Those that much covet are with gain so fond That what they have not, that which they possess They scatter and unloose it from their bond, And so, by hoping more, they have but less, Or, gaining more, the profit of excess Is but to surfeit, and such griefs sustain That they prove bankrout in this poor-rich gain.
The aim of all is but to nurse the life With honour, wealth, and ease in waning age; And in this aim there is such thwarting strife That one for all or all for one we gage: As life for honour in fell battle’s rage, Honour for wealth; and oft that wealth doth cost The death of all, and all together lost.
So that, in vent’ring ill, we leave to be The things we are for that which we expect; And this ambitious foul infirmity, In having much, torments us with defect Of that we have. So then we do neglect The thing we have and, all for want of wit, Make something nothing by augmenting it.
In the days of his earthly ministry, only those could speak to Jesus who came where he was. If he was in Galilee, they could not find him in Jerusalem; if he was in Jerusalem, they could not find him in Galilee. But his Ascension means that he is perfectly united with God; we are with him wherever we are present to God; and that is everywhere and always. Because he is ‘in heaven’, he is everywhere on earth; because he is ascended, he is here now.
From joy’s loveliest ocean there’s a flood springing. Embark all, and set to – to the oar your strength bringing. No matter its burden, our boat sorrow-laden (if death comes, so let it) moves through the waves winging. From joy’s loveliest ocean there’s a flood springing.
Who cries from behind us of doubt or of danger? Who harps on their fears now, where fear is no stranger? What curse. or stars’ showing has frowned on our going? Hoist a sail to the wind now and we’ll move on singing. From joy’s loveliest ocean there’s a flood springing.
I love Shakespeare’s sonnets and post them regularly on this site, they are listed on this page or you can use the search box.
Naomi recently bought me this little book containing a selection of his sonnets, and I’ve just finished reading it.
I guess Shakespeare is best known for his plays, but it’s likely that his sonnets were what earned him the admiration of his contemporaries. Writing plays was the way to pay the bills, sonnets were the way to gain literary prestige. They were shared privately to impress, and were only later collected and published.
This book is an excellent anthology, with each sonnet presented on two facing pages, a lovely edition to have lying around to easily dip into.
You can find me on Goodreads (click the link), and see all my 2021 books here.
Or I shall live your epitaph to make, Or you survive when I in earth am rotten; From hence your memory death cannot take, Although in me each part will be forgotten. Your name from hence immortal life shall have, Though I, once gone, to all the world must die: The earth can yield me but a common grave, When you entombed in men’s eyes shall lie. Your monument shall be my gentle verse, Which eyes not yet created shall o’er-read, And tongues to be your being shall rehearse, When all the breathers of this world are dead; You still shall live (such virtue hath my pen) Where breath most breathes, even in the mouths of men.
The lowest trees have tops, the ant her gall, The fly her spleen, the little sparks their heat; The slender hairs cast shadows, though but small, And bees have stings, although they be not great; Seas have their source, and so have shallow springs; And love is love, in beggars as in kings.
Where rivers smoothest run, deep are the fords; The dial stirs, yet none perceives it move; The firmest faith is in the fewest words; The turtles cannot sing, and yet they love: True hearts have eyes and ears, no tongues to speak; They hear and see, and sigh, and then they break.