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The mouths, the tongues, the eyes, and hearts, of men
I have felt so many quirks of joy, and grief,
Give me a gash, put me to present pain;
Lest this great sea of joys rushing upon me,
And drown me with their sweetness.
A joy past joy.
There was speech in their dumbness, language in their very gesture: they looked, as they had heard of a world ransomed, or one destroyed:* A notable passion of wonder appeared in them; but the wisest beholder, that knew no more but seeing, could not say, if the importancet were joy, or sorrow: but in the extremity of the one, it must needs be. 13-v. 2.
You have bereft me of all words,
*This description not only contains the beautiful and the sublime, but rises to a still higher sublimity, or, to speak in the style of the Psalmist, to the most highest, in the allusion to sacred writ, relating to the two principal articles in the Old and New Testament, the fall of man and his redemption. Shakspeare makės frequent references to the sacred text, and writes often, not only as a moral. ist, but as a divine.
The thing imported.
Where every something, being blent* together,
Express'd, and not express'd.
Beyond a common joy; and set it down
I could weep,
And I could laugh; I am light, and heavy.
O my soul's joy!
If after every tempest come such calms,
May the winds blow till they have waken'd death!
As hell's from heaven! If it were now to die,
"Twere now to be most happy; for, I fear,
My soul hath her content so absolute,
Joy had the like conception in our eyes,
His flaw'd heart,
(Alack, too weak the conflict to support!)
"Twixt two extremes of passion, joy and grief,
If the measure of thy joy Be heap'd like mine, and that thy skill be more To blazont it, then sweeten with thy breath This neighbour air, and let rich music's tongue Unfold the imagined happiness, that both Receive in either by this dear encounter.
† Paint, display.
The course of true love never did run smooth;
O that thou didst know how many fathom deep I am in love! But it cannot be sounded; my affection hath an unknown bottom, like the bay of Portugal.
That same wicked brat of Venus, that was begot of thought, conceived of spleen, and born of madness; that blind rascally boy, that abuses every one's eyes, because his own are out, let him be judge, how deep 1 am in love. 10-iv. 1.
O hard-believing love! how strange it seems
The one doth flatter thee, in thoughts unlikely,
If thou dost love, pronounce it faithfully;
Farewell, one eye yet looks on thee;
We cannot fight for love, as men may do;
She loved me for the dangers I had pass'd;
Kind is my love to-day, to-morrow kind,
We make woe wanton with this fond delay:
On a day, (alack the day!)
Love, whose month is ever May,
Playing in the wanton air:
Through the velvet leaves the wind,
Ne'er to pluck thee from thy thorn:
Do not call it sin in me,
That I am forsworn for thee:
Thou, for whom even Jove would swear,
And deny himself for Jove,
Turning mortal for thy love.
Love's heralds should be thoughts,
Which ten times faster glide than the sun's beams,
O, how this spring of love resembleth
Which now shows all the beauty of the sun,
This bud of love, by summer's ripening breath,
How silver-sweet sound lover's tongues by night,
Love like a shadow flies, when substance love pursues; Pursuing that that flies, and flying what pursues.
Things base and vile, holding no quantity,