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LXXXIV



Who is it that says most, which can say more,

Than this rich praise,--that you alone, are you?

In whose confine immured is the store

Which should example where your equal grew.

Lean penury within that pen doth dwell

That to his subject lends not some small glory;

But he that writes of you, if he can tell

That you are you, so dignifies his story,

Let him but copy what in you is writ,

Not making worse what nature made so clear,

And such a counterpart shall fame his wit,

Making his style admired every where.

  You to your beauteous blessings add a curse,

  Being fond on praise, which makes your praises worse.

 	--William Shakespeare

CVII



Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul

Of the wide world dreaming on things to come,

Can yet the lease of my true love control, 

Supposed as forfeit to a confin\'d doom.

The mortal moon hath her eclipse endur\'d,

And the sad augurs mock their own presage;

Incertainties now crown themselves assur\'d,

And peace proclaims olives of endless age.

Now with the drops of this most balmy time,

My love looks fresh, and Death to me subscribes,

Since, spite of him, I\'ll live in this poor rime,

While he insults o\'er dull and speechless tribes:

  And thou in this shalt find thy monument,

  When tyrants\' crests and tombs of brass are spent.

 	--William Shakespeare