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Sure you have made me passing glad
That you your mind so soon removed,
Before that I the leisure had
To choose you for my best beloved :

For all your love was past and done

Two days before it was begun :-
Adieu Love, adieu Love, untrue Love,
Untrue Love, untrue Love, adieu Love ;
Your mind is light, soon lost for new love.


XLI A RENUNCIATION If women could be fair, and yet not fond, Or that their love were firm, not fickle still, I would not marvel that they make men bond By service long to purchase their good will ; But when I see how frail those creatures are, I muse that men forget themselves so far. To mark the choice they make, and how they change, How oft from Phoebus they do flee to Pan ; Unsettled still, like haggards wild they range, These gentle birds that fly from man to man ; Who would not scorn and shake them from the fist, And let them fly, fair fools, which way they list ? Yet for disport we fawn and flatter both, To pass the time when nothing else can please, And train them to our lure with subtle oath, Till, weary of their wiles, ourselves we ease ; And then we say when we their fancy try, To play with fools, O what a fool was I !

E. Vere, Earl of Oxford


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,

Although thy breath be rude.
Heigh ho ! sing heigh ho ! unto the green holly :
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly :

Then, heigh ho! the holly!
This life is most jolly.
Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,
Thou dost not bite so nigh
As benefits forgot :
Though thou the waters warp,
Thy sting is not so sharp

As friend remember'd not.
Heigh ho ! sing heigh ho! unto the green holly :
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly :

Then, heigh ho! the holly!
This life is most jolly.

W. Shakespeare


My thoughts hold mortal strife ;
I do detest my life,
And with lamenting cries
Peace to my soul to bring
Oft call that prince which here doth monarchize :
-But he, grim grinning King,
Who caitiffs scorns, and doth the blest surprize,
Late having deck'd with beauty's rose his tomb,
Disdains to crop a weed, and will not come.

W. Drummond



Come away, come away, Death,
And in sad cypres let me be laid;

Fly away, fly away, breath ;
I am slain by a fair cruel maid.

My shroud of white, stuck all with yew,

O prepare it !
My part of death no one so true

Did share it.
Not a flower, not a flower sweet
On my black coffin let there be strown;

Not a friend, not a friend greet
My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown:
A thousand thousand sighs to save,

Lay me, O where
Sad true lover never find my grave,
To weep there.

W. Shakespeare



Fear no more the heat o' the sun

Nor the furious winter's rages;
Thou thy worldly task hast done,

Home art gone and ta'en thy wages :
Golden lads and girls all must,
As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.
Fear no more the frown o' the great,

Thou art past the tyrant's stroke;
Care no more to clothe and eat ;

To thee the reed is as the oak :
The sceptre, learning, physic, must
All follow this, and come to dust.
Fear no more the lightning flash

Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone ;
Fear not slander, censure rash ;

Thou hast finish'd joy and moan :
All lovers young, all lovers must
Consign to thee, and come to dust.

W. Shakespeare


Full fathom five thy father lies :

Of his bones are coral made ;
Those are pearls that were his eyes :

Nothing of him that doth fade,
But doth suffer a sea-change
Into something rich and strange ;
Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell :
Hark! now I hear them,-
Ding, dong, Bell.

W. Shakespeare


A LAND DIRGE Call for the robin-redbreast and the wren, Since o'er shady groves they hover And with leaves and flowers do cover The friendless bodies of unburied men. Call unto his funeral dole The ant, the field-mouse, and the mole To rear him hillocks that shall keep him warm And (when gay tombs are robb’d) sustain no harm ; But keep the wolf far thence, that's foe to men, For with his nails he'll dig them up again.

5. Webster



POST MORTEM If Thou survive my well-contented day When that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover, And shalt by fortune once more re-survey These poor rude lines of thy deceased lover ; Compare them with the bettering of the time, And though they be outstripp'd by every pen,

Reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme
Exceeded by the height of happier men.
O then vouchsafe me but this loving thought-
'Had my friend's muse grown with this growing age,
A dearer birth than this his love had brought,
To march in ranks of better equipage :
But since he died, and poets better prove,
Theirs for their style I'll read, his for his love.'

W. Shakespeare




No longer mourn for me when I am dead
Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell
Give warning to the world, that I am fed
From this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell;
Nay, if you read this line, remember not.
The hand that writ it; for I love you so,
That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot
If thinking on me then should make you woe.
O if, I say, you look upon this verse
When I perhaps compounded am with clay,
Do not so much as my poor name rehearse,
But let your love even with my life decay ;
Lest the wise world should look into your moan,
And mock you with me after I am gone.

W. Shakespeare

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Tell me where is Fancy bred,
Or in the heart, or in the head ?
How begot, how nourishéd ?

Reply, reply.

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