When Love Speaks - The Sonnets

Be not afeard, the isle is full of noises (The Tempest, Act III, Scene II)

Live with me and be my love (from Sonnets to Sundry Notes of Music)

As an unperfect actor on the stage

My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun

Why is my verse so barren of new pride

Who will believe my verse in time to come

That you were once unkind befriends me now

How oft, when thou, my music

When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes

Being your slave, what should I do but tend

Tired with all these, for restful death I cry

When I consider everything that grows

Let those who are in favour with their stars

They that have power to hurt and will do none

Those lips that Love's own hand did make

Come again, sweet love doth now invite

Th' expense of spirit in a waste of shame

Thine eyes I love, and they, as pitying me

I never saw that you did painting need

When to the sessions of sweet silent thought

Is it thy will thy image should keep open

Mine eye and heart are at a mortal war

No more be grieved at that which thou hast done

O never say that I was false of heart

Look in thy glass and tell the face thou viewest

Some glory in their birth, some in their skill

How heavy do I journey on the way

Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea

Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore

The quality of mercy is not strained (Portia - The Merchant of Venice)

Sweet love, renew thy force; be it not said

SInce I left you, mine eye is in my mind

Be wise as thou art cruel; do not press

Is it for fear to wet a widow's eye

So is it not with me as with that Muse

Devouring Time, blunt thou the lion's paws

The Willow Song (Desdemona - Othello)

When my love swears that she is made of truth

When I do count the clock that tells the time

What potions have I drunk of siren tears

Not marble nor the gilded monuments

Sin of self-love possesseth all mine eye

Let me not to the marriage of true minds

Music to hear, why hears't thou music sadly

When forty winters shall besiege thy brow

No longer mourn for me when I am dead

In faith I do not love thee with mine eyes

Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day

Not from the stars do I my judgement pluck

My love is as a fever, longing still

The little Love-God lying once asleep

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day

Our revels now are ended (The Tempest, Act IV, Scene I)