When turtles tread, and rooks, and daws, BLOW, BLOW, THOU WINTER WIND And maidens bleach their summer smocks, From AS YOU LIKE IT BLOW, blow, thou winter wind, 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 LIKE 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. Crooked eclipses 'gainst his glory fight, And Time that gave doth now his gift confound. Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth And delves the parallels in beauty's brow, Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth, And nothing stands but for his scythe to From that place the morn is broke To that place day doth unyoke! MELANCHOLY HENCE, all you vain delights, A look that's fasten'd to the ground, A midnight bell, a parting groan -- Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley, Nothing's so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy. |