That Time Of Year Thou May'st In Me Behold, When Yellow Leaves, Or None, Or Few, Do Hang Upon Those Boughs Which Shake Against The Cold,-- Bare Ruin'd Choirs, Where Late The Sweet Birds Sang.

The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem For that sweet odour which doth in it live.
-- William Shakespeare (1564-1616), Sonnets & other Poetry -- Sonnet liv...
Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing.
-- William Shakespeare (1564-1616), Sonnets & other Poetry -- Sonnet lxxxvii...
Let me not to the marriage of true minds Admit impedime
love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds....
T is better to be vile than vile esteem'd, When not to be receives reproach of being
And the just pleasure lost which is so deem'd, Not by our feeling, but by others' seeing....
Thou art thy mother's glass, and she in thee Calls back the lovely April of her prime.
-- William Shakespeare (1564-1616), Sonnets & other Poetry -- Sonnet iii...
But thy eternal summer shall not fade.
-- William Shakespeare (1564-1616), Sonnets & other Poetry -- Sonnet xviii...
And art made tongue-tied by authority.
-- William Shakespeare (1564-1616), Sonnets & other Poetry -- Sonnet lxvi...
And beauty, making beautiful old rhyme.
-- William Shakespeare (1564-1616), Sonnets & other Poetry -- Sonnet cvi...
And stretched metre of an antique song.
-- William Shakespeare (1564-1616), Sonnets & other Poetry -- Sonnet xvii...