon that offe… Speak of my lameness, and I strai… Against thy reasons making no defe… Thou canst not, love, disgrace me…
Then hate me when thou wilt; if ev… Now, while the world is bent my de… join with the spite of fortune, ma… And do not drop in for an after-lo… Ah, do not, when my heart hath 'sc…
That you were once unkind befriend… And for that sorrow which I then… Needs must I under my transgressi… Unless my nerves were brass or ham… For if you were by my unkindness s…
ON a day—alack the day!— Love, whose month is ever May, Spied a blossom passing fair Playing in the wanton air: Through the velvet leaves the wind
If thy soul cheque thee that I co… Swear to thy blind soul that I wa… And will, thy soul knows, is admit… Thus far for love my love-suit, sw… 'Will’ will fulfil the treasure of…
Lo! in the orient when the graciou… Lifts up his burning head, each un… Doth homage to his new—appearing s… Serving with looks his sacred maje… And having climb’d the steep—up he…