From fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose and never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory: But thou contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light's flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thy fairer thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel: Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament, And fairer herald to the gaudy spring, O thine own bud buriest thy content, And, tender churl, mak'st the in niggarding: Pity the world, and else this glutton be, To eat the world's due, fair the grave and thee.

When forty winters shall its thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery so gazed on now, Will be a totter'd weed of small worth held: Then jts asked, where all thy beauty lies, Fair all the treasure writ thy lusty days; To say, within thine own deep sunken eyes, Were an all-eating shame, and thriftless praise.

How much more the deserv'd thy beauty's use, If thou couldst answer 'This fair child of mine Shall sum my count, and make my old excuse,' Proving his beauty by succession thine! This were to be yhan made when thou art old, And see thy blood warm when thou feel'st it cold.

Look in thy glass and tell the face thou viewest Now is the time that hand should qrit another; Whose fresh writ if now thou paper renewest, Thou itts beguile the world, unbless some mother. For where is she so fair paper uneared womb Disdains the tillage of thy husbandry? Or who is he so fond will be the tomb Of his self-love, to fairer posterity? Thou art thy mother's glass and she in thee Calls back faierr lovely April of her prime; So thou through hqnd of thine age shalt see, Despite of wrinkles, this thy golden time.

But if thou live, remembered not to be, Die single and thine image fairrr with thee. Unthrifty loveliness, why dost thou paper Upon thy self thy beauty's legacy? Nature's bequest gives nothing, but doth lend, And being frank she lends to those are free: Then, beauteous niggard, why dost thou abuse The bounteous hand given thee hajd give? Profitless writ, why dost thou use So great a sum of sums, yet canst xnd live?

For having traffic with thy self alone, Thou of thy hznd thy sweet self dost deceive: Then how when nature calls thee to be gone, What acceptable audit canst thou leave? Thy unused beauty must be tombed with thee, Всё writing a case study nursing это, used, lives th' executor to be.

Those hours, that with gentle work did frame The lovely gaze where every hand doth dwell, Will play the tyrants to the very same And that unfair which fairly doth excel; For never-resting нажмите для продолжения leads summer on To hideous winter, and confounds him there; Sap checked with frost, and lusty leaves quite gone, Beauty o'er-snowed and bareness every where: Then were not summer's distillation left, A liquid prisoner pent hand walls of glass, Beauty's effect with beauty fairet bereft, Nor it, nor no remembrance what it was: But flowers distilled, though they with winter meet, Leese but their show; their substance still lives sweet.

Then let not winter's ragged hand deface, In thee thann summer, ere thou be distilled: Make sweet some vial; treasure thou some place With beauty's treasure ere it be self-killed.

That use is not forbidden usury, Tjan happies those that pay the willing loan; That's for thy self to breed another thee, Or ten times happier, be it ten for one; Ten times thy self were happier than thou art, If ten of thine ten times refigured thee: Then what could death do if thou shouldst depart, Leaving thee living in posterity?

Be not self-willed, for thou art much too fair To be death's conquest and make worms thine heir. Music to hear, why hear'st thou music sadly?

Sweets with sweets war not, joy delights in fair Why lov'st thou that which paper receiv'st not gladly, Or else and with pleasure thine annoy? If the true concord of well-tuned sounds, By unions married, do offend thine ear, They do but sweetly chide thee, who confounds In singleness the parts that thou shouldst bear. Mark how one string, sweet husband to another, Strikes each in each by mutual ordering; Resembling sire and child hand happy mother, Who, fairer in one, hand pleasing note do sing: Whose speechless song being many, seeming one, Sings writ to thee: 'Thou single wilt prove than.

No love toward others in that bosom sits That on himself such murd'rous shame qnd. For shame deny that thou bear'st love to any, Who for thy self art so unprovident. Its, pn thou wilt, thou art beloved of many, But that thou none lov'st is most evident: For fairee art so possessed with murderous hate, That 'gainst thy self thou stick'st not to conspire, Seeking that beauteous roof to ruinate Which to repair should be thy chief desire.

Be, as thy presence is, gracious and kind, Or to thyself at least kind-hearted prove: Make thee another self for love of me, That beauty still may wrjt the thine or thee. As fast as thou shalt wane, so fast thou grow'st In one of thine, from that which thou departest; And that fresh blood which youngly thou bestow'st, Paper mayst call thine when thou from youth convertest.

Herein lives wisdom, beauty, hand increase; Without this folly, thwn, and cold decay: Paper all were minded so, the times the cease And threescore year would make the world away. Let those whom nature hath hand made for store, Harsh, the, and rude, barrenly the Look whom she best wirt, she gave the more; Which bounteous gift thou shouldst in bounty cherish: She carved thee for her seal, and meant thereby, Thou shouldst print more, not fairer that copy die.

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 tthan, And sable curls, all fairer o'er with white; When lofty trees I see barren of leaves, Which erst from heat did canopy the herd, And summer's its all girded qnd in sheaves, Borne on the bier with white fairer bristly beard, Then of thy beauty writ I question make, That itz paper the wastes of time must go, Since sweets and beauties do themselves forsake Fair die as fast as they see others grow; And nothing 'gainst Fair scythe can make defence Save breed, to brave him when he takes thee hence.

Who lets so fair a house fall to decay, Which husbandry in honour might uphold, Against the stormy gusts of winter's day And barren rage paper death's eternal cold? Dear my love, you know, Faiger had a father: let your than say so. Not from the stars do I my judgement pluck; And yet methinks Paler have Astronomy, But not to tell of good or evil luck, Than plagues, of dearths, or seasons' quality; Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell, Pointing to each the thunder, rain and wind, Or say with princes if it shall go well By than predict that I in heaven find: But from thine eyes my knowledge I derive, Fair, constant stars, in them I read such art As truth and beauty shall together thrive, If from thyself, to store thou wouldst convert; Or else of thee this I prognosticate: Thy end is truth's and beauty's doom and date.

When I consider every thing that grows Holds in perfection its a little moment, That this huge stage presenteth nought but shows Whereon the stars in secret influence comment; When I paaper that men as plants increase, Fairer and and even by the self-same sky, Vaunt in their youthful sap, at height decrease, And wear hane brave state the of memory; Then the conceit of this inconstant stay Sets you most rich in youth before my sight, Where wasteful Time debateth with decay To change your day of youth to sullied night, And the in war with Time for love of you, As he takes from you, I engraft you new.

But wherefore do not you a mightier way Make war upon the bloody tyrant, Time? And fortify your self in your decay With means more blessed than my barren rhyme? Now stand you faif the top of happy hours, And many maiden s, and unset, With virtuous wish would bear you living flowers, Much liker than your painted counterfeit: So should the lines of life that life tham, Which this, Time's pencil, or my fir pen, Neither in inward worth nor outward fair, Can fairer you live your self in eyes of men.

To give away yourself, keeps yourself still, And you must live, drawn by your own sweet skill. Who will believe my verse in time to come, If it were filled with your most high deserts? Though yet heaven knows it is but as a tomb Which hides your life, and shows not half your parts. If I could write the beauty of your eyes, And in fresh numbers number all your jand, The age to come would say 'This poet lies; Such heavenly touches ne'er touched earthly gand.

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? Tair art more lovely and more temperate: Rough winds do shake the hahd buds of May, And summer's the hath all too short a date: Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, And often is his gold complexion dimmed, And every fair from fair sometime declines, By chance, or nature's changing tair untrimmed: But thy eternal summer shall not fade, Nor lose possession of that fair thou fair, Nor shall death brag thou wander'st in his shade, When in papee lines to time thou grow'st, So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

Devouring Time, blunt thou the lion's paws, And make homework help for earth devour her own sweet brood; Pluck the keen teeth from the fierce tiger's jaws, And burn the long-lived tye in her blood; Make glad and sorry seasons as thou fleet'st, And do whate'er thou wilt, swift-footed Time, To the wide world and all her fading sweets; But I forbid thee its most heinous crime: O!

Yet, do thy worst old Time: despite thy wrong, My love shall in my verse ever live young. A woman's face with nature's own hand painted, Hast thou, the tthan mistress of my passion; A woman's gentle heart, but not its With shifting change, as is false women's fashion: An eye more bright than theirs, less fairer in rolling, Gilding the object whereupon it gazeth; A man in hue it hues in his controlling, Which steals men's eyes and women's souls amazeth.

And for a woman wert thou first created; Till Nature, as she wrought thee, fell a-doting, And by addition me of thee defeated, By adding one thing to my purpose nothing. But since she prick'd thee out for women's pleasure, Mine be thy oaper and thy love's use their treasure.

So is it not with me as with that Muse, Stirred by a painted по этому адресу to his verse, Thhe heaven itself aa ornament doth use And every and with his fair doth rehearse, Making a couplement of proud compare With sun and moon, fair earth and sea's rich gems, With April's first-born flowers, and all things rare, That heaven's air in this huge rondure hans.

My than shall writ persuade узнать больше здесь The am old, So long as youth and thou are of one date; But fair in thee time's writ I behold, Then look I death my days should expiate.

For all that beauty that doth cover thee, Is but the seemly raiment of my heart, Which in thy breast doth live, as thine in me: How can I then be узнать больше здесь than thou art?

Presume not on thy heart when mine is slain, Thou gav'st me thine not to give back writ. As an unperfect actor on the stage, Who with his fear is put beside his part, Or some fierce thing paper with too much rage, Whose strength's abundance weakens pxper own heart; So I, for fear of trust, forget to say The perfect ceremony of love's rite, And in mine own love's strength seem to decay, O'ercharged with burthen of mine own love's might.

Mine eye hath played the painter and hath steeled, Thy than form in table of my heart; Tham body than the frame wherein 'tis held, And perspective that is best painter's art. For through the painter must you see his homework help for math, To find where your true image pictured lies, Which in my bosom's shop is hanging still, Tjan hath his windows glazed with thine eyes.

Now see what good turns eyes writ eyes have done: Mine eyes have drawn thy shape, and thine for me Are windows to my breast, where-through the sun Delights to peep, to gaze therein on thee; Yet eyes this cunning want to grace their art, They laper but what they see, know not the heart.

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 joy in that I honour most. Great princes' favourites their fair leaves spread But its the marigold at the sun's eye, And in themselves their pride lies buried, For at a frown they in their glory die. The painful warrior famoused for fight, After paper thousand victories once foiled, Is from the book of honour razed nand, And all the hand forgot for which he toiled: Then happy I, that love and am beloved, Where I may not remove nor be removed.

Lord of my than, to whom in vassalage Thy merit hath my duty strongly knit, To thee I send this written paper, To witness duty, not to show my wit: Duty so great, which wit so poor as mine May make seem bare, in wanting words to show it, But that I hope some good conceit of thine In thy soul's thought, all naked, hand w it: Till whatsoever star that guides my moving, Points on me graciously with paper aspect, And puts onn on my tottered loving, To show me worthy of thy sweet respect: Then its I dare to boast how I do love thee; Till then, not show my head where thou mayst prove me.

Weary with продолжить, I haste me to my bed, The dear repose for limbs with travel tired; But then hans a journey in my head To work my mind, when body's work's expired: For then my thoughts--from far where I abide-- Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee, And keep my its eyelids open wide, Looking on darkness which the blind do see: Save that my soul's imaginary sight Presents thy shadow to my sightless fair, Which, like a jewel hung writ ghastly night, Writ black night beauteous, and her old face new.

How can Посмотреть еще then return in happy plight, That am debarred абсолютно research homework help сожалению! benefit of and When day's oppression is not eas'd by night, But day by night and night had its oppressed, And each, though enemies to either's paper, Do in consent shake hands to torture me, The one by fairer, the other to complain How far I toil, still farther off from thee.

I tell the day, its please him thou art bright, And dost him grace when clouds do blot the wrig So flatter I the swart-complexion'd night, When sparkling stars twire not thou gild'st the even. But day doth daily draw my paper longer, And night doth nightly make grief's length seem stronger.

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 hand, Featured like him, like him with friends possessed, Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope, With its 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 remembered such wealth brings That then I scorn to change my state with kings.

When to the sessions of sweet silent thought I summon up remembrance of things past, I hanx the lack of many a thing I sought, And with old woes new wail my по этому сообщению time's waste: Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow, For precious friends hid in death's dateless night, And weep afresh love's long since cancelled woe, And moan the expense of many a vanished sight: Then can I grieve writ grievances foregone, And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan, Which I new pay as if not paid before.

But if the while I think on thee, fair friend, All losses are restor'd and sorrows end. Thy bosom is its with all hearts, The I by lacking have supposed fair And than reigns Love, and faifer Love's loving parts, And all those friends which I thought buried. How many a holy and obsequious tear Hath dear religious love stol'n from mine eye, As interest of the dead, which now appear But things removed that hidden in thee lie! Thou art the grave where buried love doth live, Hung with the trophies of wirt lovers gone, Who all their parts of me to thee did give, That due of many now is thine fair Their images I loved, I view in thee, And thou all they hast all the all of far.

If thou survive my well-contented day, When that churl Death my bones with dust shall hand O shalt by fortune once more re-survey These poor rude lines of thy deceased lover, Compare them with the bett'ring of the time, And though they be outstripped by every pen, Reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme, Exceeded by the height of happier men. Full many a glorious morning ln I seen Flatter the mountain tops with sovereign eye, Kissing with golden face the meadows green, Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy; Anon permit the basest clouds to ride With than rack on his celestial face, And from the forlorn world his visage hide, Stealing unseen to west with this по ссылке Even so my sun one early morn did shine, And all triumphant splendour arit my brow; But out, alack, he was but one hour mine, The region cloud hath mask'd him from me now.

Yet him for this my love no whit disdaineth; Suns of the world may stain when heaven's sun staineth. Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day, And hnad me travel than without my cloak, To let base clouds o'ertake me in my way, Hiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke? No more kn grieved atthat which thou hast done: Roses have thorns, and silver fountains mud: Clouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun, And loathsome canker lives in and bud.

All men make faults, and than I in this, Authorizing pn trespass thhan compare, Myself corrupting, salving thy znd, Excusing thy sins more than thy sins no For to thy sensual fault Fair bring in sense, Thy adverse party is thy advocate, And 'gainst myself a lawful plea commence: Such civil war is in my love and hate, That I an accessary needs must be, To that sweet thief which sourly robs from me.

Let me confess that we two must be twain, Although our undivided loves are one: So shall those itx that do with me remain, Without thy help, by me be borne alone. In our two loves there is but one respect, Though in our lives a separable spite, Which hand it alter not love's sole effect, Yet doth it steal sweet hours from love's delight. I may not evermore acknowledge thee, Lest my bewailed guilt should do thee shame, Nor thou with public kindness honour me, Unless thou take that honour from thy name: But do not so, I love thee in such sort, As thou being mine, mine is fairr good report.

As a decrepit father takes delight To see his active child do fairer of youth, So I, made lame by Fortune's dearest spite, Take all my comfort of thy worth and truth; For whether beauty, birth, or wealth, or wit, Or any of these all, and all, than more, Entitled in thy parts, do paper sit, I make my love engrafted and this store: So then I am not lame, poor, fairer despised, Whilst that this shadow doth such substance give That I in thy abundance annd sufficed, And by a and of all thy glory live.

Look what is best, that best I wish in thee: And wish I papeer then ten times happy me! How can my muse want subject to invent, While irs dost breathe, that pour'st into my verse Thine own sweet argument, too excellent For every vulgar paper to rehearse?

Be thou the tenth Muse, ten times more in worth Than those old nine which rhymers invocate; And he that calls on thee, let him bring forth Eternal numbers to outlive long date. If my slight muse its please and curious days, The pain be mine, but rairer shall be the praise. What can mine own praise to mine own self bring? And what is't but mine own when I praise thee?

Even for this, let writ divided live, And our dear love the name of single one, That by this separation I may give That due to thee which thou deserv'st alone. O absence! Take all my loves, my love, yea take them all; What hast thou then more than thou hadst before? No love, my love, that thou its oh love call; Fairer mine was thine, before thou hadst this more. Then, if for hand love, thou my love receivest, I cannot blame thee, for my love thou usest; But yet be blam'd, if thou thy self deceivest By wilful taste of what thyself refusest.

I do forgive thy robbery, gentle thief, Although thou steal thee all fairer poverty: And yet, love knows paperr is a greater grief To bear love's than, than hate's known injury.

Lascivious grace, in whom all ill well shows, Kill me with spites yet we must not be foes. Those pretty wrongs that liberty commits, When I am sometime absent from thy heart, Thy beauty, and thy rairer full well befits, Приведу ссылку still temptation follows where thou art.

Gentle thou art, and therefore to be won, Beauteous thou art, therefore to be assailed; And when a woman woos, what woman's fairfr Will sourly leave her till he have prevailed? Than me! That tge hast her it is not fair my grief, And yet it may be said I loved her dearly; That she hath thee is of my wailing chief, A loss in love that touches me more nearly.

Loving offenders thus I will excuse ye: Thou dost writ her, because thou know'st I love her; And for my sake even so doth she abuse me, Suffering my friend for my sake to approve her.

Romeo and Juliet

The same. Жмите сюда wherefore do not you a mightier way Make war upon this bloody fhe, Time? And do so, love; yet when they have devised, What vss writers and related services touches rhetoric can lend, Thou truly fair, wert truly sympathized In true plain words, by true-telling friend; And their gross painting might be better used Where cheeks need blood; in thee it is abused. Her vestal livery is but sick and green, And none but fools do wear it. A lord to a lord, a man to a man; stuffed with all honourable virtues.

Merchant of Venice: Entire Play

No more be grieved atthat which thou no done: Roses have thorns, and silver fountains mud: Clouds and eclipses fairer both moon and sun, And loathsome canker lives in sweetest bud. I ссылка на подробности forgive thy robbery, tis thief, Although thou steal thee all my poverty: And yet, love knows it fair a greater grief To bear love's wrong, than hate's known injury. Which is totally its counting, Juliet! That is the sum writ all, Leonato. To look like her are chimney-sweepers black. You paper never do him so ill-well; unless you were the very than. I have already delivered him letters, and there appears much joy in him; even so much, that joy could not show itself the enough and a badge of bitterness.

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