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LXXXIX



Say that thou didst forsake me for some fault,

And I will comment upon that offence:

Speak of my lameness, and I straight will halt,

Against thy reasons making no defence.

Thou canst not love disgrace me half so ill,

To set a form upon desired change,

As I\'ll myself disgrace; knowing thy will,

I will acquaintance strangle, and look strange;

Be absent from thy walks; and in my tongue

Thy sweet beloved name no more shall dwell,

Lest I, too much profane, should do it wrong,

And haply of our old acquaintance tell. 

  For thee, against my self I\'ll vow debate,

  For I must ne\'er love him whom thou dost hate.

 	--William Shakespeare

LXXIII



That time of year thou mayst 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,

Consum\'d with that which it was nourish\'d by.

  This thou perceiv\'st, which makes thy love more strong,

  To love that well, which thou must leave ere long.

 	--William Shakespeare

Art flourishes where there is a sense of adventure.
Alfred North Whitehead