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William Shakespeare

Our revels now are ended. These our actors,As I foretold you, were all spirits andAre melted into air, into thin air:And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,The cloud-capp’d towers, the gorgeous palaces,The solemn temples, the great globe itself,Ye all which it inherit, shall dissolveAnd, like this insubstantial pageant faded,Leave not a rack behind. We… Continue reading William Shakespeare

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William Shakespeare

With fairest flowersWhilst summer lasts and I live here, Fidele,I’ll sweeten thy sad grave: thou shalt not lackThe flower that’s like thy face, pale primrose, norThe azured harebell, like thy veins, no, norThe leaf of eglantine, whom not to slander,Out-sweeten’d not thy breath: the ruddock would,With charitable bill,–O bill, sore-shamingThose rich-left heirs that let their… Continue reading William Shakespeare

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William Shakespeare

O, hereWill I set up my everlasting rest,And shake the yoke of inauspicious starsFrom this world-wearied flesh. Eyes, look your last!Arms, take your last embrace! and, lips, O youThe doors of breath, seal with a righteous kissA dateless bargain to engrossing death!  — William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet, Act V, Scene iii

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William Shakespeare

There lives within the very flame of loveA kind of wick or snuff that will abate it,And nothing is at a like goodness still,For goodness, growing to a plurisy,Dies in his own too much. — William Shakespeare, Hamlet Act IV, Scene vii

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Lord Alfred Tennyson

Though much is taken, much abides; and thoughWe are not now that strength which in old daysMoved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are;One equal temper of heroic hearts,Made weak by time and fate, but strong in willTo strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield. — Lord Alfred Tennyson, from “Ulysses,”… Continue reading Lord Alfred Tennyson

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Anthology · Blank Verse · British Culture · Classic · Collection · Compilation · English Literature · Excerpt · Fragment · Passage · Poetry · Victorian

Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Her kisses were so close and kind,That, trust me on my word,Hard wood I am, and wrinkled rind,But yet my sap was stirr’d: — Alfred, Lord Tennyson, from “The Talking Oak,” The Complete Works of Alfred Tennyson. (The Arundel Printing and Publishing Company, New York 1851)

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