Disillusionment and Lost Love

The soft complaining flute, In dying notes, discovers The woes of hopeless lovers.

When I consider life, ’tis all a cheat; Yet, fool’d with hope, men favor the deceit; Trust on, and think tomorrow will repay. Tomorrow’s falser than the former day.

In her face excuse Came prologue, and apology too prompt.

For I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright, Who art as black as hell, as dark as night.

In sleep a king, but, waking, no such matter.

Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing, And like enough thou know’st thy estimate.

Against that time when thou shalt strangely pass, And scarcely greet me with that sun, thine eye, When love, converted from the thing it was, Shall reasons find of settled gravity.

Had I but died an hour before this chance I had liv’d a blessed time; for, from this instant, There’s nothing serious in mortality, All is but toys; renown and grace is dead, The wine of life is drawn, and the mere lees Is left this vault to brag of.

I have seen better faces in my time Than stands on any shoulder that I see Before me at this instant.

O! now, forever Farewell the tranquil mind; farewell content! Farewell the plumed troop and the big wars That make ambition virtue! O, farewell! Farewell the neighing steed, and the shrill trump, The spirit-stirring drum, the ear-piercing fife, The royal banner, and all quality, Pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious war! And, O you mortal engines, whose rude throats The immortal Jove’s dread clamors counterfeit, Farewell! Othello’s occupation’s gone!

O curse of marriage! That we can call these delicate creatures ours, And not their appetites. I had rather be a toad, And live upon the vapor of a dungeon, Than keep a corner in the thing I love For others’ uses.

Take, O take those lips away, That so sweetly were forsworn; And those eyes, the break of day, Lights that do mislead the morn: But my kisses bring again, bring again, Seals of love, but seal’d in vain, seal’d in vain. 43

Love that comes too late, Like a remorseful pardon slowly carried.

Oft expectation fails, and most oft there Where most it promises.

Duke: And what’s her history? Viola: A blank, my lord. She never told her love, But let concealment, like a worm i’ the bud, Feed on her damask cheek: she pin’d in thought, And with a green and yellow melancholy, She sat like Patience on a monument, Smiling at grief.

Farewell, fair cruelty.

Thrift, thrift, Horatio! the funeral bak’d meats Did coldly furnish forth the marriage tables. Would I had met my dearest foe in heaven Ere I had ever seen that day.

Frailty, thy name is woman!

When love begins to sicken and decay, It useth an enforced ceremony. There are no tricks in plain and simple faith.

They surfeited with honey and began To loathe the taste of sweetness, whereof a little More than a little is by much too much.

For never was a story of more woe Than this of Juliet and her Romeo.

These violent delights have violent ends.

My only love sprung from my only hate! Too early seen unknown, and known too late!

Could ever hear by tale or history, The course of true love never did run smooth.