wednesday

Comfort:

Ay me! for aught that I could ever read,
could ever hear by tale or history,
the course of true love never did run smooth;
but either it was different in blood, -

O cross! too high to be enthralled to low.

Or else misgraffed in respect of years, -

O spite! too old to be engaged to young.

Or else it stood upon the choice of friends, -

O hell! to choose love by another‘s eyes.

Or, if there were a sympathy in choice,
War, death, or sickness did lay siege to it,
making it momentany as a sound,
swift as a shadow, short as any dream;
Brief as the lightning in the collied night,
that, in a spleen, unfolds both heaven and earth,
and ere a man hath power to say „Behold!“
the jaws of darkness do devour it up:
So quick bright things come to confusion.

If then true lovers have been crossed,
it stands as an edict in destiny:
Then let us teach our trial patience,
because it is a customary cross,
As due to love as thoughts and dreams and sighs,
wishes and tears, poor fancy‘s followers.