Yet should the thoughts of me your humble swain Were I as high as heaven above the plain, Were you the earth, dear Love, and I the skies, Whereso'er I am, below, or else above you, XXVI 7. Sylvester CARPE DIEM MISTRESS mine, where are you roaming? O stay and hear! your true-love 's coming Trip no further, pretty sweeting, Every wise man's son doth know. What is love? 't is not hereafter; In delay there lies no plenty, Then come kiss me, Sweet-and-twenty, Youth's a stuff will not endure. W. Shakespeare W XXVII WINTER HEN icicles hang by the wall And Dick the shepherd blows his nail, And milk comes frozen home in pail; Tuwhoo! Tuwhit! tuwhoo! A merry note! greasy Joan doth keel the pot. While When all around the wind doth blow, Tuwhoo! Tuwhit! tuwhoo! A merry note ! While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. W. Shakespeare XXVIII HAT time of year thou may'st in me behold ΤΗ When yellow leaves, or none, or few do hang Upon those boughs which shake against the cold, Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang. In me thou seest the twilight of such day As after sunset fadeth in the west, Which by and by black night doth take away, In me thou seest the glowing of such fire, As the deathbed whereon it must expire, Consumed with that which it was nourish'd by: This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong, To love that well which thou must leave erelong. W. Shakespeare WHE XXIX REMEMBRANCE WHEN to the sessions of sweet silent thought 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, Then can I grieve at grievances foregone, But if the while I think on thee, dear friend, All losses are restored, and sorrows end. W. Shakespeare своя L XXX REVOLUTIONS IKE as the waves make towards the pebbled shore So do our minutes hasten to their end; Each changing place with that which goes before, In sequent toil all forwards do contend. Nativity once in the main of light Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crown'd, And Time that gave, doth now his gift confound. Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth, And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow. And yet, to times in hope, my verse shall stand XXXI F AREWELL! thou art too dear for my possessing, And like enough thou know'st thy estimate: The charter of thy worth gives thee releasing, For how do I hold thee but by thy granting? Thyself thou gav'st, thy own worth then not knowing, Thus have I had thee as a dream doth flatter; XXXII THE LIFE WITHOUT PASSION HEY that have power to hurt, and will do none, most Who, moving others, are themselves as stone, They rightly do inherit Heaven's graces, The summer's flower is to the summer sweet, For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds; W. Shakespeare |