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Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,
But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,
many a glorious morning have I seen
Yet him for this my love no whit disdaineth;
Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore,
Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth,
And yet to times in hope my verse shall stand,
SONNET LXXIII 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, As the death-bed whereon it must expire, Consumed with that which it was nourish'd by. This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more
strong, To love that well which thou must leave ere long.
SONNET CXVI Let me not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediments. Love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds, Or bends with the remover to remove: 0, no! It is an ever-fixed mark, That looks on tempests and is never shaken; It is the star to every wandering bark, Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken. Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks Within his bending sickle's compass come; Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, But bears it out even to the edge of doom. If this be error and upon me proved, I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
SONNET X.-ON DEATH
(From Holy Sonnets, written before 1607) Death, be not proud, though some have called thee Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so; For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow Die not, poor Death; nor yet cans't thou kill me. From rest and sleep, which but thy picture be, Much pleasure, then from thee much more must flow: And soonest our best men with thee do go, Rest of their bones, and souls' delivery. Thou art slave to Fate, chance, kings, and desperate
men, And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell, And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well, And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou, then? One short sleep pass, we wake eternally, And Death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.
(From Poems, Lyrics and Pastorals, 1605 ?)
Fair stood the wind for France,
Longer not tarry,
Landed King Harry.
And taking many a fort,
In happy hour,
With all his power:
Which in his height of pride,
Unto him sending;
Poyters and Cressy tell,
No less our skill is
Lopp'd the French lilies.
The Duke of York so dread,
Amongst his henchmen.