Passion Makes The Will Lord Of The

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.

Shall I Compare Thee To A Summer Day? Thou Art More Lovely And More Temperate... When In Eternal Lines To Time Thou Growst So Long As Men Can Breathe Or Eyes Can See, So Long Lives This, And This Gives Life To Thee.

Not From The Stars Do I My Judgement Pluck, And Yet Methinks I Have Astronomy. But Not To Tell Of Good Or Evil Luck, Of Plagues, Of Dearths, Or Season's Quality; Nor Can I Fortune To Brief Minutes Tell ... Or Say With Princes If It Shall Go Well.

My Hands Are Of Your Color, But I Shame To Wear A Heart So White.

Thou Frothy Tickle-brained Hedge-pig!