Unit 2: Part 1 Vocabulary

And happy lines, on which with starry light,
Those lamping eyes will deign sometimes to look
And read the sorrows of my dying spright,
Written with tears in heart’s close bleeding book.

“Vain man,” said she, “that dost in vain assay,
A mortal thing so to immortalize,
For I myself shall like to this decay,
And eek my name be wiped out likewise.”

“Not so,” quod I, “let baser things devise
To die in dust, but you shall live by fame..."

With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb’st the skies!
How silently, and with how wan a face!

I read it in thy looks, thy languished grace,
To me, that feel the like, thy state descries.

Come sleep! O sleep, the certain knot of peace,
The baiting place of wit, the balm of woe

And we will sit upon the rocks,
Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks,
By shallow rivers to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.

And we will sit upon the rocks,
Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks,
By shallow rivers to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.

The flowers do fade, and wanton fields
To wayward winter reckoning yields

A honey tongue, a heart of gall,
Is fancy’s spring, but sorrow’s fall.

Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses,
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies
Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten,
In folly ripe, in reason rotten.

And look upon myself and curse my fate,
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featured like him, like him with friends possessed,
Desiring this man’s art, and that man’s scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least.

Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
Haply I think on thee, and then my state,
Like to the lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven’s gate

When in the chronicle of wasted time
I see descriptions of the fairest wights,
And beauty making beautiful old rhyme,
In praise of ladies dead and lovely knights,
Then in the blazon of sweet beauty’s best
Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow,
I see their antique pen would have express’d
Even such a beauty as you master now.

So all their praises are but prophecies
Of this our time, all you prefiguring;
And, for they look’d but with divining eyes,
They had not skill enough your worth to sing

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments.

Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove.