Emotions and Feelings

Come live with me, and be my love, And we will some new pleasures prove Of golden sands, and crystal brooks, With silken lines, and silver hooks.

Dull sublunary lovers’ love (Whose soul is sense) cannot admit Absence, because it doth remove Those things which elemented it.

The world’s whole sap is sunk: The general balm th’ hydroptic earth hath drunk, Whither, as to the bed’s-feet, life is shrunk, Dead and interr’d; yet all these seem to laugh, Compared with me, who am their epitaph.

Send home my long strayed eyes to me, Which (Oh) too long have dwelt on thee.

Sweetest love, I do not go, For weariness of thee, Nor in hope the world can show A fitter love for me; But since that I Must die at last, ’tis best, To use my self in jest Thus by feign’d deaths to die.

I am two fools, I know, For loving, and for saying so In whining poetry.

For God sake hold your tongue, and let me love.

I have done one braver thing Than all the Worthies did; And yet a braver thence doth spring, Which is, to keep that hid.

Go, and catch a falling star, Get with child a mandrake root, Tell me, where all past years are, Or who cleft the Devil’s foot. Teach me to hear mermaids singing.

He was a scholar, and a ripe and good one; Exceeding wise, fair-spoken, and persuading; Lofty and sour to them that lov’d him not; But, to those men that sought him sweet as summer.

So may he rest; his faults lie gently on him!

He gave his honors to the world again, His blessed part to heaven, and slept in peace.

Had I but serv’d my God with half the zeal 62 I serv’d my king, he would not in mine age Have left me naked to mine enemies.

A peace above all earthly dignities, A still and quiet conscience.

Press not a falling man too far. 61

’Tis better to be lowly born, And range with humble livers in content, Than to be perk’d up in a glist’ring grief And wear a golden sorrow.

’Tis better to be lowly born, And range with humble livers in content, Than to be perk’d up in a glist’ring grief And wear a golden sorrow.

The force of his own merit makes his way.

And my ending is despair, Unless I be reliev’d by prayer, Which pierces so that it assaults Mercy itself and frees all faults.

O brave new world, That has such people in’t!

Where the bee sucks, there suck I In a cowslip’s bell I lie; There I couch when owls do cry. On the bat’s back I do fly After summer merrily: Merrily, merrily shall I live now Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.

Our revels now are ended. These our actors, As I foretold you, were all spirits and Are melted into air, into thin air: And, like the baseless fabric of this vision, The cloud-capp’d towers, the gorgeous palaces, The solemn temples, the great globe itself, Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve And, like this insubstantial pageant faded, Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff As dreams are made on, and our little life Is rounded with a sleep.

The isle is full of noises, Sounds and sweet airs, that give delight, and hurt not. Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments Will hum about mine ears; and sometimes voices, That, if I then had wak’d after long sleep, Will make me sleep again.

For several virtues Have I lik’d several women.