Category William Shakespeare

So now I have confessed that he is thine, And I my self am mortgaged to thy will, Myself I’ll forfeit, so that other mine Thou wilt restore to be my comfort still: But thou wilt not, nor he will…

Beshrew that heart that makes my heart to groan For that deep wound it gives my friend and me: Is’t not enough to torture me alone, But slave to slavery my sweet’st friend must be? Me from myself thy cruel…

Thine eyes I love, and they, as pitying me, Knowing thy heart torments me with disdain, Have put on black and loving mourners be, Looking with pretty ruth upon my pain. And truly not the morning sun of heaven Better…

Thou art as tyrannous, so as thou art, As those whose beauties proudly make them cruel; For well thou know’st to my dear doting heart Thou art the fairest and most precious jewel. Yet, in good faith, some say that…

Th’ expense of spirit in a waste of shame Is lust in action; and till action, lust Is perjured, murd’rous, bloody, full of blame, Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust, Enjoyed no sooner but despisèd straight, Past reason hunted;…

How oft, when thou, my music, music play’st, Upon that blessed wood whose motion sounds With thy sweet fingers, when thou gently sway’st The wiry concord that mine ear confounds, Do I envy those jacks that nimble leap To kiss…

In the old age black was not counted fair, Or if it were, it bore not beauty’s name; But now is black beauty’s successive heir, And beauty slandered with a bastard shame: For since each hand hath put on Nature’s…

O thou, my lovely boy, who in thy pow’r Dost hold time’s fickle glass his sickle hour, Who hast by waning grown, and therein show’st Thy lovers withering, as thy sweet self grow’st— In nature, sovereign mistress over wrack, As…

Were’t aught to me I bore the canopy, With my extern the outward honouring, Or laid great bases for eternity, Which proves more short than waste or ruining; Have I not seen dwellers on form and favour Lose all, and…

If my dear love were but the child of state, It might for Fortune’s bastard be unfathered, As subject to time’s love or to time’s hate, Weeds among weeds, or flow’rs with flowers gathered. No, it was builded far from…