William Shakespeare›Poezii

No longer mourn for me when I am dead Then you shall hear the surly sullen bell Give warning to the world that I am fled From this vile world,

Those parts of thee that the world\'s eye doth view Want nothing that the thought of hearts can mend; All tongues, the voice of souls, give thee

When I have seen by Time\'s fell hand defaced The rich proud cost of outworn buried age; When sometime lofty towers I see down-razed And brass

Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea, But sad mortality o\'er-sways their power, How with this rage shall beauty hold a

Against my love shall be, as I am now, With Time\'s injurious hand crush\'d and o\'er-worn; When hours have drain\'d his blood and fill\'d his

That thou art blamed shall not be thy defect, For slander\'s mark was ever yet the fair; The ornament of beauty is suspect, A crow that flies in

Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore, So do our minutes hasten to their end; Each changing place with that which goes before, In

O, lest the world should task you to recite What merit lived in me, that you should love After my death, dear love, forget me quite, For you in me

Tired with all these, for restful death I cry, As, to behold desert a beggar born, And needy nothing trimm\'d in jollity, And purest faith

Thy glass will show thee how thy beauties wear, Thy dial how thy precious minutes waste; The vacant leaves thy mind\'s imprint will bear, And of

Ah! wherefore with infection should he live, And with his presence grace impiety, That sin by him advantage should achieve And lace itself with

Is it thy will thy image should keep open My heavy eyelids to the weary night? Dost thou desire my slumbers should be broken, While shadows like

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

Whilst I alone did call upon thy aid, My verse alone had all thy gentle grace, But now my gracious numbers are decay\'d And my sick Muse doth give

So are you to my thoughts as food to life, Or as sweet-season\'d showers are to the ground; And for the peace of you I hold such strife As \'twixt

Sin of self-love possesseth all mine eye And all my soul and all my every part; And for this sin there is no remedy, It is so grounded inward in

But be contented: when that fell arrest Without all bail shall carry me away, My life hath in this line some interest, Which for memorial still

O, how I faint when I of you do write, Knowing a better spirit doth use your name, And in the praise thereof spends all his might, To make me

Why is my verse so barren of new pride, So far from variation or quick change? Why with the time do I not glance aside To new-found methods and to

Thus is his cheek the map of days outworn, When beauty lived and died as flowers do now, Before the bastard signs of fair were born, Or durst

So oft have I invoked thee for my Muse And found such fair assistance in my verse As every alien pen hath got my use And under thee their poesy

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,

If there be nothing new, but that which is Hath been before, how are our brains beguiled, Which, labouring for invention, bear amiss The second

That god forbid that made me first your slave, I should in thought control your times of pleasure, Or at your hand the account of hours to