Beauty

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?Rhetorical Question
Thou art more lovely and more temperate.
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer’s lease hath all too short a date.
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,Metaphor & Hyperbaton
And often is his gold complexion dimmed;
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Seeds spring from seeds, and beauty breedth beauty.
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Ariel
Come unto these yellow sands,
And then take hands.
Curtsied when you have, and kissed
The wild waves whist.
Foot it featly here and there,
And sweet sprites bear
The burden. Hark, hark!
Burden dispersedly, within: Bow-wow.
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Romeo
O, she doth teach the torches to burn bright!
It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night
As a rich jewel in an Ethiop’s ear—Simili
Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear!

Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear!

So shows a snowy dove trooping with crows,
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Ophelia
My lord, I have remembrances of yours
That I have longèd long to redeliver.
I pray you now receive them.
Hamlet
No, not I. I never gave you aught.
Ophelia
My honored lord, you know right well you did,
And with them words of so sweet breath composed
As made the things more rich.
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Duke, as Friar, to Isabella
The hand that hath made you fair hath made you good.
The goodness that is cheap in beauty makes beauty brief
in goodness,Chiasmus but grace, being the soul of your complexion,
shall keep the body of it ever fair. The assault that Angelo
hath made to you,
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Bassanio
Let me choose,
For as I am, I live upon the rack.
Portia
Upon the rack, Bassanio? Then confess
What treason there is mingled with your love.
Bassanio
None but that ugly treason of mistrust,
Which makes me fear th’ enjoying of my love.
There may as well be amity and life
‘Tween snow and fire,
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Host
Now, my young guest, methinks you’re allycholly.
I pray you, why is it?
Julia, as Sebastian
Marry, mine host, because I
cannot be merry.
Host
Come, we’ll have you merry. I’ll bring you where
you shall hear music and see the gentleman that you
asked for.
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It is the cause, it is the cause, my soul.
Let me not name it to you, you chaste stars.
It is the cause. Yet I’ll not shed her blood,
Nor scar that whiter skin of hers than snow,
And smooth as monumental alabaster.

So sweet was ne’er so fatal. I must weep,
But they are cruel tears.
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