New sonnets from Shakespeare.
One every five minutes.

SONNET DCCXCIV
Be wise as thou art cruel; do not press
And 'Will' to boot, and 'Will' in over-plus;
My life hath in this line some interest,
Thy lovers withering, as thy sweet self grow'st.
When I perceive that men as plants increase,
Feed'st thy light's flame with self-substantial fuel,
Another time mine eye is my heart's guest,
Than niggard truth would willingly impart:
'I hate' she alter'd with an end,
To mar the subject that before was well?
My thoughts and my discourse as madmen's are,
As tender nurse her babe from faring ill.
   No want of conscience hold it that I call
   In sleep a king, but waking no such matter.

About | More dada


This document (source) is part of Crummy, the webspace of Leonard Richardson (contact information). It was last modified on Wednesday, June 13 2012, 20:00:46 Nowhere Standard Time and last built on Saturday, October 23 2021, 18:30:03 Nowhere Standard Time.

Crummy is © 1996-2021 Leonard Richardson. Unless otherwise noted, all text licensed under a Creative Commons License.

Document tree:

http://www.crummy.com/
features/
dada/
bard/
Site Search: