William Shakespeare›Poezii

Devouring Time, blunt thou the lion\'s paws, And make the earth devour her own sweet brood; Pluck the keen teeth from the fierce tiger\'s

Not from the stars do I my judgment pluck; And yet methinks I have astronomy, But not to tell of good or evil luck, Of plagues, of dearths, or

Is it for fear to wet a widow\'s eye That thou consumest thyself in single life? Ah! if thou issueless shalt hap to die. The world will wail thee,

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

As an unperfect actor on the stage Who with his fear is put besides his part, Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage, Whose strength\'s

When, in disgrace with fortune and men\'s eyes, I all alone beweep my outcast state And trouble deal heaven with my bootless cries And look upon

A woman\'s face with Nature\'s own hand painted Hast thou, the master-mistress of my passion; A woman\'s gentle heart, but not acquainted With

When I consider every thing that grows Holds in perfection but a little moment, That this huge stage presenteth nought but shows Whereon the stars

Lord of my love, to whom in vassalage Thy merit hath my duty strongly knit, To thee I send this written embassage, To witness duty, not to show my

So is it not with me as with that Muse Stirr\'d by a painted beauty to his verse, Who heaven itself for ornament doth use And every fair with his

Who will believe my verse in time to come, If it were fill\'d with your most high deserts? Though yet, heaven knows, it is but as a tomb Which

When to the sessions of sweet silent thought I summon up remembrance of things past, I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought, And with old woes

My glass shall not persuade me I am old, So long as youth and thou are of one date; But when in thee time\'s furrows I behold, Then look I death

Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed, The dear repose for limbs with travel tired; But then begins a journey in my head, To work my mind, when

Mine eye hath play\'d the painter and hath stell\'d Thy beauty\'s form in table of my heart; My body is the frame wherein \'tis held, And

Let those who are in favour with their stars Of public honour and proud titles boast, Whilst I, whom fortune of such triumph bars, Unlook\'d for

But wherefore do not you a mightier way Make war upon this bloody tyrant, Time? And fortify yourself in your decay With means more blessed than my

How can I then return in happy plight, That am debarr\'d the benefit of rest? When day\'s oppression is not eased by night, But day by night, and

When I do count the clock that tells the time, And see the brave day sunk in hideous night; When I behold the violet past prime, And sable curls

Music to hear, why hear\'st thou music sadly? Sweets with sweets war not, joy delights in joy. Why lovest thou that which thou receivest not

For shame! deny that thou bear\'st love to any, Who for thyself art so unprovident. Grant, if thou wilt, thou art beloved of many, But that thou

O, that you were yourself! but, love, you are No longer yours than you yourself here live: Against this coming end you should prepare, And your

As fast as thou shalt wane, so fast thou growest In one of thine, from that which thou departest; And that fresh blood which youngly thou

Thy bosom is endeared with all hearts, Which I by lacking have supposed dead, And there reigns love and all love\'s loving parts, And all those