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WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

Fear no more the frown o' the 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 the 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!
Quiet consummation have;
And renownéd be thy grave.

SONNETS.

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 remembered, such wealth brings,

That then I scorn to change my state with kings.

17

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,

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 moan the expense of many a vanished sight.

Then can I grieve at grievances foregone, And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er The sad account of fore-bemoanéd 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.

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 the death-bed whereon it must ex-
pire,
Consumed with that which it was nour-
ished by.

This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy
love more strong,
To love that well which thou must
leave erelong.

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They are the lords and owners of their No! Time, thou shalt not boast that I faces,

do change:

Others but stewards of their excellence.
The summer's flower is to the summer
sweet,

Thy pyramids built up with newer might
To me are nothing novel, nothing strange;
They are but dressings of a former sight.
Our dates are brief, and therefore we
admire

Though to itself it only live and die;
But if that flower with base infection
meet,

The basest weed outbraves his dignity: For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds;

Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds.

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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-fixéd 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.

What thou dost foist upon us that is old;
And rather make them born to our desire,
Than think that we before have heard
them told.

Thy registers and thee I both defy,
Not wondering at the present nor the past;
For thy records and what we see do lie,
Made more or less by thy continual haste:

This I do vow, and this shall ever be,
I will be true, despite thy scythe and
thee.

BEN JONSON.

[1574-1637.]

THE NOBLE NATURE.

Ir is not growing like a tree
In bulk, doth make man better be;
Or standing long an oak, three hundred
year,

To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere:
A lily of a day

Is fairer far in May,

Although it fall and die that night,

It was the plant and flower of Light. In small proportions we just beauties see; And in short measures life may perfect be.

SONG OF HESPERUS.

QUEEN, and huntress, chaste and fair,
Now the sun is laid to sleep,
Seated in thy silver chair,
State in wonted manner keep:

Hesperus entreats thy light,
Goddess excellently bright.

Earth, let not thy envious shade
Dare itself to interpose;
Cynthia's shining orb was made
Heaven to clear, when day did close:
Bless us then with wished sight,
Goddess excellently bright.

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