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Then in the blazon of sweet beauty's best
Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow,
I see their antique pen would have exprest
Ev'n such a beauty as you master now.

So all their praises are but prophecies
Of this our time, all, you prefiguring ;
And for they look'd but with divining eyes,
They had not skill enough your worth to sing :

For we, which now behold these present days, Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise.

W. Shakespeare




N 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
All unseen 'gan passage find ;
That the lover, sick to death,
Wish'd himself the heaven's breath.
Air, quoth he, thy cheeks may blow;
Air, would I might triumph so !
But, alack, my hand is sworn
Ne'er to pluck thee from thy thorn :
Vow, alack, for youth unmeet;
Youth so apt to pluck a sweet.
Do not call it sin in me
That I am forsworn for thee :

Thou for whom e'en Jove would swear
Juno but an Ethiope were,
And deny himself for Jove,
Turning mortal for thy love.

W. Shakespeare

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My great travail so gladly spent,

Forget not yet !

Forget not yet when first began
The weary life ye know, since whan
The suit, the service none tell can ;

Forget not yet !

Forget not yet the great assays,
The cruel wrong, the scornful ways,
The painful patience in delays,

Forget not yet!

Forget not ! O, forget not this,
How long ago hath been, and is
The mind that never meant amiss

Forget not yet!

Forget not then thine own approved
The which so long hath thee so loved,
Whose steadfast faith yet never moved -

Forget not this !

Sir T. Wyat



IF thou knew'st how thou thyself dost harm,

O ;

Then thou wouldst melt the ice out of thy breast
And thy relenting heart would kindly warm.

O if thy pride did not our joys controul,
What world of loving wonders shouldst thou see !
For if I saw thee once transform’d in me,
Then in thy bosom I would pour my soul ;

Then all my thoughts should in thy visage shine,
And if that aught mischanced thou shouldst nøt moan
Nor bear the burthen of thy griefs alone ;
No, I would have my share in what were thine :

And whilst we thus should make our sorrows one,
This happy harmony would make them none.

W. Alexander, Earl of Sterline




ET me not to the marriage of true minds

Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove :-

O no ! it is an ever-fixéd mark
That looks on tempests, and is never shaken ;

It is the star to every wandering bark
Whose worth 's unknown, although his height be taken.

Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come ;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out ev'n to the edge of doom :

If this be error, and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

W. Shakespeare




Y true-love hath my heart, and I have his,

By just exchange one to the other given :
I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss,
There never was a better bargain driven :

My true-love hath my heart, and I have his.

His heart in me keeps him and me in one,
My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides :
He loves my heart, for once it was his own,
I cherish his because in me it bides :
My true-love hath my heart, and I have his.

Sir P. Sidney




ERE I as base as is the lowly plain,

And you, my Love, as high as heaven above,

Yet should the thoughts of me your humble swain
Ascend to heaven, in honour of my Love.

Were I as high as heaven above the plain,
And you, my Love, as humble and as low
As are the deepest bottoms of the main,
Whereso'er you were, with you my love should go.

Were you the earth, dear Love, and I the skies,
My love should shine on you like to the sun,
And look upon you with ten thousand eyes
Till heaven wax'd blind, and till the world were done.

Whereso'er I am, below, or else above you,
Whereso'er you are, my heart shall truly love you.

7. Sylvester



O ?

O stay and hear ! your true-love 's coming

That can sing both high and low ; Trip no further, pretty sweeting, Journeys end in lovers' meeting

Every wise man's son doth know.

What is love? 't is not hereafter ;
Present mirth hath present laughter ;

What's to come is still unsure :
In delay there lies no plenty,
Then come kiss me, Sweet-and-twenty,
Youth 's a stuff will not endure.

W. Shakespeare


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