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The forward violet thus did I chide:

Music to hear, why hear'st thou music sadly?

That time of year thou mayst in me behold

Come live with me and be my love,

The Good-Morrow

The expense of spirit in a waste of shame

They flee from me that sometime did me seek

My love is like to ice, and I to fire;

If this be error and upon me prov'd,

Fair is my love, when her fair golden hairs

Thou blind man's mark, thou fool's self-chosen snare,

Where when as death shall all the world subdue,

Devouring Time, blunt thou the lion's paws,

But let them sleep, Lord, and me mourn a space;

One day I wrote her name upon the strand

What guile is this, that those her golden tresses

Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea

Like as the waves make towards the pebbl'd shore,

When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes

If music and sweet poetry agree,

Batter my heart, three-person'd God; for you

But wherefore do not you a mightier way

My galley, chargèd with forgetfulness,

When I do count the clock that tells the time,

Oft, in the stilly night

Love is not love

So is it not with me as with that Muse

Is it possible

With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the skies!