Sonnets on Sundry Notes of Music

Name: Sonnets on Sundry Notes of Music
Author: William Shakespeare

by William Shakespeare

Pages: about 4
Category: Literature & Fiction
Language: English
Reading time: 5 min at 250 wpm

Start readingThe whole book, as cards or one word at a time. 3 min at 450 wpm in Read mode.

From the opening

On a day (alack the day!) Love, whose month was ever May, Spied a blossom passing fair, Playing in the wanton air: Through the velvet leaves the wind, All unseen, 'gan passage find; That the lover, sick to death, Wish'd himself the heaven's breath. Air, quoth he, thy cheeks may blow; Air, would I might triumph so! But, alas! my hand hath sworn Ne'er to pluck thee from thy thorn: Vow, alack, for youth unmeet, Youth, so apt to pluck a sweet, Thou for whom Jove would swear Juno but an Ethiope were; And deny himself for Jove, Turning mortal for thy love.
My flocks feed not, My ewes breed not, My rams speed not, All is amiss: Love is dying, Faith's defying, Heart's denying, Causer of this. All my merry jigs are quite forgot, All my lady's love is lost, God wot: Where her faith was firmly fix'd in love, There a nay is plac'd without remove. One silly cross Wrought all my loss; O frowning Fortune, cursed, fickle dame! For now I see, Inconstancy More in women than in men remain.
In black mourn I, All fears scorn I, Love bath forlorn me, Living in thrall: Heart is bleeding, All help needing, (O cruel speeding!) Fraughted with gall. My shepherd's pipe can sound no deal, My wether's bell rings doleful knell; My curtail dog, that wont to have play'd, Plays not at all, but seems afraid; With sighs so deep, Procures to weep, In howling-wise, to see my doleful plight. How sighs resound Through heartless ground, Like a thousand vanquish'd men in bloody fight!
Clear wells spring not, Sweet birds sing not, Green plants bring not Forth; they die; Herds stand weeping, Flocks all sleeping, Nymphs back peeping Fearfully. All our pleasure known to us poor swains, All our merry meetings on the plains, All our evening sport from us is fled, All our love is lost, for Love is dead.

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Sonnets on Sundry Notes of Music

From the opening

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