Emma Lou Diemer

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate: Rough winds do shake the

Take, o take those lips away That so sweetly were forsworn; And those eyes, the break of day Lights that do

Blame not my Lute! for he must sound Of this or that as liketh me; For lack of wit the Lute is bound To give

A single flow'r he sent me, since we met All tenderly his messenger he chose; Deep-hearted, pure, with scented

O mistress mine, where are you roaming? O stay and hear, your true love's coming That can sing both high and

Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more Men were deceivers ever; One foot in sea and one on shore; To one thing

Under the rose-tree's dancing shade There stands a little ivory girl Pulling the leaves of pink and pearl