WESTMORELAND. O that we now had hereBut one ten thousand of those men in EnglandThat do no work to-day! KING. What’s he that wishes so?My cousin Westmoreland? No, my fair cousin;If we are mark’d to die, we are enowTo do our country loss; and if to live,The fewer men, the greater share of honour.God’s will!

WHEN daisies pied and violets blue,And lady-smocks all silver-white,And cuckoo-buds of yellow hueDo paint the meadows with delight,The cuckoo then, on every tree,Mocks married men; for thus sings he,Cuckoo!Cuckoo, cuckoo! – O word of fear,Unpleasing to a married ear! When shepherds pipe on oaten straws,And merry larks are ploughmen’s clocks,When turtles tread, and rooks, and

Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears;I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him.The evil that men do lives after them;The good is oft interred with their bones;So let it be with Caesar. The noble BrutusHath told you Caesar was ambitious:If it were so, it was a grievous fault,And grievously hath Caesar answer’d it.Here,

Full many a glorious morning have I seenFlatter 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 rideWith ugly rack on his celestial faceAnd from the forlorn world his visage hide,Stealing unseen to west with this disgrace.Even so my sun one early morn

When to the sessions of sweet silent thoughtI summon up remembrance of things past,I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,And with old woes new wail my dear time’s waste:Then can I drown an eye, unus’d to flow,For precious friends hid in death’s dateless night,And weep afresh love’s long since cancell’d woe,And moan

Let those who are in favour with their starsOf 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 spreadBut as the marigold at the sun’s eye,And in themselves their pride lies buried,For at a frown they in their glory

When, in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes,I all alone beweep my outcast stateAnd trouble deaf heaven with my bootless criesAnd look upon myself and curse my fate,Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,Featur’d like him, like him with friends possess’d,Desiring this man’s art and that man’s scope,With what I most enjoy contented

POOR soul, the centre of my sinful earth–My sinful earth these rebel powers array–Why dost thou pine within and suffer dearth,Painting thy outward walls so costly gay?Why so large cost, having so short a lease,Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend?Shall worms, inheritors of this excess,Eat up thy charge? Is this thy body’s end?Then, soul,

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 sometime declines,By chance or nature’s changing course untrimm’d;But

LET me not to the marriage of true mindsAdmit impediments. Love is not loveWhich alters when it alteration finds,Or bends with the remover to remove:O, no! it is an ever-fixed mark,That looks on tempests and is never shaken;It is the star to every wand’ring bark,Whose worth ‘s unknown, although his height be taken.Love ‘s not