Oyonale - 3D art and graphic experiments
ShakeSpam
Click on the verses to see them in context. Shakespeare's plays are available from the Gutenberg Projet.
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Thy wit, that ornament to shape and love, Art thou gone so? my lord, my love, my friend! So will ye, I am sure, that you love me. With thy black mantle; till strange love, grown bold, Made peace of enmity, fair love of hate, That I, forsooth, am stern and love them not? Are base respects of thrift, but none of love. Your love deserves my thanks; but my desert Of this--sir-reverence--love, wherein thou stick'st The pangs of despis'd love, the law's delay, Do not deny to him that you love me. But thankful even for hate that is meant love. What's here? a cup, clos'd in my true love's hand? And, England, if my love thou hold'st at aught,-- And charg'd us from his soul to love each other, Thy dear love sworn, but hollow perjury, O, in this love, you love your child so ill As woman's love. And as my love is siz'd, my fear is so: