O Mistress mine! where are you roaming? O stay and hear! your true Love's coming, That can sing both high and low : Trip no further, pretty Sweeting! Journeys end in lovers meeting,—
Every wise man's son doth know.
What is love? 'Tis not hereafter: Present mirth hath present laughter, What's to come is still unsure. In delay there lies no plenty :
Then come kiss me, Sweet-and-twenty! Youth's a stuff will not endure.
COME AWAY, DEATH!
Come away, come away, Death! And in sad cypress let me be laid : Fly away, fly away, breath!
I am slain by a fair cruel Maid.
My shroud of white, stuck all with yew, O prepare it!
My part of death, no one so true
Not a flower, not a flower sweet, On my black coffin let there be strown!
Not a friend, not a friend greet
My poor corpse where my bones shall be thrown ! A thousand thousand sighs to save,
Sad true lover never find my grave,
Orpheus with his lute made trees, And the mountain tops that freeze, Bow themselves when he did sing : To his music plants and flowers Ever sprung, as sun and showers There had made a lasting Spring.
Every thing that heard him play, Even the billows of the sea,
Hung their heads and then lay by :
In sweet music is such art,
Killing care and grief of heart.
Fall asleep, or hearing die!
Hark! hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings, And Phoebus gins arise,
His steeds to water at those springs
On chaliced flowers that lies:
And winking Mary-buds begin
To ope their golden eyes;
With every thing that pretty been :
My Lady sweet! arise! Arise! arise!
Fear no more the heat o' the sun, Nor the furious winter's rages!
Thou thy worldly task hast done,
Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages.
Golden lads and girls, all must,
As chimney sweepers, come to dust.
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 thee and come to dust.
Fear no more the lightning flash,
Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone! Fear not slander, censure rash!
Thou hast finish'd joy and moan. All lovers young, all lovers must Consign to thee and come to dust.
No exorcisor harm thee!
Nor no witchcraft charm thee! Ghost unlaid forbear thee! Nothing ill come near thee! Quiet consummation have, And renowned be thy grave!
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 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 cancel'd woe, And moan the expense of many a vanish'd sight: Then can I grieve at grievances foregone, And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan, Which I now pay as if not paid before. But if the while I think of thee, dear friend! All losses are restored and sorrows end.
O, how thy worth with manners may I sing When thou art all the better part of me?
What can mine own praise to mine own self bring; And what is't but mine own when I praise thee?
Even for this let us divided live,
And our dear love lose name of single one:
That by this separation I may give
That due to thee which thou deservest alone! O absence! what a torment wouldst thou prove, Were it not thy sour leisure gave sweet leave To entertain the time with thoughts of love (Which time and thoughts so sweetly doth deceive), And that thou teachest how to make one twain By praising him here who doth hence remain.
Not marble, nor the gilded monuments
Of princes, shall outlive this powerful rhyme ; But you shall shine more bright in these contents Than unswept stone besmear'd with sluttish time. When wasteful war shall statues overturn,
And broils root out the work of masonry,
Nor Mars his sword nor war's quick fire shall burn The living record of your memory.
'Gainst death and all oblivious enmity
Shall you pace forth; your praise shall still find room Even in the eyes of all posterity
That wears this world out to the ending doom.
So till the Judgment, that yourself arise,
You live in this, and dwell in lovers' eyes.
Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea, But sad mortality o'ersways their power, How with this rage shall Beauty hold a plea, Whose action is no stronger than a flower? O, how shall summer's honey breath hold out
Against the wreckful siege of battering days, When rocks impregnable are not so stout Nor gates of steel so strong but Time decays? O fearful meditation! where, alack!
Shall Time's best jewel from Time's chest be hid? Or what strong hand can hold his swift foot back? Or who his spoil of Beauty can forbid ?
O, none! unless this miracle have might:
That in black ink my love may still shine bright.
Tired with all these, for restful death I cry : As to behold desert a beggar born; And needy nothing trimm'd in jollity; And purest faith unhappily forsworn ; And gilded honour shamefully misplaced; And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted; And right perfection wrongfully disgraced; And strength by limping sway disabled; And art made tongue-tied by authority; And folly doctor-like controuling skill; And simple truth miscall'd simplicity; And captive good attending captain ill: Tired with all these, from these I would be gone, Save that to die I leave my Love alone.
That time of year thou may'st in me behold When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang Upon those boughs which shake against the cold: Bare ruin'd choirs where late the sweet birds sang. In me thou see'st 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 see'st the glowing of such fire
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie
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