WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. THUS is his cheek the map of days outworn, Before the golden tresses of the dead, WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. No longer mourn for me when I am dead, Give warning to the world that I am fled And mock you with me after I am gone. WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. THAT time of year thou may'st in me behold As after sunset fadeth in the west, Which by and by black night doth take away, 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 expire, Consum'd with that which it was nourish'd by. This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong, To love that well which thou must leave ere long. WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. WHY is my verse so barren of new pride? That every word doth almost tell my name, O know, sweet love, I always write of you, WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. THEN hate me when thou wilt; if ever, now; Now while the world is bent my deeds to cross, Ah! do not, when my heart hath scap'd this sorrow, Come in the rearward of a conquer'd woe; Give not a windy night a rainy morrow, To linger out a purpos'd overthrow. If thou wilt leave me, do not leave me last, At first the very worst of fortune's might; |