William Shakespeare poems | Poem by William Shakespeare | Sonnet and Fear No More by William Shakespeare
William Shakespeare poems
Sonnet 147 by William Shakespeare
My love is as a fever longing still for
that much longer nurse that the disease
feeding on that which taught preserved
the ill the uncertain sickly appetite to
please my reason the physician to my
love angry that his prescriptions are
not kept had left me and I desperate now
approved desire is dead which visit did
accept past cure I am now reason is past
care and frantic mad with evermore
unrest my thoughts and my discourse as
madmen czar at random from the truth
mainly expressed for I have swooned
affair and thought he bright who act as
black as hell as dark as night
Fear No More by William Shakespeare
Fear no more the heat o’ the sun;
Nor the furious winter’s rages;
thou thy worldly task hast done;
Home art gone, and ta’en thy wages:
Golden lads and girls all must;
As chimney sweepers come to dust;
Fear no more the frown o’ the great;
Thou art past the tyrant’s stroke;
Care no more to clothe and eat;
To thee the reed is as the oak:
The scepter, learning, physic, must
All follow this, and come to dust.
Fear no more the lightning flash,
Nor the all-dreaded thunder stone;
Fear not slander, censure rash;
Thou hast finished joy and moan:
All lovers young, all lovers must
Consign to thee, and come to dust.
No exorciser harm thee!
Nor no witchcraft charm thee!
Ghost unlaid forbear thee!
Nothing ill come near thee!
Quiet consummation have;
And renownèd be thy grave!
Thou art past the tyrant’s stroke;
Care no more to clothe and eat;
To thee the reed is as the oak:
The scepter, learning, physic, must
All follow this, and come to dust.
Fear no more the lightning flash,
Nor the all-dreaded thunder stone;
Fear not slander, censure rash;
Thou hast finished joy and moan:
All lovers young, all lovers must
Consign to thee, and come to dust.
No exorciser harm thee!
Nor no witchcraft charm thee!
Ghost unlaid forbear thee!
Nothing ill come near thee!
Quiet consummation have;
And renownèd be thy grave!
Sonnet 130 by William 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 damasked, red 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