Sonnet VI by William Shakespeare

Then let not winter’s ragged hand deface,
In thee thy summer, ere thou be distill’d:
Make sweet some vial; treasure thou some place
With beauty’s treasure ere it be self-kill’d.
That use is not forbidden usury,
Which 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 refigur’d thee:
Then what could death do if thou shouldst depart,
Leaving thee living in posterity?
Be not self-will’d, for thou art much too fair
To be death’s conquest and make worms thine heir.

 Sonnet VIII

by William Shakespeare 

 Music to hear, why hear’st thou music sadly?
  Sweets with sweets war not, joy delights in joy:
  Why lov’st thou that which thou receiv’st not gladly,
  Or else receiv’st 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 and happy mother,
  Who, all in one, one pleasing note do sing:
    Whose speechless song being many, seeming one,
    Sings this to thee: ‘Thou single wilt prove none.’

X.

 by William Shakespeare

   Crabbed age and youth
     Cannot live together
   Youth is full of pleasance,
     Age is full of care;
   Youth like summer morn,
     Age like winter weather;
   Youth like summer brave,
     Age like winter bare;
   Youth is full of sport,
   Age’s breath is short;
     Youth is nimble, age is lame;
   Youth is hot and bold,
   Age is weak and cold;
     Youth is wild, and age is tame.
   Age, I do abhor thee;
   Youth, I do adore thee;
     O, my love, my love is young!
   Age, I do defy thee;
   O, sweet shepherd, hie thee,
   For methinks thou stay’st too long.

"Macbeth consulting the Vision of the Armed Head" by Johann Heinrich Füssli

Macbeth (ACT IV. SCENE I.) by William shakespeare

A cavern. In the middle, a boiling cauldron. Thunder.
Enter the three Witches.
  FIRST WITCH. Thrice the brinded cat hath mew’d.
  SECOND WITCH. Thrice and once the hedge-pig whined.
  THIRD WITCH. Harpier cries, “‘Tis time, ’tis time.”
  FIRST WITCH. Round about the cauldron go;
    In the poison’d entrails throw.
    Toad, that under cold stone
    Days and nights has thirty-one
    Swelter’d venom sleeping got,
    Boil thou first i’ the charmed pot.
  ALL. Double, double, toil and trouble;
    Fire burn and cauldron bubble.
  SECOND WITCH. Fillet of a fenny snake,
    In the cauldron boil and bake;
    Eye of newt and toe of frog,
    Wool of bat and tongue of dog,
    Adder’s fork and blind-worm’s sting,
    Lizard’s leg and howlet’s wing,
    For a charm of powerful trouble,
    Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.
  ALL. Double, double, toil and trouble;
    Fire burn and cauldron bubble.
  THIRD WITCH. Scale of dragon, tooth of wolf,
    Witch’s mummy, maw and gulf
    Of the ravin’d salt-sea shark,
    Root of hemlock digg’d i’ the dark,
    Liver of blaspheming Jew,
    Gall of goat and slips of yew
    Sliver’d in the moon’s eclipse,
    Nose of Turk and Tartar’s lips,
    Finger of birth-strangled babe
    Ditch-deliver’d by a drab,
    Make the gruel thick and slab.
    Add thereto a tiger’s chawdron,
    For the ingredients of our cawdron.
  ALL. Double, double, toil and trouble;
    Fire burn and cauldron bubble.
  SECOND WITCH. Cool it with a baboon’s blood,
    Then the charm is firm and good.

Henry Howard The Earl of Surrey (1517-1547)

A SONNET

Description and Praise of his Love Geraldine.
From Tuscan’ came my lady’s worthy race;
Fair Florence was some time their ancient seat;
The western isle, whose pleasant shore doth face
Wild Camber’s cliffs, did give her lively heat:
Fostered she was with milk of Irish breast;
Her sire an earl; her dame of princes’ blood:
From tender years, in Britain she doth rest
With king’s child, where she tasteth costly food.
Hunsdon did first present her to my een:
Bright is her hue, and Geraldine she hight:
Hampton me taught to wish her first for mine:
And Windsor, alas, doth chase me from her sight.
Her beauty of kind, her virtues from above;
Happy is he that can obtain her love.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616)

THE WORLD’S WAY (SONNET LXVI)

Tired with all these, for restful death I cry,—
As, to behold desert a beggar born,
And needy nothing trimm’d in jollity,
And purest faith unhappily forsworn,
And gilded honor shamefully misplaced,
And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted,
And right perfection wrongfully disgraced,
And strength by limping sway disabled,
And art made tongue-tied by authority,
And folly, doctor-like, controlling skill,
And simple truth miscall’d simplicity,
And captive Good attending captain Ill:
Tired with all these, from these would I be gone,—
Save that, to die, I leave my Love alone.

Get up and Bar the Door

It fell about the Martinmas time,
And a gay time it was then,
When our goodwife got puddings to make,
And she ’s boil’d them in the pan.

The wind sae cauld blew south and north,
And blew into the floor;
Quoth our goodman to our goodwife,
“Gae out and bar the door.”

“My hand is in my hussyfskap,
Goodman, as ye may see;
An’ it shou’dna be barr’d this hundred year,
It ’s no be barr’d for me.”

They made a paction ’tween them twa,
They made it firm and sure,
That the first word whae’er shou’d speak,
Shou’d rise and bar the door.

Then by there came two gentlemen,
At twelve o’ clock at night,
And they could neither see house nor hall,
Nor coal nor candle-light.

“Now whether is this a rich man’s house,
Or whether is it a poor?”
But ne’er a word wad ane o’ them speak,
For barring of the door.

And first they ate the white puddings,
And then they ate the black.
Tho’ muckle thought the goodwife to hersel’
Yet ne’er a word she spake.

Then said the one unto the other,
“Here, man, tak ye my knife;
Do ye tak aff the auld man’s beard,
And I’ll kiss the goodwife.”

“But there’s nae water in the house,
And what shall we do than?”
“What ails ye at the pudding-broo,
That boils into the pan?”

O up then started our goodman,
An angry man was he:
“Will ye kiss my wife before my een,
And sca’d me wi’ pudding-bree?”

Then up and started our goodwife,
Gied three skips on the floor:
“Goodman, you’ve spoken the foremost word!
Get up and bar the door.”

To Celia

Drink to me only with thine eyes,
And I will pledge with mine;
Or leave a kiss but in the cup
And I’ll not look for wine.
The thirst that from the soul doth rise
Doth ask a drink divine;
But might I of Jove’s nectar sup,
I would not change for thine.

I sent thee late a rosy wreath,
Not so much honouring thee
As giving it a hope that there
It could not wither’d be;
But thou thereon didst only breathe,
And sent’st it back to me;
Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,
Not of itself but thee!