As an unperfect
actor on the stage, |
Who with his fear
is put besides his part, |
Or some fierce
thing replete with too much rage, |
Whose strength's
abundance weakens his own heart; |
So I for fear of
trust forget to say |
The perfect
ceremony of love's rite |
And in mine own
love's strength seem to decay, |
O'ercharged with
burthen of mine own love's might. |
O let my books be
then the eloquence |
And dumb presagers
of my speaking breast, |
Who plead for love
and look for recompense |
More than that
tongue that more hath more expressed. |
O learn to read
what silent love hath writ. |
To hear with eyes
belongs to love's fine wit. |
Shakespeare:
Sonnets |
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