| Bid me discourse, I will enchant thine ear.|
| Venus and Adonis. Line 145.|
| For he being dead, with him is beauty slain,|
And, beauty dead, black chaos comes again.
| Venus and Adonis. Line 1019.|
| The grass stoops not, she treads on it so light.|
| Venus and Adonis. Line 1027.|
| For greatest scandal waits on greatest state.|
| Lucrece. Line 1306.|
| Thou art thy mothers glass, and she in thee|
Calls back the lovely April of her prime.
| Sonnet iii.|
| And stretched metre of an antique song.|
| Sonnet xvii.|
| But thy eternal summer shall not fade.|
| Sonnet xviii.|
| The painful warrior famoused for fight, 1|
After a thousand victories, once foild,
Is from the books of honour razed quite,
And all the rest forgot for which he toild.
| Sonnet xxv.|
| 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 times waste.
| Sonnet xxx.|
| Full many a glorious morning have I seen.|
| Sonnet xxxiii.||
| My grief lies onward and my joy behind.|
| Sonnet l.|
| Like stones of worth, they thinly placed are,|
Or captain jewels in the carcanet.
| Sonnet lii.|
| The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem|
For that sweet odour which doth in it live.
| Sonnet liv.|
| Not marble, nor the gilded monuments|
Of princes, shall outlive this powerful rhyme.
| Sonnet lv.|
| Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea,|
But sad mortality oersways their power,
How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea,
Whose action is no stronger than a flower?
| Sonnet lxv.|
| And art made tongue-tied by authority.|
| Sonnet lxvi.|
| And simple truth miscalld simplicity,|
And captive good attending captain ill.
| Sonnet lxvi.|
| The ornament of beauty is suspect,|
A crow that flies in heavens sweetest air.
| Sonnet lxx.|
| 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 ruind choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
| Sonnet lxxiii.|
| Your monument shall be my gentle verse,|
Which eyes not yet created shall oer-read,
And tongues to be your being shall rehearse
When all the breathers of this world are dead;
You still shall livesuch virtue hath my pen
Where breath most breathes, even in the mouths of men.
| Sonnet lxxxi.|
| Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing.|
| Sonnet lxxxvii.|
| Do not drop in for an after-loss.|
Ah, do not, when my heart hath scapd this sorrow,
Come in the rearward of a conquerd woe;
Give not a windy night a rainy morrow,
To linger out a purposd overthrow.
| Sonnet xc.|
| When proud-pied April, dressd in all his trim,|
Hath put a spirit of youth in everything.
| Sonnet xcviii.|
| Still constant is a wondrous excellence.|
| Sonnet cv.|
| And beauty, making beautiful old rhyme.|
| Sonnet cvi.|
| My nature is subdud|
To what it works in, like the dyers hand.
| Sonnet cxi.|
| Let me not to the marriage of true minds|
Admit impediments: love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds.
| Sonnet cxvi.|
| T is better to be vile than vile esteemd,|
When not to be receives reproach of being;
And the just pleasure lost which is so deemd,
Not by our feeling, but by others seeing.
| Sonnet cxxi.|
| No, I am that I am, and they that level|
At my abuses reckon up their own.
| Sonnet cxxi.|
| That full star that ushers in the even.|
| Sonnet cxxxii.|
| So on the tip of his subduing tongue|
All kinds of arguments and questions deep,
All replication prompt, and reason strong,
For his advantage still did wake and sleep.
To make the weeper laugh, the laugher weep,
He had the dialect and different skill,
Catching all passion in his craft of will.
| A Lovers Complaint. Line 120.|
| O father, what a hell of witchcraft lies|
In the small orb of one particular tear.
| A Lovers Complaint. Line 288.|
| Bad in the best, though excellent in neither.|
| The Passionate Pilgrim. iii.|
| Crabbed age and youth|
Cannot live together.
| The Passionate Pilgrim. viii.|
| Have you not heard it said full oft,|
A womans nay doth stand for naught?
| The Passionate Pilgrim. xiv.|
| Cursed be he that moves my bones.|
| Shakespeares Epitaph.|