JulieMill

Julietta, Feminino
juliemill.tumblr.com/Última visita: abril 2014

38900 execuções desde 14 Mai 2009

2.050 Faixas preferidas | 6 Posts | 0 Listas

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Audio RevoltHide Original Mix Faixa preferida 24 Fev 2013
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Sobre mim


Is it thy will thy image should keep open
My heavy eyelids to the weary night?
Dost thou desire my slumbers should be broken,
While shadows like to thee do mock my sight?
Is it thy spirit that thou send'st from thee
So far from home into my deeds to pry,
To find out shames and idle hours in me,
The scope and tenor of thy jealousy?
O, no! thy love, though much, is not so great:
It is my love that keeps mine eye awake;
Mine own true love that doth my rest defeat,
To play the watchman ever for thy sake:
For thee watch I whilst thou dost wake elsewhere,
From me far off, with others all too near.



Sweet love, renew thy force; be it not said
Thy edge should blunter be than appetite,
Which but to-day by feeding is allay'd,
To-morrow sharpen'd in his former might:
So, love, be thou; although to-day thou fill
Thy hungry eyes even till they wink with fullness,
To-morrow see again, and do not kill
The spirit of love with a perpetual dullness.
Let this sad interim like the ocean be
Which parts the shore, where two contracted new
Come daily to the banks, that, when they see
Return of love, more blest may be the view;
Else call it winter, which being full of care
Makes summer's welcome thrice more wish'd, more rare.



Then hate me when thou wilt; if ever, now;
Now, while the world is bent my deeds to cross,
Join with the spite of fortune, make me bow,
And do not drop in for an after-loss:
Ah, do not, when my heart hath 'scoped this sorrow,
Come in the rearward of a conquer'd woe;
Give not a windy night a rainy morrow,
To linger out a purposed overthrow.
If thou wilt leave me, do not leave me last,
When other petty griefs have done their spite
But in the onset come; so shall I taste
At first the very worst of fortune's might,
And other strains of woe, which now seem woe,
Compared with loss of thee will not seem so.



To me, fair friend,
You never can be old.
For as you were, when first your eye,
I eyed,
Such seems your beauty still.
Three winters cold have full forrests shook three summers pride.
Three beautious springs to yellow autumn turned.
In process of the seasons have I seen,
Three april perfumes in three hot junes burned.
Since first I saw you fresh which later waned.
Ahh, yet doth beauty like a dour hand
Steal from his figure, only pace percieved.
So your sweet hue, which me thinks still doth stand
Hath motion and mine eye may be decieved.
For fear of which, hear this thou age unbread
Air you were born was beatious summer dead.


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