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OW sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank!
Here will we sit, and let the sounds of music
Creep in our ears: soft stillness, and the night,
Become the touches of sweet harmony.

Sit, Jessica look, how the floor of heaven
Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold:

There's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st,
But in his motion like an angel sings,

Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubims:
Such harmony is in immortal souls;

But whilst this muddy vesture of decay

Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it.

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Sweet thief, whence didst thou steal thy sweet that

smells,

If not from my love's breath? The purple pride
Which on thy soft cheek for complexion dwells,
In my love's veins thou hast too grossly dyed.

The lily I condemnèd for thy hand,

And buds of marjoram had stol'n thy hair:
The roses fearfully on thorns did stand,
One blushing shame, another white despair;
A third, nor red nor white, had stol'n of both,
And to his robbery had annexed thy breath;
But, for his theft, in pride of all his growth,
A vengeful canker eat him up to death.
More flowers I noted, yet I none could see
But sweet or colour it had stol'n from thee.

ROM you have I been absent in the Spring,
When proud-pied April, dressed in all his trim,
Hath put a spirit of youth in everything,
That heavy Saturn laughed and leaped with him.
Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell
Of different flowers in odour and in hue,
Could make me any Summer's story tell,
Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew
Nor did I wonder at the lilies white,

Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose;

ARIEL'S SONG.

They were but sweet, but figures of delight,
Drawn after you, you pattern of all those.
Yet seemed it Winter still, and, you away,
As with your shadow I with these did play.

Ariel's Song.

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Come unto these yellow sands,
And then take hands:

Court'sied when you have, and kissed,
(The wild waves whist,)

Foot it featly here and there;

And, sweet sprites, the burden bear.
Hark! hark!

Burden. Bough, wowgh.

The watch-dogs bark:

Burden. Bough, wowgh.

Hark! hark! I hear

The strain of strutting Chanticleer

Cry, Cock-a-doodle-doo.

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H, how much more doth beauty beauteous seem,
By that sweet ornament which truth doth give!
The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem
For that sweet odour which doth in it live.
The canker-blooms have full as deep a dye

As the perfumèd tincture of the roses,

Hang on such thorns, and play as wantonly
When Summer's breath their maskèd buds discloses ;

But, for their virtue only is their show,

They live unwooed, and unrespected fade;
Die to themselves. Sweet roses do not so:

Of their sweet deaths are sweetest odours made:
And so of you, beauteous and lovely youth,-
When that shall fade, by verse distils your truth.

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