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When turtles tread, and rooks, and daws, BLOW, BLOW, THOU WINTER WIND And maidens bleach their summer

smocks,

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From AS YOU LIKE IT

BLOW, blow, thou winter wind,
Thou art not so unkind

As man's ingratitude;

Thy tooth is not so keen, Because thou art not seen, Although thy breath be rude. Heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho! unto the green

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LIKE as the waves make towards the pebbled shore,

So do our minutes hasten to their end; Each changing place with that which goes before,

In sequent toil all forwards do contend.
Nativity, once in the main of light,
Crawls to maturity, wherewith being
crowned,

Crooked eclipses 'gainst his glory fight, And Time that gave doth now his gift confound.

Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth

And delves the parallels in beauty's brow, Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth, And nothing stands but for his scythe to

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From that place the morn is broke To that place day doth unyoke!

MELANCHOLY

HENCE, all you vain delights,
As short as are the nights
Wherein you spend your folly!
There's naught in this life sweet,
If men were wise to see't,
But only melancholy-
O sweetest melancholy!
Welcome, folded arms and fixèd eyes,
A sight that piercing mortifies,

A look that's fasten'd to the ground,
A tongue chain'd up without a sound!
Fountain-heads and pathless groves,
Places which pale passion loves!
Moonlight walks, when all the fowls
Are warmly housed, save bats and
owls!

A midnight bell, a parting groan --
These are the sounds we feed upon :

Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley,

Nothing's so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy.

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