Fear no more the frown o' th' 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 th' all-dreaded thunder-stone; Fear not slander, censure rash;
Thou hast finished joy and moan: All lovers young, all lovers must Consign to thee, and come to dust.
No exorciser harm thee!
Nor no witchcraft charm thee! Ghost unlaid forbear thee! Nothing ill come near thee!
And renowned be thy grave!
WHERE the bee sucks, there suck I:
In a cowslip's bell I lie;
There I couch, when owls do cry:
On the bat's back I do fly
After summer merrily.
Merrily, merrily, shall I live now,
Under the blossom that hangs on the bough!
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.
SHALL I compare thee to a summer's day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate: Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, And summer's lease hath all too short a date: Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, And often is his gold complexion dimmed; And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance or nature's changing course untrimmed; But thy eternal summer shall not fade Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest; Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade, When in eternal lines to time thou growest:
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
WHEN, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes, I all alone beweep my outcast state, And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries And look upon myself and curse my fate- Wishing me like to one more rich in hope, Featured like him, like him with friends possest,
Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope, With what I most enjoy contented least- (Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising), Haply I think on thee, and then my state, Like to the lark at break of day arising From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate! For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings That then I scorn to change my state with kings.
WHEN to the sessions of sweet silent thought I summon up remembrance of things past, 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, For precious friends hid in death's dateless night, And weep afresh love's long since cancelled woe, And moan th' expense of many a vanished sight: Then can I grieve at grievances forgone, And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan, Which I new pay as if not paid before.
But if the while I think on thee, dear friend, All losses are restored and sorrows end.
WHEN I have seen by Time's fell hand defaced The rich proud cost of outworn buried age; When sometime lofty towers I see down-razed, And brass eternal slave to mortal rage; When I have seen the hungry ocean gain Advantage on the kingdom of the shore, And the firm soil win of the watery main, Increasing store with loss and loss with store; When I have seen such interchange of state, Or state itself confounded to decay,
Ruin hath taught me thus to ruminate- That Time will come and take my love away. This thought is as a death, which cannot choose But weep to have that which it fears to lose.
SINCE brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea, But sad mortality o'er-sways their power,
How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea, Whose action is no stronger than a flower? O, how shall summer's honey breath hold out Against the wreckful siege of battering days, When rocks impregnable are not so stout, Nor gates of steel so strong, but Time decays? O fearful meditation! where, alack,
Shall Time's best jewel from Time's chest lie hid? Or what strong hand can hold his swift foot back? Or who his spoil of beauty can forbid?
O, none, unless this miracle have might, That in black ink my love may still shine bright.
THAT time of year thou mayst in me behold When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang Upon those boughs which shake against the cold, Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang. In me thou see'st the twilight of such day
As after sunset fadeth in the west,
Which by and by black night doth take away, Death's second self, that seals up all in rest. In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire That on the ashes of his youth doth lie, As the death-bed whereon it must expire, Consumed with that which it was nourished by.
This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong, To love that well which thou must leave ere long.
How like a winter hath my absence been From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year! What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen! What old December's bareness every where! And yet this time removed was summer's time, The teeming autumn, big with rich increase, Bearing the wanton burden of the prime, Like widowed wombs after their lords' decease: Yet this abundant issue seemed to me
But hope of orphans and unfathered fruit; For summer and his pleasures wait on thee, And, thou away, the very birds are mute;
Or, if they sing, 'tis with so dull a cheer
That leaves look pale, dreading the winter's near.
LET 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-fixed 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 even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
POOR soul, the centre of my sinful earth, Thrall to these rebel powers that thee array, Why dost thou pine within and suffer dearth, Painting thy outward walls so costly gay? Why so large cost, having so short a lease, Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend? Shall worms, inheritors of this excess,
Eat up thy charge? is this thy body's end? Then, soul, live thou upon thy servant's loss, And let that pine to aggravate thy store; Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross; Within be fed, without be rich no more:
So shalt thou feed on Death, that feeds on men, And Death once dead, there's no more dying then.
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