WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

Death is now the phoenix* nest; And the turtle's loyal breast To eternity doth rest,

Leaving no posterity : 'Twas not their infirmity, It was married chastity.

Truth may seem, but cannot be; Beauty brag, but 'tis not she ; Truth and beauty buried be.

To this urn let those repair That are either true or fair ; For these dead birds sigh a prayer.

��Sonnets

��SHALL I compare thee to a Summer's day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate : Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, And Summer's lease hath all too short a date : Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, And often is his gold complexion dimm'd ; And every fair from fair sometime declines, By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd : But thy eternal Summer shall not fade Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest ; Nor shall Death brag thou wanderest in his shade, When in eternal lines to time thou growest : So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

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