The Rose Looks Fair, But Fairer We It Deem For That Sweet Odour Which Doth In It Live.

That time of year thou may'st in me behold, When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,-- Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
-- William Shakespeare (1564-1616), Sonnets & other Poetry -- Sonnet lxxiii...
My grief lies onward and my joy behind.
-- William Shakespeare (1564-1616), Sonnets & other Poetry -- Sonnet l...
And art made tongue-tied by authority.
-- William Shakespeare (1564-1616), Sonnets & other Poetry -- Sonnet lxvi...
And beauty, making beautiful old rhyme.
-- William Shakespeare (1564-1616), Sonnets & other Poetry -- Sonnet cvi...
And stretched metre of an antique song.
-- William Shakespeare (1564-1616), Sonnets & other Poetry -- Sonnet xvii...
But thy eternal summer shall not fade.
-- William Shakespeare (1564-1616), Sonnets & other Poetry -- Sonnet xviii...
Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing.
-- William Shakespeare (1564-1616), Sonnets & other Poetry -- Sonnet lxxxvii...
Full many a glorious morning have I seen.
-- William Shakespeare (1564-1616), Sonnets & other Poetry -- Sonnet xxxiii...
Like stones of worth, they thinly placed are, Or captain jewels in the carcanet.
-- William Shakespeare (1564-1616), Sonnets & other Poetry -- Sonnet lii...