Speak Low, If You Speak

A Violet In The Youth Of Primy Nature, Forward, Not Permanent--sweet, Not Lasting; The Perfume And Suppliance Of A Minute; No More.

O For A Muse Of Fire, That Would Ascend The Brightest Heaven Of Invention, A Kingdom For A Stage, Princes To Act And Monarchs To Behold The Swelling Scene!

And In Some Perfumes There Is More Delight Than In The Breath That From My Mistress Reeks. I Love To Hear Her Speak, Yet Well I Know That Music Hath A Far More Pleasing Sound.

Oh, She Doth Teach The Torches To Burn Bright! It Seems She Hangs Upon The Cheek Of Night Like A Rich Jewel In An Ethiope’s Ear, Beauty Too Rich For Use, For Earth Too Dear. So Shows A Snowy Dove Trooping With Crows As Yonder Lady O'er Her Fellows Shows. The Measure Done, I’ll Watch Her Place Of Stand, And, Touching Hers, Make Blessèd My Rude Hand. Did My Heart Love Till Now? Forswear It, Sight! For I Ne'er Saw True Beauty Till This Night.

I Would We Were All Of One Mind, And One Mind Good.