Author: Mike (81.198.70.---)
Date: 01-23-06 12:10
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What\'s in the brain, that ink may character,
Which hath not figur\'d to thee my true spirit?
What\'s new to speak, what now to register,
That may express my love, or thy dear merit?
Nothing, sweet boy; but yet, like prayers divine,
I must each day say o\'er the very same;
Counting no old thing old, thou mine, I thine,
Even as when first I hallow\'d thy fair name.
So that eternal love in love\'s fresh case,
Weighs not the dust and injury of age,
Nor gives to necessary wrinkles place,
But makes antiquity for aye his page;
Finding the first conceit of love there bred,
Where time and outward form would show it dead.
Politics I supposed to be the second-oldest profession. I have come to
realize that it bears a very close resemblance to the first.
No longer mourn for me when I am dead
Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell
Give warning to the world that I am fled
From this vile world with vilest worms to dwell:
Nay, if you read this line, remember not
The hand that writ it, for I love you so,
That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot,
If thinking on me then should make you woe.
O! if,--I say you look upon this verse,
When I perhaps compounded am with clay,
Do not so much as my poor name rehearse;
But let your love even with my life decay;
Lest the wise world should look into your moan,
And mock you with me after I am gone.
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,
Featur\'d like him, like him with friends possess\'d,
Desiring this man\'s art, and that man\'s scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least;
Yet in these thoughts my self 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.