Sonnet 19 by John Milton
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When
I consider how my light is spent,
Ere half my days in this dark
world and wide,
And that one talent which is
death to hide
Lodged
with me useless, though my soul more bent
To
serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest He
returning chide;
"Doth God exact day-labor,
light denied?"
I
fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent
That
murmur, soon replies, "God doth not need
Either man's work or His own
gifts. Who best
Bear His mild yoke, they serve
Him best. His state
Is
kingly: thousands at His bidding speed,
And post o'er land and ocean
without rest;
They also serve who only stand
and wait."
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No,
Time, thou shalt not boast that I do change:
Thy
pyramids built up with newer might
To
me are nothing novel, nothing strange;
They
are but dressings of a former sight.
Our
dates are brief, and therefore we admire
What
thou dost foist upon us that is old;
And
rather make them born to our desire
Than
think that we before have heard them told.
Thy
registers and thee I both defy,
Not
wondering at the present nor the past,
For
thy records and what we see doth lie,
Made
more or less by thy continual haste.
This
I do vow and this shall ever be;
I
will be true despite thy scythe and thee.
Sonnet 154 by William Shakespeare
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The
little Love-god lying once asleep,
Laid
by his side his heart-inflaming brand,
Whilst
many nymphs that vowed chaste life to keep
Came
tripping by; but in her maiden hand
The
fairest votary took up that fire
Which
many legions of true hearts had warmed;
And
so the General of hot desire
Was,
sleeping, by a virgin hand disarmed.
This
brand she quenched in a cool well by,
Which
from Love's fire took heat perpetual,
Growing
a bath and healthful remedy,
For
men diseased; but I, my mistress' thrall,
Came
there for cure and this by that I prove,
Love's
fire heats water, water cools not love.
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That
time of year thou mayst in me behold
When
yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon
those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare
ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
In
me thou see'st the twilight of such day
As
after sunset fadeth in the west;
Which
by and by black night doth take away,
Death's
second self, that seals up all in rest.
In
me thou see'st the glowing of such fire,
That
on the ashes of his youth doth lie,
As
the death-bed, whereon it must expire,
Consumed
with that which it was nourish'd by.
This
thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong,
To
love that well, which thou must leave ere long.