gracie
10-11-2005, 04:43 AM
Could you please tell me who wrote this? Thanks. :)
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate;
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And Summer's lease hath all too short a date;
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm'd
And every fair from fair sometimes declines,
By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd
But thy enternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st,
Nor shall Death brag thou wand'rest in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and gives life to thee.
Also, this poem.
My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips' red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damask'd, red and white,
But on such roses see I her in her cheeks,
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that form my mistress reeks,
I love to hear her speak, yey well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go,
My mistress when she walks treads on the ground.
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate;
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And Summer's lease hath all too short a date;
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm'd
And every fair from fair sometimes declines,
By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd
But thy enternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st,
Nor shall Death brag thou wand'rest in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and gives life to thee.
Also, this poem.
My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips' red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damask'd, red and white,
But on such roses see I her in her cheeks,
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that form my mistress reeks,
I love to hear her speak, yey well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go,
My mistress when she walks treads on the ground.
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.