Friday, February 09, 2001

In sooth, I know not why I am so sad. It wearies me; you say it wearies you;
But how I caught it, found it, or came by it,
What stuff'tis made of, whereof it is born, I am to learn;
And such a want-wit sadness makes of me
That I have much ado to know myself.

SHAKESPEARE
My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips' red:
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damask'd, re and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound.
I grant I never saw a goddess go:
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground.
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.

SHAKEPEARE