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William Shakespeare
1564 -1616

All Sonnets

Who wrote the "Hamlet" and all this stuff?
Portrait of The Author (19 years old)

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Under the greenwood tree
Sonnet1. FROM fairest creatures we desire increase
Sonnet14. NOT from the stars do I my judgment pluck
Hamlet: O, that this too too solid flesh would melt

Under the greenwood tree
Who love to lies with me,
And tune his merry note
Unto the sweet bird’s throat -
Come hither, come hither, come hither!
Here shall he see
No enemy
But winter and rough weather.

Who doth  ambition shun
And loves to live in the sun,
Seeking the food he eats
And pleased with what he gets -
Come hither, come hither, come hither!
Here shall he see
No enemy
But winter and rough weather.

Sonnet 1

FROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.

Sonnet 14

NOT from the stars do I my judgment pluck;
And yet methinks I have astronomy,
But not to tell of good or evil luck,
Of plagues, of dearths, or seasons' quality;
Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell,
Pointing to each his thunder, rain and wind,
Or say with princes if it shall go well,
By oft predict that I in heaven find:
But from thine eyes my knowledge I derive,
And, constant stars, in them I read such art
As truth and beauty shall together thrive,
If from thyself to store thou wouldst convert;
Or else of thee this I prognosticate:
Thy end is truth's and beauty's doom and date.


O, that this too too solid flesh would melt,
Thaw, and resolve itself into a dew,
Or that  the Everlasting had not fixed
His cannon ‘gainst self-slaughter. O God, God,
How weary, stale, stale and unprofitable
Seem to me all the uses of his world!
Fie on ‘t, and fie, ‘tis an unweeded garden
That grows to seed, things rank and gross in nature
Possess it merely. That it should come to this -
But two months dead, nay, not so much, not two -
So excellent a King, that was, to this
Hyperion to a satyr, so loving to my mother,
That he might not beteem the winds of heaven
Visit her face too roughly. Heaven and earth,
Must I remember? Why, she would hang on him
As if increase of appetite had grown
By what it fed on, and yet within a month -
Let me not think on ‘t - frailty, thy name is woman.
A little month, or ere those shoes were old
Which she followed my poor father’s body,
Like Niobe, all tears, why she, even she -
God, a beast that wants discourse of reason
Would have mourned longer -  married with my uncle,
My father’s brother, but no more like my father
Than I to Hercules. Within a month;
Ere yet the salt of most unrighteous tears
Had left the flushing in her galled eyes,
She married. O, most wicked speed, to post
With such dexterity to incestuous sheets.
It is not, nor it cannot come to good.
But break, my heart, for I must hold my tongue.


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William Shakespeare

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© 2002 Elena and Yakov Feldman