*My Favorite Shakespeare Poems*


Lovesick Romeo
But soft! What light through wonder window breaks?
It is the East, and Juliet is the sun!
Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon,
Who is already sick and pale with grief
That thou maid art far more fair than she.
Be not here maid, since she is envious.
Her vestal Livery is but sick and green,
And none but fools do wear it. Cast it off.
It is my Lady: O, it is my love!
O that she knew she were!
She speaks, yet she says nothing. What of that?
Her eye discourses; I will answer it.

See how she leans her cheek upon her hand!
Oh, that I were a glove upon that hand,
That I might touch that cheek!


From 'Romeo and Juliet'

Romeo swoons at the sight of Juliet appearing at her balcony.

Come, Romeo; come

Come, night; come, Romeo; come, thou day in night;
For thou wilt lie upon the wings of night
Whiter than new snow upon a raven't back.
Come, gentle night, come, loving, black-browed night;
Give me my Romeo; and, when he shall die,
Take him and cut him out in little stars,
And he will make the face of heaven so fine
That all the world will be in love with night 
And pay no worship to the garish sun.
O, I have brought the mansion of a love,
But not possessed it, and thought I am sold,
Not yet enjoyed.  So tedious is this day
As is the night before some festival
To an impatient child that hath new robes
And may not wear them.

From 'Romeo and Juliet'

Juliet longs for her wedding night.

My Love is so fair... 

So is it not with me as with that Muse
Stirred by a painted beauty to his verse,
Who heaven itself for ornament doth use
And every fair with his fair doth rehearse;
Making a couplement of proud compare
With sun and moon, with earth and sea's rich gems,
With April's first-born flowers, and all things rare
That heaven's air in this huge rondure hems.
O let me, true in love, but truly write,
And then believe me, my love is as fair 
As any mother's child, though not so bright
As those gold candles fixed in heaven's air:
     Let them say more that like of hearsay well:
     I will not praise that purpose not to sell.


Sonnet 21

True love does not flatter, but writes 'truly.'

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