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Then, the lover;
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress' eye-brow.
His words are bonds, his oaths are oracles;
His love sincere, his thoughts immaculate;
His tears pure messengers sent from his heart;
His heart as far from fraud as heaven from earth.
A lover may bestride the gossamours
That idle in the wanton summer air,
And yet not fall; so light is vanity.
If thou remember'st not the slightest folly
That ever love did make thee run into,
Thou hast not lov'd.
Now it is about the very hour
That Silvia, at friar Patrick's cell, should meet me,
She will not fail; for lovers break not hours,
Unless it be to come before their time;
So much they spur their expedition.
It is my soul, that calls upon my name :
How silver-sweet sound lovers' tongues by night,
Like softest music to attending ears!
This is mere madness:
And thus awhile the fit will work on him :
Anon, as patient as the female dove,
When that the golden couplets are disclos'd,
His silence will sit drooping.
I am not mad;-I would to heaven, I were !
For then, 'tis like I should forget myself:
O, if I could, what grief should I forget!
I am not mad; too well, too well I feel
The different plague of each calamity.
Alack, 'tis he; why, he was met even now
As mad as the vext sea; singing aloud,
Crown'd with rank fumiter, and furrow weeds,
With burdocks, hemlock, nettles, cuckow flowers,
Darnel, and all the idle weeds that
Alas, how is't with you?
That you do bend your eyes on vacancy,
And with the incorporal air do hold discourse?
O, what a noble mind is here o'erthrown!
The courtier's, scholar's, soldier's, eye, tongue, sword; The expectancy and rose of the fair state,
The glass of fashion, and the mould of form,
The observ'd of all observers! quite, quite down!
And I, of ladies most deject and wretched,
That suck'd the honey of his music vows,
Now see that noble and most sovereign reason;
Like sweet bells jangled, out of tune and harsh.
This is the very coinage of your brain:
This bodiless creation ecstacy
My pulse, as yours, doth temperately keep time,
And makes as healthful music: It is not madness,
That I have utter'd: bring me to the test,
And I the matter will re-word; which madness
Would gambol from.
Lay not that flattering unction to your soul,
That not your trespass, but my madness, speaks:
It will but skin and film the ulcerous place:
Whiles rank corruption, mining all within,
O prince, I conjure thee, as thou believ'st
There is another comfort than this world,
That thou neglect me not, with that opinion
That I am touch'd with madness.
How stiff is my vile sense,
That I stand up, and have ingenious feeling
Of my huge sorrows! better I were distract;
So should my thoughts be severed from my griefs;
And woes, by wrong imaginations, lose
The knowledge of themselves.
He was a man, take him for all in all,
I shall not look upon his like again.
His life was gentle; and the elements
So mix'd in him, that nature might stand up,
say to all the world, This was a man!
A sweeter and a lovelier gentleman,—
Fram'd in the prodigality of nature,
Young, valiant, wise, and, no doubt, right royal.
The spacious world cannot again afford.
Did all the chivalry of England move
To do brave acts: he was, indeed, the glass
Wherein the noble youth did dress themselves.
By my hopes,
(This present enterprize set off his head,)
I do not think a braver gentleman,
More active-valiant, or more valiant-young,
More daring, or more bold, is now alive,
To grace this latter age with noble deeds.
He bears him like a portly gentleman;
And, to say truth, Verona brags of him,
To be a virtuous and well-govern'd youth.
In speech, in gait,
In diet, in affections of delight,
In military rules, humours of blood,
He was the mark and glass, copy, and book,
That fashion'd others.
See, what a grace was seated on this brow:
Hyperion's curls; the front of Jove himself;
eye like Mars, to threaten and command;
A station, like the herald Mercury,
New-lighted on a heaven-kissing hill;
A combination, and a form, indeed,
Where every god did seem to set his seal,
To give the world assurance of a man.
He was not born to shame :
Upon his brow shame is asham'd to sit;
For 'tis a throne where honour may be crown'd
Sole monarch of the universal earth.
His nature is too noble for the world:
He would not flatter Neptune for his trident,
Or Jove for his power to thunder. His heart's his
What his breast forges, that his tongue must vent;
And, being angry, does forget that ever
He heard the name of death.
His years but young, but his experience old;
His head unmellow'd, but his judgment ripe ;
And, in a word, (for far behind his worth
Come all the praises that I now bestow,)
He is complete in feature, and in mind,'
With all good grace to grace a gentleman.
He hath a tear for pity, and a hand
Open as day, for melting charity:
Yet notwithstanding, being incens'd, he's flint
As humorous as winter, and as sudden
As flaws congealed in the spring of day.
If you were men, as men you are in show,
You would not use a gentle lady so.
However we do praise ourselves,
Our fancies are more giddy and infirm,
More longing, wavering, sooner lost and won,
In our own natures frail; and capable
Of our flesh, few are angels.
No faith, no honesty in men; all perjur'd,
All forsworn, all naught, all dissemblers.
Though from an humble stock, undoubtedly
Was fashion'd to much honour. From his cradle,
He was a scholar, and a ripe, and good one;
Exceeding wise, fair spoken, and persuading:
Lofty, and sour, to them that lov'd him not;
But, to those men that sought him, sweet as summer.