This bud of love, by summer's ripening breath, May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet
William ShakespeareHaply for I am black, And have not those soft parts of conversation That chamberers have; or for I am declined Into the vale of yearsโyet thatโs not muchโ Sheโs gone. I am abused, and my relief Must be to loathe her. O curse of marriage, That we can call these delicate creatures ours And not their appetites! I had rather be a toad And live upon the vapor of a dungeon Than keep a corner in the thing I love For othersโ uses. Yet โtis the plague of great ones; Prerogatived are they less than the base. โTis destiny unshunnable, like death.
William ShakespeareUnder the colour of commending him I have access my own love to prefer; But Silvia is too fair, too true, too holy, To be corrupted with my worthless gifts.
William Shakespeare