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And you, enchantment, Worthy enough a herdsman--yea, him too, That makes himself, but for our honor therein, Unworthy thee-if ever henceforth thou These rural latches to his entrance open, Or hoop his body more with thy embraces, I will devise a death as cruel for thee As thou art tender to't.

At land indeed Thou dost o'ercount me of my father's house: But since the cuckoo builds not for himself, Remain in't as thou mayst.

And, being fed by us, you used us so As that ungentle gull, the cuckoo's bird, Useth the sparrow--did oppress our nest; . . .

When daisies pied and violets blue And lady-smocks all silver-white And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue Do paint the meadows with delight, The cuckoo then, on every tree, Mocks married men: for thus sings he, Cuckoo; Cuckoo, cuckoo: O, word of fear, Unpleasing to a married ear!

I would I had some flowers o' th' spring that might Become your time of day, and yours, and yours, That wear upon your virgin branches yet Your maidenheads growing. O, Proserpina, For the flowers now that, frighted, thou let'st fall From Dis's wagon; daffodils, That come before the swallow dares, and take The winds of March with beauty; violets dim, But sweeter than the lids of Juno's eyes Or Cytherea's breath; pale primroses, That die unmarried, ere they can behold Bright Phoebus in his strength--a malady Most incident to maids; bold oxlips and The crown imperial; lilies of all kinds, The flower-de-luce being one.

Or, if there were a sympathy in choice, War, death, or sickness did lay siege to it, Making it momentany as a sound, Swift as a shadow, short as any dream, Brief as the lightning in the collied night, That, in a spleen, unfolds both heaven and earth, And ere a man hath power to say 'Behold!' The jaws of darkness do devour it up: So quick bright things come to confusion.

The charm dissolves apace; And as the morning steals upon the night, Melting the darkness, so their rising senses Begin to chase the ignorant fumes that mantle Their clearer reason.

Nothing in his life became him like the leaving it.

When he shall die Take him and cut him in little stars And he will make the face of heaven so fine That all the world will be in love with night And pay no worship to the garish sun.

He was a man, take him for all in all, I shall not look upon his like again.

Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player That struts and frets his hour upon the stage And then is heard no more. It is a tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, Signifying nothing.

For I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright, who art as black as hell, as dark as night.

When we shall hear The rain and wind beat dark December, how In this our pinching cave shall we discourse The freezing hours away?

For I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright, who art as black as hell, as dark as night.

Man delights not me--nor woman neither, though, by your smiling you seem to say so.

Why, all delights are vain, but that most vain Which, with pain purchased, doth inherit pain: As, painfully to pore upon a book, To seek the light of truth, which truth the while Doth falsely blind the eyesight of his look.

This Tharsus, o'er which I have the government, A city on whom Plenty held full hand, For Riches strewed herself even in her streets; Whose towers bore heads so high they kissed the clouds, And strangers ne'er beheld but wond'red at; Whose men and dames so jetted and adorned, Like one another's glass to trim them by; Their tables were stored full, to glad the sight, And not so much to feed on as delight; All poverty was scorned, and pride so great The name of help grew odious to repeat.

These violent delights have violent ends And in their triumph die, like fire and powder, Which, as they kiss, consume.

Something is rotten in the state of Denmark.

Give me my robe, put on my crown, I have Immortal longings in me.