Wiiliam Sbakespeare

1564-1616

SILVIA

(From The Two Gentlemen of Verona, IV. 2, 1598; acted about 1592-93)

Who is Silvia? what is she,

That all our swains commend her?

Holy, fair, and wise is she,

The heaven such grace did lend her,

5 That she might admired be.

Is she kind as she is fair?

For beauty lives with kindness:
Love doth to her eyes repair,
To help him of his blindness;
10 And, being help'd, inhabits there.

Then to Silvia let us sing,
That Silvia is excelling:
She excels each mortal thing,
Upon the dull earth dwelling:
15 To her let us garlands bring.

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UNDER THE GREENWOOD TREE

(From As You Like It, II. 5, acted 1599)

Under the greenwood tree

Who loves to lie with me,

And turn his merry note

Unto the sweet bird's throat,

Come hither, come hither, come hither:
Here shall he see

No enemy

But winter and rough weather.

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Who doth ambition shun
And love to live i' the sun,

Seeking the food he eats

And pleas'd with what he gets,
Come hither, come hither, come hither:

Here shall he see

No enemy

But winter and rough weather.

O MISTRESS MINE, WHERE ARE YOU ROAMING

(From Twelfth Night, II. 3, about 1601)

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;
5 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:

10 In delay there lies no plenty;

Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty,
Youth's a stuff will not endure.

TAKE, OH, TAKE THOSE LIPS AWAY
(From Measure for Measure, IV. 1, 1603)

Take, oh take those lips away,
That so sweetly were forsworn;
And those eyes, the break of day,
Lights that do mislead the morn;
5 But my kisses bring again,

bring again.

Seals of love, but seal'd in vain,
seal'd in vain.

HARK, HARK, THE LARK

(From Cymbeline, II. 3, 1609)

Hark! hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings,

And Phoebus 'gins arise,

His steeds to water at those springs

On chalic'd flowers that lies;

And winking Mary-buds begin to ope their golden eyes; With everything that pretty is-My lady sweet, arise: Arise, arise.

DIRGE

(From the same, IV. 2)

Fear no more the heat of 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 tyrants' stroke;
Care no more to clothe, and eat;

To thee the reed is as the oak:
The sceptre, learning, physic, must
All follow this, and come to dust.

Fear no more the light'ning flash;
Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone;
Fear not slander, censure rash;
Thou hast finished joy and moan:
All lovers young, all lovers must
Consign to thee, and come to dust.

No exorciser harm thee!

Nor no witchcraft charm thee!

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Ghost unlaid forbear thee!
Nothing ill come near thee!
Quiet consummation have;
And renowned be thy grave!

A SEA DIRGE

(From The Tempest, I. 2, 1610)

Full fathom five thy father lies;
Of his bones are coral made;
Those are pearls that were his eyes:
Nothing of him that doth fade,
But doth suffer a sea-change
Into something rich and strange.
Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell:

Ding-dong.

Hark! now I hear them-Ding-dong bell.

ARIEL'S SONG

(From the same, Act V. sc. 1)

Where the bee sucks, there suck I:

In a cowslip's bell I lie;

There I couch when owls do cry.

On the bat's back I do fly

After summer merrily.

Merrily, merrily shall I live now

Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.

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ELIZABETHAN SONNETS

Sir Philip Sidney

1554-1586

SONNET XXXI

(From Astrophel and Stella, cir. 1591)

With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the skies!
How silently, and with how wan a face!
What, may it be that even in heavenly place
That busy archer his sharp arrows tries?
Sure, if that long-with-love-acquainted eye
Can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's case;
I read it in thy looks, thy languished grace,
Το me, that feel the like, thy state descries.
Then ev'n of fellowship, O Moon, tell me,
Is constant love deemed there but want of wit?
Are beauties there as proud as here they be?
Do they above love to be loved, and yet

Those lovers scorn whom that love doth possess?
Do they call virtue there ungratefulness?

SONNET XXXIX-ON SLEEP

(From the same)

Come, Sleep! O Sleep, the certain knot of peace,
The baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe,

The

poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release, The indifferent judge between the high and low;

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