Age like winter bare;
Youth is full of sport,
Age's breath is short;
Youth is nimble, Age is lame;
Youth is hot and bold,
Age is weak and cold;
Youth is wild, and Age is tame:
Age, I do abhor thee,
Youth, I do adore thee;
O! my Love, my Love is young.
Age, I do defy thee-
O sweet shepherd, hie thee,
For methinks thou stay 'st too long.
William Shakespeare
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
But winter and rough weather.
Who doth ambition shun
And loves to live i' the sun,
Seeking the food he eats.
And pleased with what he gets-
Come hither, come hither, come hither!
Here shall he see
No enemy
But winter and rough weather.
William Shakespeare
It was a lover and his lass
With a hey and a ho, and a hey nonino!
That o'er the green corn-field did pass
In spring time, the only pretty ring time,
When birds do sing, hey ding-a-ding:
Sweet lovers love the Spring.
Between the acres of the rye
With a hey and a ho, and a hey nonino!
These pretty country folks would lie,
In spring time, the only pretty ring time,
When birds do sing, hey ding-a-ding:
Sweet lovers love the Spring.
This carol they began that hour—
With a hey and a ho, and a hey nonino!
How that life was but a flower
In spring time, the only pretty ring time,
When birds do sing, hey ding-a-ding:
Sweet lovers love the Spring.
And therefore take the present time-
With a hey and a ho, and a hey nonino!
For love is crownéd with the prime
In spring time, the only pretty ring time,
When birds do sing, hey ding-a-ding:
Sweet lovers love the Spring.
Absence, hear thou this protestation
Against thy strength,
Distance, and length:
Do what thou canst for alteration,
For hearts of truest mettle
Absence doth join, and Time doth settle.
Who loves a mistress of such quality,
His mind hath found
Beyond time, place, and mortality.
To hearts that cannot vary
Absence is present, Time doth tarry.
By absence this good means I gain:
That I can catch her,
Where none can match her,
In some close corner of my brain;
There I embrace and kiss her:
And so I both enjoy and miss her.
High-way, since you my chief Parnassus be,
And that my Muse, to some ears not unsweet,
Tempers her words to trampling horses' feet
More oft than to a chamber-melody,-
Now, blessed you bear onward blesséd me
To her, where I my heart, safe-left, shall meet;
My Muse and I must you of duty greet
With thanks and wishes, wishing thankfully:
Be you still fair, honour'd by public heed;
By no encroachment wrong'd, nor time forgot;
Nor blamed for blood, nor shamed for sinful deed;
And, that you know I envy you no lot
Of highest wish, I wish you so much bliss,-
Hundreds of years you Stella's feet may kiss!
Sir Philip Sidney
Being your slave, what should I do but tend
Upon the hours and times of your desire?
I have no precious time at all to spend
Nor services to do, till you require;
Nor dare I chide the world-without-end-hour
Whilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for you,
Nor think the bitterness of absence sour
When you have bid your servant once adieu;
Nor dare I question with my jealous thought
Where you may be, or your affairs suppose,
But like a sad slave, stay and think of nought
Save, where you are, how happy you make those ;—
So true a fool is love, that in your will
Though you do anything, he thinks no ill.
William Shakespeare
15 How like a winter hath my absence been
From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year!
What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen,
What old December's bareness everywhere!
And yet this time removed was summer's time;
The teeming autumn, big with rich increase,
Bearing the wanton burden of the prime,
Like widow'd wombs after their lords' decease:
Yet this abundant issue seem'd to me
But hope of orphans, and unfather'd fruit;
For summer and his pleasures wait on thee,
And, thou away, the very birds are mute;
Or if they sing, 'tis with so dull a cheer
That leaves look pale, dreading the winter's near.
William Shakespeare
When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,
I all alone beweep my outcast state,
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,
And look upon myself, and curse my fate,
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featured like him, like him with friends possessed,
Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least;
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
Haply I think on thee-and then my state,
Like to the lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate;
For thy sweet love remember'd, such wealth brings
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.
William Shakespeare
O never say that I was false of heart,
Though absence seem'd my flame to qualify:
As easy might I from myself depart
As from my soul, which in thy breast doth lie.
That is my home of love; if I have ranged,
Like him that travels, I return again,
Just to the time, not with the time exchanged,
So that myself bring water for my stain.
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