O, Mickle is the Powerful Grace

Listen to:

O, Mickle is the Powerful Grace (1:08)

by William Shakespeare 

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

O, mickle is the powerful grace that lies

In herbs, plants, stones, and their true qualities:

For nought so vile that on the earth doth live

But to the earth some special good doth give,

Nor aught so good but strain'd from that fair use

Revolts from true birth, stumbling on abuse:

Virtue itself turns vice, being misapplied;

And vice sometimes by action dignified.

Within the infant rind of this small flower

Poison hath residence and medicine power:

For this, being smelt, with that part cheers each part;

Being tasted, slays all senses with the heart.

Two such opposed kings encamp them still

In man as well as herbs, grace and rude will;

And where the worser is predominant,

Full soon the canker death eats up that plant.

Friar Laurence

Romeo and Juliet Act II, Scene iii, lines 15-31

The Grey-Eyed Morn Smiles

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The Grey-Eyed Morn Smiles (:55)

by William Shakespeare 

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

The grey-eyed morn smiles on the frowning night,

Chequering the eastern clouds with streaks of light,

And flecked darkness like a drunkard reels

From forth day's path and Titan's fiery wheels:

Now, ere the sun advance his burning eye,

The day to cheer and night's dank dew to dry,

I must up-fill this osier cage of ours

With baleful weeds and precious-juiced flowers.

The earth that's nature's mother is her tomb;

What is her burying grave that is her womb,

And from her womb children of divers kind

We sucking on her natural bosom find,

Many for many virtues excellent,

None but for some and yet all different.

FRIAR LAURENCE

Romeo and Juliet, Act II, scene iii, lines 1-14

The Silver Swan

Listen to:

The Silver Swan (:36)

by Orlando Gibbons

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

Text of Poem

The silver swan, who living had no note,

When death approached, unlocked her silent throat;

Leaning her breast against the reedy shore,

Thus sung her first and last, and sung no more:

“Farewell, all joys; Oh death, come close mine eyes;

More geese than swans now live, more fools than wise.”

A Thing of Beauty

Listen to:

A Thing of Beauty (1:51)

by John Keats

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

from Endymion by John Keats

A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:

Its loveliness increases; it will never

Pass into nothingness; but still will keep

A bower quiet for us, and a sleep

Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.

Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing

A flowery band to bind us to the earth,

Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth

Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,

Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkened ways

Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,

Some shape of beauty moves away the pall

From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon,

Trees old, and young, sprouting a shady boon

For simple sheep; and such are daffodils

With the green world they live in; and clear rills

That for themselves a cooling covert make

'Gainst the hot season; the mid-forest brake,

Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms:

And such too is the grandeur of the dooms

We have imagined for the mighty dead;

All lovely tales that we have heard or read:

An endless fountain of immortal drink,

Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink.

Nor do we merely feel these essences

For one short hour; no, even as the trees

That whisper round a temple become soon

Dear as the temple's self, so does the moon,

The passion poesy, glories infinite,

Haunt us till they become a cheering light

Unto our souls, and bound to us so fast

That, whether there be shine or gloom o'ercast,

They always must be with us, or we die.

"Know Then Thyself" - excerpt from An Essay on Man

Listen to:

Know Then Thyself (1:09)

by Alexander Pope

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

Know, then, thyself, presume not God to scan;

The proper study of mankind is man.

Placed on this isthmus of a middle state,

A being darkly wise, and rudely great:

With too much knowledge for the sceptic side,

With too much weakness for the stoic's pride,

He hangs between; in doubt to act, or rest;

In doubt to deem himself a god, or beast;

In doubt his mind or body to prefer;

Born but to die, and reasoning but to err;

Alike in ignorance, his reason such,

Whether he thinks too little, or too much:

Chaos of thought and passion, all confused;

Still by himself abused, or disabused;

Created half to rise, and half to fall;

Great lord of all things, yet a prey to all;

Sole judge of truth, in endless error hurled:

The glory, jest, and riddle of the world!

To His Coy Mistress

Listen to:

To His Coy Mistress

by Andrew Marvell

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

 

Had we but world enough, and time,

This coyness, Lady, were no crime     

We would sit down and think which way

To walk and pass our long love's day.

Thou by the Indian Ganges' side                 

Shouldst rubies find: I by the tide      

Of Humber would complain. I would 

Love you ten years before the Flood,  

And you should, if you please, refuse 

Till the conversion of the Jews.            

My vegetable love should grow          

Vaster than empires, and more slow;  

An hundred years should go to praise

Thine eyes and on thy forehead gaze; 

Two hundred to adore each breast,       

But thirty thousand to the rest;           

An age at least to every part,   

And the last age should show your heart.

For, Lady, you deserve this state,        

Nor would I love at lower rate.           

 

  But at my back I always hear

Time's wingèd chariot hurrying near; 

And yonder all before us lie   

Deserts of vast eternity.          

Thy beauty shall no more be found,     

Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound  

My echoing song: then worms shall try

That long preserved virginity, 

And your quaint honour turn to dust, 

And into ashes all my lust:       

The grave 's a fine and private place,   

But none, I think, do there embrace.   

  Now therefore, while the youthful hue

Sits on thy skin like morning dew,     

And while thy willing soul transpires 

At every pore with instant fires,          

Now let us sport us while we may,     

And now, like amorous birds of prey, 

Rather at once our time devour           

Than languish in his slow-chapt power.

Let us roll all our strength and all       

Our sweetness up into one ball,          

And tear our pleasures with rough strife

Thorough the iron gates of life:          

Thus, though we cannot make our sun

Stand still, yet we will make him run.