xiv: I'm Sorry, America

Friday, November 7, 2008

I'm Sorry, America

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cxliv by William Shakespeare

Two loues I haue of comfort and diſpaire,
Which like two ſpirits do ſugieſt me ſtill,
The better angell is a man right faire:
The worſer ſpirit a woman collour'd il.

To win me ſoone to hell my femall euill,
Tempteth my better angel from my ſight,
And would corrupt my ſaint to be a diuel:
Wooing his purity with her fowle pride.

And whether that my angel be turn'd finde,
Suſpect I may, yet not directly tell,
But being both from me both to each friend,
I geſſe one angel in an others hel.

Yet this ſhal I nere know but liue in doubt,
Till my bad angel fire my good one out.

xiv by William Shakespeare

Not from the ſtars do I my iudgement plucke,
And yet me thinkes I haue Aſtronomy,
But not to tell of good, or euil lucke,
Of plagues, of dearths, or ſeaſons quallity,

Nor can I fortune to breefe mynuits tell;
Pointing to each his thunder, raine and winde,
Or ſay with Princes if it ſhal go wel
By oft predict that I in heauen finde.

But from thine eies my knowledge I deriue,
And conſtant ſtars in them I read ſuch art
As truth and beautie ſhal together thriue
If from thy ſelfe, to ſtore thou wouldſt conuert:

Or elſe of thee this I prognoſticate,
Thy end is Truthes and Beauties doome and date.

xiv

Friday, November 7, 2008

I'm Sorry, America

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cxliv by William Shakespeare

xiv by William Shakespeare