Author: Chaucerís Wife of Bath Free Es (---.client.insightBB.com)
Date: 06-26-03 15:08
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That thou art blam\'d shall not be thy defect,
For slander\'s mark was ever yet the fair;
The ornament of beauty is suspect,
A crow that flies in heaven\'s sweetest air.
So thou be good, slander doth but approve
Thy worth the greater being woo\'d of time;
For canker vice the sweetest buds doth love,
And thou present\'st a pure unstained prime.
Thou hast passed by the ambush of young days
Either not assail\'d, or victor being charg\'d;
Yet this thy praise cannot be so thy praise,
To tie up envy, evermore enlarg\'d,
If some suspect of ill mask\'d not thy show,
Then thou alone kingdoms of hearts shouldst owe.
People call me the painter of dancers, but I really wish to
capture movement itself.
Whoever hath her wish, thou hast thy \'Will,\'
And \'Will\' to boot, and \'Will\' in over-plus;
More than enough am I that vex\'d thee still,
To thy sweet will making addition thus.
Wilt thou, whose will is large and spacious,
Not once vouchsafe to hide my will in thine?
Shall will in others seem right gracious,
And in my will no fair acceptance shine?
The sea, all water, yet receives rain still,
And in abundance addeth to his store;
So thou, being rich in \'Will,\' add to thy \'Will\'
One will of mine, to make thy large will more.
Let no unkind \'No\' fair beseechers kill;
Think all but one, and me in that one \'Will.\'
If thy soul check thee that I come so near,
Swear to thy blind soul that I was thy \'Will\',
And will, thy soul knows, is admitted there;
Thus far for love, my love-suit, sweet, fulfil.
\'Will\', will fulfil the treasure of thy love,
Ay, fill it full with wills, and my will one.
In things of great receipt with ease we prove
Among a number one is reckon\'d none:
Then in the number let me pass untold,
Though in thy store\'s account I one must be;
For nothing hold me, so it please thee hold
That nothing me, a something sweet to thee:
Make but my name thy love, and love that still,
And then thou lov\'st me for my name is \'Will.\'
Thou blind fool, Love, what dost thou to mine eyes,
That they behold, and see not what they see?
They know what beauty is, see where it lies,
Yet what the best is take the worst to be.
If eyes, corrupt by over-partial looks,
Be anchor\'d in the bay where all men ride,
Why of eyes\' falsehood hast thou forged hooks,
Whereto the judgment of my heart is tied?
Why should my heart think that a several plot,
Which my heart knows the wide world\'s common place?
Or mine eyes, seeing this, say this is not,
To put fair truth upon so foul a face?
In things right true my heart and eyes have err\'d,
And to this false plague are they now transferr\'d.
I never think of the future. It comes soon enough. --Albert Einstein