Compare to her coy mistress and sonnet 116

To the Reader of these Sonnets Into these Loves who but for Passion looks, At this first sight here let him lay them by And seek elsewhere, in turning other books, Which better may his labor satisfy. My verse is the true image of my mind, Ever in motion, still desiring change, And as thus to variety inclined, So in all humours sportively I range. My Muse is rightly of the English strain, That cannot long one fashion entertain. I Like an adventurous seafarer am I, Who hath some long and dangerous voyage been, And, called to tell of his discovery, How far he sailed, what countries he had seen; Proceeding from the port whence he put forth, Shows by his compass how his course he steered, When East, when West, when South, and when by North, As how the Pole to every place was reared, What capes he doubled, of what Continent, The gulfs and straits that strangely he had past, Where most becalmed, where with foul weather spent, And on what rocks in peril to be cast:

Compare to her coy mistress and sonnet 116

To the Reader of these Sonnets Into these Loves who but for Passion looks, At this first sight here let him lay them by And seek elsewhere, in turning other books, Which better may his labor satisfy.

O Mistress Mine

No far-fetched sigh shall ever wound my breast, Love from mine eye a tear shall never wring, Nor in Ah me's my whining sonnets drest; A libertine, fantasticly I sing. My verse is the true image of my mind, Ever in motion, still desiring change, And as thus to variety inclined, So in all humours sportively I range.

My Muse is rightly of the English strain, That cannot long one fashion entertain. I Like an adventurous seafarer am I, Who hath some long and dangerous voyage been, And, called to tell of his discovery, How far he sailed, what countries he had seen; Proceeding from the port whence he put forth, Shows by his compass how his course he steered, When East, when West, when South, and when by North, As how the Pole to every place was reared, What capes he doubled, of what Continent, The gulfs and straits that strangely he had past, Where most becalmed, where with foul weather spent, And on what rocks in peril to be cast: Thus in my love, Time calls me to relate My tedious travels and oft-varying fate.

II My heart was slain, and none but you and I; Who should I think the murther should commit, Since but yourself there was no creature by, But only I, guiltless of murdering it? It slew itself; the verdict on the view Doth quit the dead, and me not accessary. Well, well, I fear it will be proved of you, The evidence so great a proof doth carry.

But O, see, see, we need inquire no further: Upon your lips the scarlet drops are found, And in your eye the boy that did the murther; Your cheeks yet pale, since first he gave the wound.

By this I see, however things be past, Yet Heaven will still have murder out at last. III Taking my pen, with words to cast my woe, Duly to count the sum of all my cares, I find my griefs innumerable grow, The reck'nings rise to millions of despairs; And thus dividing of my fatal hours, The payments of my love I read and cross, Subtracting, set my sweets unto my sours, My joy's arrearage leads me to my loss; And thus mine eye's a debtor to thine eye, Which by extortion gaineth all their looks; My heart hath paid such grievous usury That all their wealth lies in thy beauty's books, And all is thine which hath been due to me, And I a bankrupt, quite undone by thee!

Let others strive to entertain with words; My soul is of a braver mettle made; I hold that vile which vulgar wit affords; In me's that faith which Time cannot invade. Let what I praise be still made good by you; Be you most worthy, whilst I am most true. How falls it out so strangely you reply?

O Mistress Mine

Where I to thee eternity shall give, When nothing else remaineth of these days, And Queens hereafter shall be glad to live Upon the alms of thy superfluous praise. Virgins and matrons, reading these my rhymes, Shall be so much delighted with thy story That they shall grieve they lived not in these times, To have seen thee, their sex's only glory.

So shalt thou fly above the vulgar throng, Still to survive in my immortal song. VII Love in a humor played the prodiga l And bade my Senses to a solemn feast; Yet, more to grace the company withal, Invites my Heart to be the chiefest guest.

Compare to her coy mistress and sonnet 116

No other drink would serve this glutton's turn But precious tears distilling from mine eyne, Which with my sighs this epicure doth burn, Quaffing carouses in this costly wine; Where, in his cups o'ercome with foul excess, Straightways he plays a swaggering ruffian's part, And at the banquet in his drunkenness Slew his dear friend, my kind and truest Heart.

A gentle warning, friends, thus may you see What 'tis to keep a drunkard company. VIII There's nothing grieves me, but that Age should haste, That in my days I may not see thee old, That where those two clear sparkling eyes are placed Only two loop-holes then I might behold; That lovely, arched, ivory, polished brow Defaced with wrinkles that I might but see; Thy dainty hair, so curled and crisped now, Like grizzled moss upon some aged tree; Thy cheek, now flush with roses, sunk and lean; Thy lips with age as any wafer thin; Thy pearly teeth out of thy head so clean That, when thou feed'st, thy nose shall touch thy chin.

These lines that now thou scorn'st, which should delight thee, Then would I make thee read but to despite thee. IX As other men, so I myself do muse Why in this sort I wrest invention so, And why these giddy metaphors I use, Leaving the path the greater part do go.

I will resolve you: I am lunatic, And ever this in madmen you shall find, What they last thought of when the brain grew sick In most distraction they keep that in mind. Thus talking idly in this bedlam fit, Reason and I, you must conceive, are twain; "Tis nine years now since first I lost my wit; Bear with me then, though troubled be my brain.

With diet and correction men distraught Not too far past may to their wits be brought.The HyperTexts The Most Beautiful Poems in the English Language Which poets wrote the most beautiful poems in the English language? In one person's opinion, these are the most beautiful poems of all time the most beautiful poems ever written the utterly transcendent masterpieces.

Compare and Contrast To His Coy Mistress by Andrew Marvell and Sonnet by William Shakespeare Essay Compare ‘To His Coy Mistress’ by Andrew Marvell to ‘Upon Julia’s Clothes’ by Robert Herrick and their attitudes to love Essay. Analysis of Keats' Captivating and Dismal Ballad "La Belle Dame Sans Merci" - John Keats is a spell binding poet, who lived a short life of 25 years, but left behind a towering legacy in the Romantic period.

Poetry - Wikipedia

A Comparison between To His Coy Mistress and Sonnet The poem "To His Coy Mistress" was written in the mid 17th century by Andrew Marvell, being written in this time Marvell's poem was unable to be published as its taboo content was unfavoured by the puritans in power at the time.

To His Coy Mistress - Had we but world enough, and time.

Compare to her coy mistress and sonnet 116

One possible choice would be to compare and contrast Andrew Marvell's "To His Coy Mistress" and William Shakespeare's Sonnet We can examine each one as an individual before comparing and.

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