Poésies de William ShakespeareOver hill, over dale,
Thorough bush, thorough brier,
Over park, over pale,
Thorough flood, thorough fire!
FROM off a hill whose concave womb reworded
A plaintful story from a sistering vale,
All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances,
HARK! hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings,
And Phoebus 'gins arise,
His steeds to water at those springs
Blow, blow, thou winter wind
Thou art not so unkind
As man's ingratitude;
Thy tooth is not so keen,
Because thou art not seen,
ROSES, their sharp spines being gone,
Not royal in their smells alone,
But in their hue;
Maiden pinks, of odour faint,
O mistress mine, where are you roaming?
O stay and hear! your true-love's coming
That can sing both high and low;
COME away, come away, death,
And in sad cypres let me be laid;
Fly away, fly away, breath;
I am slain by a fair cruel maid.
URNS and odours bring away!
Vapours, sighs, darken the day!
Our dole more deadly looks than dying;
OVER hill, over dale,
Thorough bush, thorough brier,
Over park, over pale,
Thorough flood, thorough fire,
YOU spotted snakes with double tongue,
Thorny hedgehogs, be not seen;
Newts and blind-worms, do no wrong;
COME unto these yellow sands,
And then take hands:
Court'sied when you have, and kiss'd,--
The wild waves whist,--
FULL fathom five thy father lies;
Of his bones are coral made;
Those are pearls that were his eyes:
Fear no more the heat o' the sun;
Nor the furious winter's rages,
Thou thy worldly task hast done,
FEAR no more the heat o' the sun,
Nor the furious winter's rages;
Thou thy worldly task hast done,
But, lo! from forth a copse that neighbours by,
A breeding jennet, lusty, young, and proud,
From you have I been absent in the spring,
When proud-pied April, dressed in all his trim,
Full fathom five thy father lies;
Of his bones are coral made;
Those are pearls that were his eyes:
Hark! hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings,
And Phoebus 'gins arise,
His steeds to water at those springs
IT was a lover and his lass,
With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,
That o'er the green corn-field did pass,
TELL me where is Fancy bred,
Or in the heart or in the head?
How begot, how nourished?
Reply, reply.
My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips' red;
Not from the stars do I my judgment pluck,
And yet methinks I have astronomy;
But not to tell of good or evil luck,
Not marble nor the gilded monuments
Of princes shall outlive this powerful rhyme;
? or John Fletcher.
ORPHEUS with his lute made trees
And the mountain tops that freeze
Bow themselves when he did sing:
Orpheus with his lute made trees,
And the mountain tops that freeze,
Bow themselves, when he did sing:
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,
Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more,
Men were deceivers ever;
One foot in sea, and one on shore,
To one thing constant never.
WHO is Silvia? What is she?
That all our swains commend her?
Holy, fair, and wise is she;
The heaven such grace did lend her,
O, how much more doth beauty beauteous seem
By that sweet ornament which truth doth give!
Where art thou, Muse, that thou forget'st so long
To speak of that which gives thee all thy might?
O truant Muse, what shall be thy amends
For thy neglect of truth in beauty dyed?
Both truth and beauty on my love depends;
My love is strengthened, though more weak in seeming;
I love not less, though less the show appear;
Alack, what poverty my Muse brings forth,
That having such a scope to show her pride,
The argument all bare is of more worth
To me, fair friend, you never can be old,
For as you were when first your eye I eyed,
Let not my love be called idolatry,
Nor my belovèd as an idol show,
Since all alike my songs and praises be
TAKE, O take those lips away,
That so sweetly were forsworn;
And those eyes, the break of day,
Lights that do mislead the morn!
That time of year thou mayst in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
ON a day--alack the day!--
Love, whose month is ever May,
Spied a blossom passing fair
Playing in the wanton air:
Let the bird of loudest lay,
On the sole Arabian tree,
Herald sad and trumpet be,
To whose sound chaste wings obey.
The quality of mercy is not strain'd.
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath. It is twice blest:
Under the greenwood tree
Who loves to lie with me,
And turn his merry note
Unto the sweet bird's throat,
When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,
I all alone beweep my outcast state,
When that I was and a little tiny boy,
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,
A foolish thing was but a toy,
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,
