Gakked from Innerslytherin

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Shakespeare Meme


Sonnet XXIII
As an unperfect actor on the stage,
Who with his fear is put beside his part,
Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage,
Whose strength's abundance weakens his own heart;
So I, for fear of trust, forget to say
The perfect ceremony of love's rite,
And in mine own love's strength seem to decay,
O'ercharg'd with burthen of mine own love's might.
O! let my looks be then the eloquence
And dumb presagers of my speaking breast,
Who plead for love, and look for recompense,
More than that tongue that more hath more express'd.
O! learn to read what silent love hath writ:
To hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit.


This is from Love's Labours Lost, and I used it as an audition piece when I was younger.
A time, methinks, too short
To make a world without end bargain in
No, no, my lord, your grace is perjured much
Full of dear guiltiness, and therefore this:
If for my love, as there is no such cause,
You will do aught, this shall you do for me:
Your oath I will not trust; but go with speed
To some forlorn and naked hermitage
Remote from all the pleasures of the world
There stay until the twelve celestial signs
Have brought about the annual reckoning.
If this austere, insociable life
Change not your offer, made in heat of blood,
If frosts and fasts, hard lodging and thin weeds
Nip not the gaudy blossoms of your love,
But that it bear this trial and last love,
Then, at the expiration of the year,
Come challenge me, challenge me by these deserts
And by this virgin palm, now kissing thine,
I will be thine; and till that instant
Shut my woeful self up in a mourning house
Raining the tears of lamentation
For the remembrance of my father's death.
If this thou do deny, let our hands part,
Neither intitled in the other's heart.