Shall I Compare Thee To A Summer's Day
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 ow'st,/ Nor shall death brag thou wand'rest in his shade/ when in eternal lines to time thou grow'st./ So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,/ So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
Let Me Not to the Marriage of True Minds
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- fixèd mark/ That looks on tempests and is never shaken;/ It is the star to every wand'ring 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.
That Time of Year Thou Mayst in Me Behold
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 seest 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 seest the glowing of such fire/ That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,/ As on the deathbed 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.
My Mistress' Eyes Are Nothing Like The Sun
My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;/ Coral is far more red than her lips' red;/ If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;/ If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head./ I have seen roses damasked, red and white,/ But no such roses see I in her cheeks;/ And in some perfumes is there more delight/ Than in the breath that from mistress reeks./ I love to hear her speak; yet well I know/ That music hath a far more pleasing sound:/ I grant I never saw a goddess go;/ My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground./ And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare/ As any she belied with false compare.
When, In Disgrace With Fortune And Men's Eyes
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 possessed,/ 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 rememb'red such wealth brings,/ That then I scorn to change my state with kings.