By John Dryden 1631–1700
You charm'd me not with that fair face
Though it was all divine:
To be another's is the grace,
That makes me wish you mine.
The gods and fortune take their part
Who like young monarchs fight;
And boldly dare invade that heart
Which is another's right.
First mad with hope we undertake
To pull up every bar;
But once possess'd, we faintly make
A dull defensive war.
Now every friend is turn'd a foe
In hope to get our store:
And passion makes us cowards grow,
Which made us brave before.
William Shakespeare (1564-1616)
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date:
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance, or nature's changing course untrimm'd;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st;
Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st:
So long as man can breath, or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
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