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100
Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
FROM fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory: But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. When forty winters shall beseige thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held: When every private widow well may keep But beauty's waste hath in the world an end, Which though it alter not love's sole effect, But that I hope some good conceit of thine
[ { "content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nWhen every private widow well may keep\nBut beauty's waste hath in the world an end,\nWhich though it alter not love's sole effect,\nBut that I hope some good conceit of thine\n", "role": "user" } ]
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101
Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
FROM fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory: But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. When forty winters shall beseige thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held: You should live twice; in it and in my rhyme. Why lovest thou that which thou receivest not gladly, My glass shall not persuade me I am old, Where I may not remove nor be removed. By children's eyes her husband's shape in mind. Hiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke?
[ { "content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nYou should live twice; in it and in my rhyme.\nWhy lovest thou that which thou receivest not gladly,\nMy glass shall not persuade me I am old,\nWhere I may not remove nor be removed.\nBy children's eyes her husband's shape in mind.\nHiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke?\n", "role": "user" } ]
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102
Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
FROM fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory: But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. When forty winters shall beseige thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held: If the true concord of well-tuned sounds, As those gold candles fix'd in heaven's air: Which bounteous gift thou shouldst in bounty cherish: As tender nurse her babe from faring ill. And you must live, drawn by your own sweet skill. Let them say more than like of hearsay well; Nature's bequest gives nothing but doth lend, For thee and for myself no quiet find. To him that bears the strong offence's cross. When your sweet issue your sweet form should bear. Nor can thy shame give physic to my grief; Who with his fear is put besides his part, You should live twice; in it and in my rhyme. Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee, Thy adverse party is thy advocate-- Whilst that this shadow doth such substance give For to thy sensual fault I bring in sense-- Much steals men's eyes and women's souls amazeth. Presents thy shadow to my sightless view, So is it not with me as with that Muse
[ { "content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nIf the true concord of well-tuned sounds,\nAs those gold candles fix'd in heaven's air:\nWhich bounteous gift thou shouldst in bounty cherish:\nAs tender nurse her babe from faring ill.\nAnd you must live, drawn by your own sweet skill.\nLet them say more than like of hearsay well;\nNature's bequest gives nothing but doth lend,\nFor thee and for myself no quiet find.\nTo him that bears the strong offence's cross.\nWhen your sweet issue your sweet form should bear.\nNor can thy shame give physic to my grief;\nWho with his fear is put besides his part,\nYou should live twice; in it and in my rhyme.\nIntend a zealous pilgrimage to thee,\nThy adverse party is thy advocate--\nWhilst that this shadow doth such substance give\nFor to thy sensual fault I bring in sense--\nMuch steals men's eyes and women's souls amazeth.\nPresents thy shadow to my sightless view,\nSo is it not with me as with that Muse\n", "role": "user" } ]
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103
Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
FROM fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory: But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. When forty winters shall beseige thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held: Which in my bosom's shop is hanging still, If thou survive my well-contented day, And keep my drooping eyelids open wide, Leese but their show; their substance still lives sweet. Which in my bosom's shop is hanging still, And make me travel forth without my cloak, And 'gainst myself a lawful plea commence: By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd; Save that my soul's imaginary sight By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd;
[ { "content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nWhich in my bosom's shop is hanging still,\nIf thou survive my well-contented day,\nAnd keep my drooping eyelids open wide,\nLeese but their show; their substance still lives sweet.\nWhich in my bosom's shop is hanging still,\nAnd make me travel forth without my cloak,\nAnd 'gainst myself a lawful plea commence:\nBy chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd;\nSave that my soul's imaginary sight\nBy chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd;\n", "role": "user" } ]
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104
Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
FROM fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory: But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. When forty winters shall beseige thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held: So great a sum of sums, yet canst not live? Presume not on thy heart when mine is slain;
[ { "content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nSo great a sum of sums, yet canst not live?\nPresume not on thy heart when mine is slain;\n", "role": "user" } ]
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105
Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
FROM fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory: But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. When forty winters shall beseige thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held: In one of thine, from that which thou departest; Nor thou with public kindness honour me, And every fair from fair sometime declines, And in themselves their pride lies buried, The perfect ceremony of love's rite, Although our undivided loves are one: So I, made lame by fortune's dearest spite, O, let my books be then the eloquence Kissing with golden face the meadows green, For thee and for myself no quiet find. But day doth daily draw my sorrows longer That thereby beauty's rose might never die, To give away yourself keeps yourself still, That's for thyself to breed another thee, Lo! in the orient when the gracious light So flatter I the swart-complexion'd night, Beauty's effect with beauty were bereft, But wherefore do not you a mightier way With means more blessed than my barren rhyme? And in mine own love's strength seem to decay,
[ { "content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nIn one of thine, from that which thou departest;\nNor thou with public kindness honour me,\nAnd every fair from fair sometime declines,\nAnd in themselves their pride lies buried,\nThe perfect ceremony of love's rite,\nAlthough our undivided loves are one:\nSo I, made lame by fortune's dearest spite,\nO, let my books be then the eloquence\nKissing with golden face the meadows green,\nFor thee and for myself no quiet find.\nBut day doth daily draw my sorrows longer\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nTo give away yourself keeps yourself still,\nThat's for thyself to breed another thee,\nLo! in the orient when the gracious light\nSo flatter I the swart-complexion'd night,\nBeauty's effect with beauty were bereft,\nBut wherefore do not you a mightier way\nWith means more blessed than my barren rhyme?\nAnd in mine own love's strength seem to decay,\n", "role": "user" } ]
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106
Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
FROM fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory: But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. When forty winters shall beseige thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held: Since sweets and beauties do themselves forsake Lo! in the orient when the gracious light Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day, Anon permit the basest clouds to ride For thee and for myself no quiet find. And shalt by fortune once more re-survey To the wide world and all her fading sweets; And often is his gold complexion dimm'd; And summer's green all girded up in sheaves The age to come would say 'This poet lies: Yet him for this my love no whit disdaineth; Entitled in thy parts do crowned sit, Herein lives wisdom, beauty and increase: To change your day of youth to sullied night; Exceeded by the height of happier men. Unlook'd on diest, unless thou get a son. That I in thy abundance am sufficed With April's first-born flowers, and all things rare By children's eyes her husband's shape in mind. The bounteous largess given thee to give? Duty so great, which wit so poor as mine After a thousand victories once foil'd, Which in my bosom's shop is hanging still, Then of thy beauty do I question make,
[ { "content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nSince sweets and beauties do themselves forsake\nLo! in the orient when the gracious light\nWhy didst thou promise such a beauteous day,\nAnon permit the basest clouds to ride\nFor thee and for myself no quiet find.\nAnd shalt by fortune once more re-survey\nTo the wide world and all her fading sweets;\nAnd often is his gold complexion dimm'd;\nAnd summer's green all girded up in sheaves\nThe age to come would say 'This poet lies:\nYet him for this my love no whit disdaineth;\nEntitled in thy parts do crowned sit,\nHerein lives wisdom, beauty and increase:\nTo change your day of youth to sullied night;\nExceeded by the height of happier men.\nUnlook'd on diest, unless thou get a son.\nThat I in thy abundance am sufficed\nWith April's first-born flowers, and all things rare\nBy children's eyes her husband's shape in mind.\nThe bounteous largess given thee to give?\nDuty so great, which wit so poor as mine\nAfter a thousand victories once foil'd,\nWhich in my bosom's shop is hanging still,\nThen of thy beauty do I question make,\n", "role": "user" } ]
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107
Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
FROM fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory: But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. When forty winters shall beseige thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held: But day by night, and night by day, oppress'd? When every private widow well may keep Or else receivest with pleasure thine annoy? Who plead for love and look for recompense Points on me graciously with fair aspect And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste:
[ { "content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nBut day by night, and night by day, oppress'd?\nWhen every private widow well may keep\nOr else receivest with pleasure thine annoy?\nWho plead for love and look for recompense\nPoints on me graciously with fair aspect\nAnd with old woes new wail my dear time's waste:\n", "role": "user" } ]
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108
Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
FROM fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory: But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. When forty winters shall beseige thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held: The lovely gaze where every eye doth dwell, For whether beauty, birth, or wealth, or wit, Be, as thy presence is, gracious and kind, And shalt by fortune once more re-survey What acceptable audit canst thou leave? Which I new pay as if not paid before. Authorizing thy trespass with compare, All men make faults, and even I in this,
[ { "content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nThe lovely gaze where every eye doth dwell,\nFor whether beauty, birth, or wealth, or wit,\nBe, as thy presence is, gracious and kind,\nAnd shalt by fortune once more re-survey\nWhat acceptable audit canst thou leave?\nWhich I new pay as if not paid before.\nAuthorizing thy trespass with compare,\nAll men make faults, and even I in this,\n", "role": "user" } ]
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109
Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
FROM fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory: But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. When forty winters shall beseige thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held: Doth homage to his new-appearing sight, Upon thyself thy beauty's legacy? They draw but what they see, know not the heart. But beauty's waste hath in the world an end, Can make you live yourself in eyes of men. And barren rage of death's eternal cold? Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel, And barren rage of death's eternal cold? With what I most enjoy contented least; But when in thee time's furrows I behold, And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er No more be grieved at that which thou hast done: For at a frown they in their glory die. And every fair from fair sometime declines, From his low tract and look another way: And weep afresh love's long since cancell'd woe, So I, for fear of trust, forget to say Or else receivest with pleasure thine annoy? And trouble deal heaven with my bootless cries Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother. That thou consumest thyself in single life? Whilst I, whom fortune of such triumph bars, This wish I have; then ten times happy me! To hideous winter and confounds him there; Of plagues, of dearths, or seasons' quality; Will play the tyrants to the very same Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow, Or else receivest with pleasure thine annoy? A woman's face with Nature's own hand painted And see thy blood warm when thou feel'st it cold. Thy adverse party is thy advocate-- FROM fairest creatures we desire increase, With what I most enjoy contented least; Thy beauty's form in table of my heart; That then I scorn to change my state with kings. By adding one thing to my purpose nothing. That hath his windows glazed with thine eyes. For to thy sensual fault I bring in sense--
[ { "content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nDoth homage to his new-appearing sight,\nUpon thyself thy beauty's legacy?\nThey draw but what they see, know not the heart.\nBut beauty's waste hath in the world an end,\nCan make you live yourself in eyes of men.\nAnd barren rage of death's eternal cold?\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nAnd barren rage of death's eternal cold?\nWith what I most enjoy contented least;\nBut when in thee time's furrows I behold,\nAnd heavily from woe to woe tell o'er\nNo more be grieved at that which thou hast done:\nFor at a frown they in their glory die.\nAnd every fair from fair sometime declines,\nFrom his low tract and look another way:\nAnd weep afresh love's long since cancell'd woe,\nSo I, for fear of trust, forget to say\nOr else receivest with pleasure thine annoy?\nAnd trouble deal heaven with my bootless cries\nThou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother.\nThat thou consumest thyself in single life?\nWhilst I, whom fortune of such triumph bars,\nThis wish I have; then ten times happy me!\nTo hideous winter and confounds him there;\nOf plagues, of dearths, or seasons' quality;\nWill play the tyrants to the very same\nThen can I drown an eye, unused to flow,\nOr else receivest with pleasure thine annoy?\nA woman's face with Nature's own hand painted\nAnd see thy blood warm when thou feel'st it cold.\nThy adverse party is thy advocate--\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nWith what I most enjoy contented least;\nThy beauty's form in table of my heart;\nThat then I scorn to change my state with kings.\nBy adding one thing to my purpose nothing.\nThat hath his windows glazed with thine eyes.\nFor to thy sensual fault I bring in sense--\n", "role": "user" } ]
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110
Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
FROM fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory: But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. When forty winters shall beseige thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held: No love toward others in that bosom sits For then my thoughts, from far where I abide, Ah! if thou issueless shalt hap to die. Those hours, that with gentle work did frame
[ { "content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nNo love toward others in that bosom sits\nFor then my thoughts, from far where I abide,\nAh! if thou issueless shalt hap to die.\nThose hours, that with gentle work did frame\n", "role": "user" } ]
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111
Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
FROM fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory: But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. When forty winters shall beseige thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held: What acceptable audit canst thou leave? Is but the seemly raiment of my heart, To dry the rain on my storm-beaten face, O, change thy thought, that I may change my mind! And see thy blood warm when thou feel'st it cold. Nature's bequest gives nothing but doth lend, Not from the stars do I my judgment pluck; Delights to peep, to gaze therein on thee; To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. Wishing me like to one more rich in hope, And many maiden gardens yet unset Harsh featureless and rude, barrenly perish: Neither in inward worth nor outward fair, I may not evermore acknowledge thee, Will play the tyrants to the very same Which though it alter not love's sole effect, Hiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke? Who for thyself art so unprovident. And trouble deal heaven with my bootless cries To hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit. So should that beauty which you hold in lease And all in war with Time for love of you, Hath dear religious love stol'n from mine eye And yet methinks I have astronomy, So thou through windows of thine age shall see
[ { "content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nWhat acceptable audit canst thou leave?\nIs but the seemly raiment of my heart,\nTo dry the rain on my storm-beaten face,\nO, change thy thought, that I may change my mind!\nAnd see thy blood warm when thou feel'st it cold.\nNature's bequest gives nothing but doth lend,\nNot from the stars do I my judgment pluck;\nDelights to peep, to gaze therein on thee;\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWishing me like to one more rich in hope,\nAnd many maiden gardens yet unset\nHarsh featureless and rude, barrenly perish:\nNeither in inward worth nor outward fair,\nI may not evermore acknowledge thee,\nWill play the tyrants to the very same\nWhich though it alter not love's sole effect,\nHiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke?\nWho for thyself art so unprovident.\nAnd trouble deal heaven with my bootless cries\nTo hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit.\nSo should that beauty which you hold in lease\nAnd all in war with Time for love of you,\nHath dear religious love stol'n from mine eye\nAnd yet methinks I have astronomy,\nSo thou through windows of thine age shall see\n", "role": "user" } ]
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112
Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
FROM fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory: But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. When forty winters shall beseige thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held: And from the forlorn world his visage hide, Who plead for love and look for recompense And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, The bounteous largess given thee to give? Unless thou take that honour from thy name: With beauty's treasure, ere it be self-kill'd. Stirr'd by a painted beauty to his verse, O' let me, true in love, but truly write, Then look I death my days should expiate. As tender nurse her babe from faring ill. How far I toil, still farther off from thee. Wishing me like to one more rich in hope, And dost him grace when clouds do blot the heaven: Delights to peep, to gaze therein on thee; Who lets so fair a house fall to decay, And your true rights be term'd a poet's rage Theirs for their style I'll read, his for his love.' For thee and for myself no quiet find. Thy adverse party is thy advocate-- Theirs for their style I'll read, his for his love.' Is it for fear to wet a widow's eye When lofty trees I see barren of leaves
[ { "content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nAnd from the forlorn world his visage hide,\nWho plead for love and look for recompense\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThe bounteous largess given thee to give?\nUnless thou take that honour from thy name:\nWith beauty's treasure, ere it be self-kill'd.\nStirr'd by a painted beauty to his verse,\nO' let me, true in love, but truly write,\nThen look I death my days should expiate.\nAs tender nurse her babe from faring ill.\nHow far I toil, still farther off from thee.\nWishing me like to one more rich in hope,\nAnd dost him grace when clouds do blot the heaven:\nDelights to peep, to gaze therein on thee;\nWho lets so fair a house fall to decay,\nAnd your true rights be term'd a poet's rage\nTheirs for their style I'll read, his for his love.'\nFor thee and for myself no quiet find.\nThy adverse party is thy advocate--\nTheirs for their style I'll read, his for his love.'\nIs it for fear to wet a widow's eye\nWhen lofty trees I see barren of leaves\n", "role": "user" } ]
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113
Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
FROM fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory: But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. When forty winters shall beseige thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held: Which in my bosom's shop is hanging still, And all in war with Time for love of you, Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day, Save breed, to brave him when he takes thee hence. And in mine own love's strength seem to decay, Are windows to my breast, where-through the sun How many a holy and obsequious tear And summer's green all girded up in sheaves The dear repose for limbs with travel tired; When in eternal lines to time thou growest: Within thine own bud buriest thy content Lo! in the orient when the gracious light And sable curls all silver'd o'er with white; Which this, Time's pencil, or my pupil pen, But if thou live, remember'd not to be, But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, And see thy blood warm when thou feel'st it cold.
[ { "content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nWhich in my bosom's shop is hanging still,\nAnd all in war with Time for love of you,\nWhy didst thou promise such a beauteous day,\nSave breed, to brave him when he takes thee hence.\nAnd in mine own love's strength seem to decay,\nAre windows to my breast, where-through the sun\nHow many a holy and obsequious tear\nAnd summer's green all girded up in sheaves\nThe dear repose for limbs with travel tired;\nWhen in eternal lines to time thou growest:\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nLo! in the orient when the gracious light\nAnd sable curls all silver'd o'er with white;\nWhich this, Time's pencil, or my pupil pen,\nBut if thou live, remember'd not to be,\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nAnd see thy blood warm when thou feel'st it cold.\n", "role": "user" } ]
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114
Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
FROM fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory: But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. When forty winters shall beseige thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held: How far I toil, still farther off from thee. That beauty still may live in thine or thee. Ah! if thou issueless shalt hap to die. Till whatsoever star that guides my moving And moan the expense of many a vanish'd sight: Those hours, that with gentle work did frame The offender's sorrow lends but weak relief Authorizing thy trespass with compare, And moan the expense of many a vanish'd sight: So long lives this and this gives life to thee. Reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme, Though yet, heaven knows, it is but as a tomb This were to be new made when thou art old, And every fair with his fair doth rehearse When your sweet issue your sweet form should bear. To give away yourself keeps yourself still, Whose speechless song, being many, seeming one, Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest; Beauty's effect with beauty were bereft, A liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass,
[ { "content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nHow far I toil, still farther off from thee.\nThat beauty still may live in thine or thee.\nAh! if thou issueless shalt hap to die.\nTill whatsoever star that guides my moving\nAnd moan the expense of many a vanish'd sight:\nThose hours, that with gentle work did frame\nThe offender's sorrow lends but weak relief\nAuthorizing thy trespass with compare,\nAnd moan the expense of many a vanish'd sight:\nSo long lives this and this gives life to thee.\nReserve them for my love, not for their rhyme,\nThough yet, heaven knows, it is but as a tomb\nThis were to be new made when thou art old,\nAnd every fair with his fair doth rehearse\nWhen your sweet issue your sweet form should bear.\nTo give away yourself keeps yourself still,\nWhose speechless song, being many, seeming one,\nNor lose possession of that fair thou owest;\nBeauty's effect with beauty were bereft,\nA liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass,\n", "role": "user" } ]
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115
Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
FROM fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory: But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. When forty winters shall beseige thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held: Mine eye hath play'd the painter and hath stell'd Then being ask'd where all thy beauty lies, Can make you live yourself in eyes of men. Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, Holds in perfection but a little moment, So thou through windows of thine age shall see Unlook'd for joy in that I honour most. So should my papers yellow'd with their age Are windows to my breast, where-through the sun As fast as thou shalt wane, so fast thou growest Till Nature, as she wrought thee, fell a-doting, A man in hue, all 'hues' in his controlling, So then I am not lame, poor, nor despised, As, thou being mine, mine is thy good report. Die single, and thine image dies with thee. Pity the world, or else this glutton be, And see thy blood warm when thou feel'st it cold. Beauty's effect with beauty were bereft, And keep my drooping eyelids open wide, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, So should the lines of life that life repair, The region cloud hath mask'd him from me now. That hath his windows glazed with thine eyes. O' let me, true in love, but truly write, But I forbid thee one most heinous crime: When day's oppression is not eased by night, Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising, For thee and for myself no quiet find. They draw but what they see, know not the heart. So flatter I the swart-complexion'd night, And your sweet semblance to some other give. Yet, do thy worst, old Time: despite thy wrong, O, therefore, love, be of thyself so wary If all were minded so, the times should cease Look, whom she best endow'd she gave the more; And make the earth devour her own sweet brood; This were to be new made when thou art old,
[ { "content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nMine eye hath play'd the painter and hath stell'd\nThen being ask'd where all thy beauty lies,\nCan make you live yourself in eyes of men.\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nHolds in perfection but a little moment,\nSo thou through windows of thine age shall see\nUnlook'd for joy in that I honour most.\nSo should my papers yellow'd with their age\nAre windows to my breast, where-through the sun\nAs fast as thou shalt wane, so fast thou growest\nTill Nature, as she wrought thee, fell a-doting,\nA man in hue, all 'hues' in his controlling,\nSo then I am not lame, poor, nor despised,\nAs, thou being mine, mine is thy good report.\nDie single, and thine image dies with thee.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nAnd see thy blood warm when thou feel'st it cold.\nBeauty's effect with beauty were bereft,\nAnd keep my drooping eyelids open wide,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nSo should the lines of life that life repair,\nThe region cloud hath mask'd him from me now.\nThat hath his windows glazed with thine eyes.\nO' let me, true in love, but truly write,\nBut I forbid thee one most heinous crime:\nWhen day's oppression is not eased by night,\nYet in these thoughts myself almost despising,\nFor thee and for myself no quiet find.\nThey draw but what they see, know not the heart.\nSo flatter I the swart-complexion'd night,\nAnd your sweet semblance to some other give.\nYet, do thy worst, old Time: despite thy wrong,\nO, therefore, love, be of thyself so wary\nIf all were minded so, the times should cease\nLook, whom she best endow'd she gave the more;\nAnd make the earth devour her own sweet brood;\nThis were to be new made when thou art old,\n", "role": "user" } ]
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116
Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
FROM fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory: But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. When forty winters shall beseige thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held: 'Tis not enough that through the cloud thou break, Looking on darkness which the blind do see A man in hue, all 'hues' in his controlling, If ten of thine ten times refigured thee: How much more praise deserved thy beauty's use, No love toward others in that bosom sits Then may I dare to boast how I do love thee; But when from highmost pitch, with weary car, Whose strength's abundance weakens his own heart. Entitled in thy parts do crowned sit,
[ { "content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\n'Tis not enough that through the cloud thou break,\nLooking on darkness which the blind do see\nA man in hue, all 'hues' in his controlling,\nIf ten of thine ten times refigured thee:\nHow much more praise deserved thy beauty's use,\nNo love toward others in that bosom sits\nThen may I dare to boast how I do love thee;\nBut when from highmost pitch, with weary car,\nWhose strength's abundance weakens his own heart.\nEntitled in thy parts do crowned sit,\n", "role": "user" } ]
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117
Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
FROM fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory: But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. When forty winters shall beseige thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held: Ten times thyself were happier than thou art, But since he died and poets better prove, So is it not with me as with that Muse My glass shall not persuade me I am old, To say, within thine own deep-sunken eyes, Beauty o'ersnow'd and bareness every where: Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade, She carved thee for her seal, and meant thereby Hung with the trophies of my lovers gone, Harsh featureless and rude, barrenly perish: If all were minded so, the times should cease Do in consent shake hands to torture me; So thou through windows of thine age shall see Authorizing thy trespass with compare, Mine be thy love and thy love's use their treasure. No more be grieved at that which thou hast done: To witness duty, not to show my wit: For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings To the wide world and all her fading sweets; And do whate'er thou wilt, swift-footed Time, Thou mayst call thine when thou from youth convertest. As tender nurse her babe from faring ill. But that thou none lovest is most evident; Or else of thee this I prognosticate: But day by night, and night by day, oppress'd? Thou art thy mother's glass, and she in thee With all triumphant splendor on my brow; Then look I death my days should expiate. Him in thy course untainted do allow Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
[ { "content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nTen times thyself were happier than thou art,\nBut since he died and poets better prove,\nSo is it not with me as with that Muse\nMy glass shall not persuade me I am old,\nTo say, within thine own deep-sunken eyes,\nBeauty o'ersnow'd and bareness every where:\nNor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,\nShe carved thee for her seal, and meant thereby\nHung with the trophies of my lovers gone,\nHarsh featureless and rude, barrenly perish:\nIf all were minded so, the times should cease\nDo in consent shake hands to torture me;\nSo thou through windows of thine age shall see\nAuthorizing thy trespass with compare,\nMine be thy love and thy love's use their treasure.\nNo more be grieved at that which thou hast done:\nTo witness duty, not to show my wit:\nFor thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings\nTo the wide world and all her fading sweets;\nAnd do whate'er thou wilt, swift-footed Time,\nThou mayst call thine when thou from youth convertest.\nAs tender nurse her babe from faring ill.\nBut that thou none lovest is most evident;\nOr else of thee this I prognosticate:\nBut day by night, and night by day, oppress'd?\nThou art thy mother's glass, and she in thee\nWith all triumphant splendor on my brow;\nThen look I death my days should expiate.\nHim in thy course untainted do allow\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\n", "role": "user" } ]
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118
Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
FROM fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory: But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. When forty winters shall beseige thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held: And thou, all they, hast all the all of me. Stirr'd by a painted beauty to his verse, As a decrepit father takes delight Haply I think on thee, and then my state, Make sweet some vial; treasure thou some place Without thy help by me be borne alone. Which in my bosom's shop is hanging still, The region cloud hath mask'd him from me now. If from thyself to store thou wouldst convert; Of public honour and proud titles boast, Ah! if thou issueless shalt hap to die. So flatter I the swart-complexion'd night, By adding one thing to my purpose nothing. That 'gainst thyself thou stick'st not to conspire. So great a sum of sums, yet canst not live? Save that my soul's imaginary sight And they are rich and ransom all ill deeds. You should live twice; in it and in my rhyme. With beauty's treasure, ere it be self-kill'd. Why lovest thou that which thou receivest not gladly, Be, as thy presence is, gracious and kind, And shalt by fortune once more re-survey Flatter the mountain-tops with sovereign eye, Mine be thy love and thy love's use their treasure. And by a part of all thy glory live. Then look I death my days should expiate. Who with his fear is put besides his part, O' let me, true in love, but truly write, To give away yourself keeps yourself still, That use is not forbidden usury, Nor thou with public kindness honour me, Music to hear, why hear'st thou music sadly? So long lives this and this gives life to thee. Grant, if thou wilt, thou art beloved of many, But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, For no man well of such a salve can speak
[ { "content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nAnd thou, all they, hast all the all of me.\nStirr'd by a painted beauty to his verse,\nAs a decrepit father takes delight\nHaply I think on thee, and then my state,\nMake sweet some vial; treasure thou some place\nWithout thy help by me be borne alone.\nWhich in my bosom's shop is hanging still,\nThe region cloud hath mask'd him from me now.\nIf from thyself to store thou wouldst convert;\nOf public honour and proud titles boast,\nAh! if thou issueless shalt hap to die.\nSo flatter I the swart-complexion'd night,\nBy adding one thing to my purpose nothing.\nThat 'gainst thyself thou stick'st not to conspire.\nSo great a sum of sums, yet canst not live?\nSave that my soul's imaginary sight\nAnd they are rich and ransom all ill deeds.\nYou should live twice; in it and in my rhyme.\nWith beauty's treasure, ere it be self-kill'd.\nWhy lovest thou that which thou receivest not gladly,\nBe, as thy presence is, gracious and kind,\nAnd shalt by fortune once more re-survey\nFlatter the mountain-tops with sovereign eye,\nMine be thy love and thy love's use their treasure.\nAnd by a part of all thy glory live.\nThen look I death my days should expiate.\nWho with his fear is put besides his part,\nO' let me, true in love, but truly write,\nTo give away yourself keeps yourself still,\nThat use is not forbidden usury,\nNor thou with public kindness honour me,\nMusic to hear, why hear'st thou music sadly?\nSo long lives this and this gives life to thee.\nGrant, if thou wilt, thou art beloved of many,\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFor no man well of such a salve can speak\n", "role": "user" } ]
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119
Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
FROM fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory: But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. When forty winters shall beseige thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held: As truth and beauty shall together thrive, In our two loves there is but one respect, But flowers distill'd though they with winter meet, The perfect ceremony of love's rite, 'Had my friend's Muse grown with this growing age, To hideous winter and confounds him there;
[ { "content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nAs truth and beauty shall together thrive,\nIn our two loves there is but one respect,\nBut flowers distill'd though they with winter meet,\nThe perfect ceremony of love's rite,\n'Had my friend's Muse grown with this growing age,\nTo hideous winter and confounds him there;\n", "role": "user" } ]
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120
Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
FROM fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory: But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. When forty winters shall beseige thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held: The lovely gaze where every eye doth dwell, Or say with princes if it shall go well, If ten of thine ten times refigured thee: Be not self-will'd, for thou art much too fair So should that beauty which you hold in lease So long lives this and this gives life to thee. Nor it nor no remembrance what it was: If thou couldst answer 'This fair child of mine
[ { "content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nThe lovely gaze where every eye doth dwell,\nOr say with princes if it shall go well,\nIf ten of thine ten times refigured thee:\nBe not self-will'd, for thou art much too fair\nSo should that beauty which you hold in lease\nSo long lives this and this gives life to thee.\nNor it nor no remembrance what it was:\nIf thou couldst answer 'This fair child of mine\n", "role": "user" } ]
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121
Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
FROM fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory: But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. When forty winters shall beseige thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held: Who will believe my verse in time to come, Unthrifty loveliness, why dost thou spend When forty winters shall beseige thy brow, And that unfair which fairly doth excel:
[ { "content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nWho will believe my verse in time to come,\nUnthrifty loveliness, why dost thou spend\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd that unfair which fairly doth excel:\n", "role": "user" } ]
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122
Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
FROM fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory: But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. When forty winters shall beseige thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held: That due of many now is thine alone: And weep afresh love's long since cancell'd woe, Is but the seemly raiment of my heart, As fast as thou shalt wane, so fast thou growest Save breed, to brave him when he takes thee hence. Thou art thy mother's glass, and she in thee With means more blessed than my barren rhyme? But if the while I think on thee, dear friend, Which in thy breast doth live, as thine in me: By oft predict that I in heaven find: From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate; The perfect ceremony of love's rite, Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel, Mine eye hath play'd the painter and hath stell'd
[ { "content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nThat due of many now is thine alone:\nAnd weep afresh love's long since cancell'd woe,\nIs but the seemly raiment of my heart,\nAs fast as thou shalt wane, so fast thou growest\nSave breed, to brave him when he takes thee hence.\nThou art thy mother's glass, and she in thee\nWith means more blessed than my barren rhyme?\nBut if the while I think on thee, dear friend,\nWhich in thy breast doth live, as thine in me:\nBy oft predict that I in heaven find:\nFrom sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate;\nThe perfect ceremony of love's rite,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMine eye hath play'd the painter and hath stell'd\n", "role": "user" } ]
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123
Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
FROM fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory: But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. When forty winters shall beseige thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held: But since he died and poets better prove, And see the brave day sunk in hideous night; Disdains the tillage of thy husbandry? Lifts up his burning head, each under eye To dry the rain on my storm-beaten face, When sparkling stars twire not thou gild'st the even. Then happy I, that love and am beloved Thou art more lovely and more temperate: That thou consumest thyself in single life? Serving with looks his sacred majesty; May make seem bare, in wanting words to show it, Be not self-will'd, for thou art much too fair Unlook'd for joy in that I honour most. yet mortal looks adore his beauty still, Which I by lacking have supposed dead, A liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass, But wherefore do not you a mightier way Holds in perfection but a little moment, Make war upon this bloody tyrant, Time? May make seem bare, in wanting words to show it,
[ { "content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nBut since he died and poets better prove,\nAnd see the brave day sunk in hideous night;\nDisdains the tillage of thy husbandry?\nLifts up his burning head, each under eye\nTo dry the rain on my storm-beaten face,\nWhen sparkling stars twire not thou gild'st the even.\nThen happy I, that love and am beloved\nThou art more lovely and more temperate:\nThat thou consumest thyself in single life?\nServing with looks his sacred majesty;\nMay make seem bare, in wanting words to show it,\nBe not self-will'd, for thou art much too fair\nUnlook'd for joy in that I honour most.\nyet mortal looks adore his beauty still,\nWhich I by lacking have supposed dead,\nA liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass,\nBut wherefore do not you a mightier way\nHolds in perfection but a little moment,\nMake war upon this bloody tyrant, Time?\nMay make seem bare, in wanting words to show it,\n", "role": "user" } ]
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124
Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
FROM fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory: But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. When forty winters shall beseige thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held: With shifting change, as is false women's fashion; But thy eternal summer shall not fade When lofty trees I see barren of leaves That I in thy abundance am sufficed Gilding the object whereupon it gazeth; Yourself again after yourself's decease, Then, were not summer's distillation left, To be death's conquest and make worms thine heir. But from thine eyes my knowledge I derive, Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow, Which to repair should be thy chief desire. If I could write the beauty of your eyes O, none but unthrifts! Dear my love, you know
[ { "content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nWith shifting change, as is false women's fashion;\nBut thy eternal summer shall not fade\nWhen lofty trees I see barren of leaves\nThat I in thy abundance am sufficed\nGilding the object whereupon it gazeth;\nYourself again after yourself's decease,\nThen, were not summer's distillation left,\nTo be death's conquest and make worms thine heir.\nBut from thine eyes my knowledge I derive,\nThen can I drown an eye, unused to flow,\nWhich to repair should be thy chief desire.\nIf I could write the beauty of your eyes\nO, none but unthrifts! Dear my love, you know\n", "role": "user" } ]
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125
Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
FROM fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory: But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. When forty winters shall beseige thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held: I tell the day, to please them thou art bright You had a father: let your son say so. Harsh featureless and rude, barrenly perish: As he takes from you, I engraft you new. And, constant stars, in them I read such art When forty winters shall beseige thy brow, Looking on darkness which the blind do see Ah! but those tears are pearl which thy love sheds, Lo! thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind, Then can I grieve at grievances foregone, Look in thy glass, and tell the face thou viewest And perspective it is the painter's art. Which happies those that pay the willing loan; With all triumphant splendor on my brow; And then believe me, my love is as fair Harsh featureless and rude, barrenly perish:
[ { "content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nI tell the day, to please them thou art bright\nYou had a father: let your son say so.\nHarsh featureless and rude, barrenly perish:\nAs he takes from you, I engraft you new.\nAnd, constant stars, in them I read such art\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nLooking on darkness which the blind do see\nAh! but those tears are pearl which thy love sheds,\nLo! thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind,\nThen can I grieve at grievances foregone,\nLook in thy glass, and tell the face thou viewest\nAnd perspective it is the painter's art.\nWhich happies those that pay the willing loan;\nWith all triumphant splendor on my brow;\nAnd then believe me, my love is as fair\nHarsh featureless and rude, barrenly perish:\n", "role": "user" } ]
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126
Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
FROM fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory: But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. When forty winters shall beseige thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held: Serving with looks his sacred majesty; Their images I loved I view in thee, But I forbid thee one most heinous crime: Thou of thyself thy sweet self dost deceive. As any mother's child, though not so bright Nor can thy shame give physic to my grief; Vaunt in their youthful sap, at height decrease, Hast thou, the master-mistress of my passion; Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade, Lo! thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind, Nor it nor no remembrance what it was: Ah! if thou issueless shalt hap to die. Which to repair should be thy chief desire. But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,
[ { "content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nServing with looks his sacred majesty;\nTheir images I loved I view in thee,\nBut I forbid thee one most heinous crime:\nThou of thyself thy sweet self dost deceive.\nAs any mother's child, though not so bright\nNor can thy shame give physic to my grief;\nVaunt in their youthful sap, at height decrease,\nHast thou, the master-mistress of my passion;\nNor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,\nLo! thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind,\nNor it nor no remembrance what it was:\nAh! if thou issueless shalt hap to die.\nWhich to repair should be thy chief desire.\nBut if the while I think on thee, dear friend,\n", "role": "user" } ]
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127
Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
FROM fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory: But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. When forty winters shall beseige thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held: With all triumphant splendor on my brow; Nature's bequest gives nothing but doth lend, Make war upon this bloody tyrant, Time? Whose fresh repair if now thou not renewest, Which erst from heat did canopy the herd, And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding. Entitled in thy parts do crowned sit, When that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover, For thou art so possess'd with murderous hate Shifts but his place, for still the world enjoys it; To find where your true image pictured lies; Haply I think on thee, and then my state,
[ { "content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nWith all triumphant splendor on my brow;\nNature's bequest gives nothing but doth lend,\nMake war upon this bloody tyrant, Time?\nWhose fresh repair if now thou not renewest,\nWhich erst from heat did canopy the herd,\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nEntitled in thy parts do crowned sit,\nWhen that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover,\nFor thou art so possess'd with murderous hate\nShifts but his place, for still the world enjoys it;\nTo find where your true image pictured lies;\nHaply I think on thee, and then my state,\n", "role": "user" } ]
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128
Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
FROM fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory: But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. When forty winters shall beseige thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held: Which happies those that pay the willing loan; Yourself again after yourself's decease, Thou gavest me thine, not to give back again. Compare them with the bettering of the time, And summer's lease hath all too short a date: I all alone beweep my outcast state My glass shall not persuade me I am old, Like to the lark at break of day arising And every fair with his fair doth rehearse To him that bears the strong offence's cross. Much liker than your painted counterfeit: My love shall in my verse ever live young. Which hides your life and shows not half your parts. Thou of thyself thy sweet self dost deceive. Points on me graciously with fair aspect Holds in perfection but a little moment, In one of thine, from that which thou departest; That thou no form of thee hast left behind, Profitless usurer, why dost thou use
[ { "content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nWhich happies those that pay the willing loan;\nYourself again after yourself's decease,\nThou gavest me thine, not to give back again.\nCompare them with the bettering of the time,\nAnd summer's lease hath all too short a date:\nI all alone beweep my outcast state\nMy glass shall not persuade me I am old,\nLike to the lark at break of day arising\nAnd every fair with his fair doth rehearse\nTo him that bears the strong offence's cross.\nMuch liker than your painted counterfeit:\nMy love shall in my verse ever live young.\nWhich hides your life and shows not half your parts.\nThou of thyself thy sweet self dost deceive.\nPoints on me graciously with fair aspect\nHolds in perfection but a little moment,\nIn one of thine, from that which thou departest;\nThat thou no form of thee hast left behind,\nProfitless usurer, why dost thou use\n", "role": "user" } ]
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129
Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
FROM fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory: But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. When forty winters shall beseige thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held: If ten of thine ten times refigured thee: Thy unused beauty must be tomb'd with thee, Thou mayst call thine when thou from youth convertest. And there reigns love and all love's loving parts, But thy eternal summer shall not fade With all triumphant splendor on my brow; Nor it nor no remembrance what it was: Which in thy breast doth live, as thine in me: You should live twice; in it and in my rhyme. For shame! deny that thou bear'st love to any, Then how, when nature calls thee to be gone, But as the marigold at the sun's eye, And having climb'd the steep-up heavenly hill, But if thou live, remember'd not to be, I tell the day, to please them thou art bright Whilst that this shadow doth such substance give When I consider every thing that grows Let those who are in favour with their stars Then, beauteous niggard, why dost thou abuse Points on me graciously with fair aspect Why lovest thou that which thou receivest not gladly, Even so my sun one early morn did shine 'Tis not enough that through the cloud thou break, Myself corrupting, salving thy amiss, Duty so great, which wit so poor as mine For shame! deny that thou bear'st love to any, But since he died and poets better prove, For to thy sensual fault I bring in sense-- Delights to peep, to gaze therein on thee;
[ { "content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nIf ten of thine ten times refigured thee:\nThy unused beauty must be tomb'd with thee,\nThou mayst call thine when thou from youth convertest.\nAnd there reigns love and all love's loving parts,\nBut thy eternal summer shall not fade\nWith all triumphant splendor on my brow;\nNor it nor no remembrance what it was:\nWhich in thy breast doth live, as thine in me:\nYou should live twice; in it and in my rhyme.\nFor shame! deny that thou bear'st love to any,\nThen how, when nature calls thee to be gone,\nBut as the marigold at the sun's eye,\nAnd having climb'd the steep-up heavenly hill,\nBut if thou live, remember'd not to be,\nI tell the day, to please them thou art bright\nWhilst that this shadow doth such substance give\nWhen I consider every thing that grows\nLet those who are in favour with their stars\nThen, beauteous niggard, why dost thou abuse\nPoints on me graciously with fair aspect\nWhy lovest thou that which thou receivest not gladly,\nEven so my sun one early morn did shine\n'Tis not enough that through the cloud thou break,\nMyself corrupting, salving thy amiss,\nDuty so great, which wit so poor as mine\nFor shame! deny that thou bear'st love to any,\nBut since he died and poets better prove,\nFor to thy sensual fault I bring in sense--\nDelights to peep, to gaze therein on thee;\n", "role": "user" } ]
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130
Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
FROM fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory: But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. When forty winters shall beseige thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held: A liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass, Herein lives wisdom, beauty and increase: So should the lines of life that life repair, Which I new pay as if not paid before. Much liker than your painted counterfeit: For beauty's pattern to succeeding men. For shame! deny that thou bear'st love to any, Since sweets and beauties do themselves forsake Is but the seemly raiment of my heart, Strikes each in each by mutual ordering, So I, made lame by fortune's dearest spite, What acceptable audit canst thou leave? Duty so great, which wit so poor as mine More than that tongue that more hath more express'd. And only herald to the gaudy spring, If thou couldst answer 'This fair child of mine And die as fast as they see others grow; Mine eye hath play'd the painter and hath stell'd
[ { "content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nA liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass,\nHerein lives wisdom, beauty and increase:\nSo should the lines of life that life repair,\nWhich I new pay as if not paid before.\nMuch liker than your painted counterfeit:\nFor beauty's pattern to succeeding men.\nFor shame! deny that thou bear'st love to any,\nSince sweets and beauties do themselves forsake\nIs but the seemly raiment of my heart,\nStrikes each in each by mutual ordering,\nSo I, made lame by fortune's dearest spite,\nWhat acceptable audit canst thou leave?\nDuty so great, which wit so poor as mine\nMore than that tongue that more hath more express'd.\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nIf thou couldst answer 'This fair child of mine\nAnd die as fast as they see others grow;\nMine eye hath play'd the painter and hath stell'd\n", "role": "user" } ]
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131
Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
FROM fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory: But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. When forty winters shall beseige thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held: No more be grieved at that which thou hast done: That thereby beauty's rose might never die, The dear repose for limbs with travel tired; Till whatsoever star that guides my moving By children's eyes her husband's shape in mind. And summer's green all girded up in sheaves To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. Profitless usurer, why dost thou use But when in thee time's furrows I behold, Which in my bosom's shop is hanging still, Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day, The bounteous largess given thee to give?
[ { "content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nNo more be grieved at that which thou hast done:\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nThe dear repose for limbs with travel tired;\nTill whatsoever star that guides my moving\nBy children's eyes her husband's shape in mind.\nAnd summer's green all girded up in sheaves\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nProfitless usurer, why dost thou use\nBut when in thee time's furrows I behold,\nWhich in my bosom's shop is hanging still,\nWhy didst thou promise such a beauteous day,\nThe bounteous largess given thee to give?\n", "role": "user" } ]
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132
Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
FROM fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory: But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. When forty winters shall beseige thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held: To thee I send this written embassage, Find no determination: then you were When that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover, Upon thyself thy beauty's legacy? Authorizing thy trespass with compare, As I, not for myself, but for thee will; Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother. As tender nurse her babe from faring ill. O' let me, true in love, but truly write, But if thou live, remember'd not to be, So should my papers yellow'd with their age I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought, Is it for fear to wet a widow's eye Thy bosom is endeared with all hearts, I make my love engrafted to this store: How far I toil, still farther off from thee. Beauty o'ersnow'd and bareness every where: But when in thee time's furrows I behold, Is but the seemly raiment of my heart, Anon permit the basest clouds to ride Thy end is truth's and beauty's doom and date. So shall those blots that do with me remain To change your day of youth to sullied night; Of plagues, of dearths, or seasons' quality; Which happies those that pay the willing loan; When every private widow well may keep Who will believe my verse in time to come, Who heaven itself for ornament doth use Sweets with sweets war not, joy delights in joy. Or who is he so fond will be the tomb If it were fill'd with your most high deserts?
[ { "content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nTo thee I send this written embassage,\nFind no determination: then you were\nWhen that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover,\nUpon thyself thy beauty's legacy?\nAuthorizing thy trespass with compare,\nAs I, not for myself, but for thee will;\nThou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother.\nAs tender nurse her babe from faring ill.\nO' let me, true in love, but truly write,\nBut if thou live, remember'd not to be,\nSo should my papers yellow'd with their age\nI sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,\nIs it for fear to wet a widow's eye\nThy bosom is endeared with all hearts,\nI make my love engrafted to this store:\nHow far I toil, still farther off from thee.\nBeauty o'ersnow'd and bareness every where:\nBut when in thee time's furrows I behold,\nIs but the seemly raiment of my heart,\nAnon permit the basest clouds to ride\nThy end is truth's and beauty's doom and date.\nSo shall those blots that do with me remain\nTo change your day of youth to sullied night;\nOf plagues, of dearths, or seasons' quality;\nWhich happies those that pay the willing loan;\nWhen every private widow well may keep\nWho will believe my verse in time to come,\nWho heaven itself for ornament doth use\nSweets with sweets war not, joy delights in joy.\nOr who is he so fond will be the tomb\nIf it were fill'd with your most high deserts?\n", "role": "user" } ]
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133
Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
FROM fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory: But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. When forty winters shall beseige thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held: And each, though enemies to either's reign, Proving his beauty by succession thine! Shall sum my count and make my old excuse,' For to thy sensual fault I bring in sense-- Be scorn'd like old men of less truth than tongue, Serving with looks his sacred majesty; Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother. So thou through windows of thine age shall see For never-resting time leads summer on For at a frown they in their glory die. To hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit. I make my love engrafted to this store: Which I new pay as if not paid before. Sap cheque'd with frost and lusty leaves quite gone, Then the conceit of this inconstant stay No longer yours than you yourself here live: Suns of the world may stain when heaven's sun staineth. O, learn to read what silent love hath writ: Entitled in thy parts do crowned sit, When forty winters shall beseige thy brow, My body is the frame wherein 'tis held, If from thyself to store thou wouldst convert; Like to the lark at break of day arising And every fair from fair sometime declines, Which hides your life and shows not half your parts.
[ { "content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nAnd each, though enemies to either's reign,\nProving his beauty by succession thine!\nShall sum my count and make my old excuse,'\nFor to thy sensual fault I bring in sense--\nBe scorn'd like old men of less truth than tongue,\nServing with looks his sacred majesty;\nThou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother.\nSo thou through windows of thine age shall see\nFor never-resting time leads summer on\nFor at a frown they in their glory die.\nTo hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit.\nI make my love engrafted to this store:\nWhich I new pay as if not paid before.\nSap cheque'd with frost and lusty leaves quite gone,\nThen the conceit of this inconstant stay\nNo longer yours than you yourself here live:\nSuns of the world may stain when heaven's sun staineth.\nO, learn to read what silent love hath writ:\nEntitled in thy parts do crowned sit,\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nMy body is the frame wherein 'tis held,\nIf from thyself to store thou wouldst convert;\nLike to the lark at break of day arising\nAnd every fair from fair sometime declines,\nWhich hides your life and shows not half your parts.\n", "role": "user" } ]
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134
Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
FROM fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory: But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. When forty winters shall beseige thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held: So thou through windows of thine age shall see Reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme, And die as fast as they see others grow; From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate;
[ { "content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nSo thou through windows of thine age shall see\nReserve them for my love, not for their rhyme,\nAnd die as fast as they see others grow;\nFrom sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate;\n", "role": "user" } ]
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135
Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
FROM fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory: But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. When forty winters shall beseige thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held: When I behold the violet past prime, And 'gainst myself a lawful plea commence: That due of many now is thine alone: And by addition me of thee defeated, Mark how one string, sweet husband to another, But from thine eyes my knowledge I derive, Gilding the object whereupon it gazeth; With ugly rack on his celestial face, O, that you were yourself! but, love, you are Such civil war is in my love and hate Which husbandry in honour might uphold Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow, To give away yourself keeps yourself still, Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow, For thou art so possess'd with murderous hate Haply I think on thee, and then my state, Then may I dare to boast how I do love thee;
[ { "content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nWhen I behold the violet past prime,\nAnd 'gainst myself a lawful plea commence:\nThat due of many now is thine alone:\nAnd by addition me of thee defeated,\nMark how one string, sweet husband to another,\nBut from thine eyes my knowledge I derive,\nGilding the object whereupon it gazeth;\nWith ugly rack on his celestial face,\nO, that you were yourself! but, love, you are\nSuch civil war is in my love and hate\nWhich husbandry in honour might uphold\nThen can I drown an eye, unused to flow,\nTo give away yourself keeps yourself still,\nThen can I drown an eye, unused to flow,\nFor thou art so possess'd with murderous hate\nHaply I think on thee, and then my state,\nThen may I dare to boast how I do love thee;\n", "role": "user" } ]
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136
Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
FROM fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory: But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. When forty winters shall beseige thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held: But if the while I think on thee, dear friend, Pluck the keen teeth from the fierce tiger's jaws, I will not praise that purpose not to sell. But when from highmost pitch, with weary car, Let those whom Nature hath not made for store, To witness duty, not to show my wit: And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er With what I most enjoy contented least; To show me worthy of thy sweet respect: And fortify yourself in your decay Not from the stars do I my judgment pluck; Unlook'd for joy in that I honour most. Which to repair should be thy chief desire. Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, Which to repair should be thy chief desire. How much more praise deserved thy beauty's use, That then I scorn to change my state with kings. Mine be thy love and thy love's use their treasure. And thou, all they, hast all the all of me. Mark how one string, sweet husband to another, Featured like him, like him with friends possess'd, Strikes each in each by mutual ordering, And they are rich and ransom all ill deeds.
[ { "content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nBut if the while I think on thee, dear friend,\nPluck the keen teeth from the fierce tiger's jaws,\nI will not praise that purpose not to sell.\nBut when from highmost pitch, with weary car,\nLet those whom Nature hath not made for store,\nTo witness duty, not to show my wit:\nAnd heavily from woe to woe tell o'er\nWith what I most enjoy contented least;\nTo show me worthy of thy sweet respect:\nAnd fortify yourself in your decay\nNot from the stars do I my judgment pluck;\nUnlook'd for joy in that I honour most.\nWhich to repair should be thy chief desire.\nRough winds do shake the darling buds of May,\nWhich to repair should be thy chief desire.\nHow much more praise deserved thy beauty's use,\nThat then I scorn to change my state with kings.\nMine be thy love and thy love's use their treasure.\nAnd thou, all they, hast all the all of me.\nMark how one string, sweet husband to another,\nFeatured like him, like him with friends possess'd,\nStrikes each in each by mutual ordering,\nAnd they are rich and ransom all ill deeds.\n", "role": "user" } ]
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137
Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
FROM fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory: But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. When forty winters shall beseige thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held: That then I scorn to change my state with kings. Thy merit hath my duty strongly knit, Now stand you on the top of happy hours, Nor can thy shame give physic to my grief; If I could write the beauty of your eyes Which husbandry in honour might uphold The bounteous largess given thee to give? A man in hue, all 'hues' in his controlling, O, therefore, love, be of thyself so wary Do in consent shake hands to torture me; Sweets with sweets war not, joy delights in joy. Make glad and sorry seasons as thou fleets,
[ { "content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nThat then I scorn to change my state with kings.\nThy merit hath my duty strongly knit,\nNow stand you on the top of happy hours,\nNor can thy shame give physic to my grief;\nIf I could write the beauty of your eyes\nWhich husbandry in honour might uphold\nThe bounteous largess given thee to give?\nA man in hue, all 'hues' in his controlling,\nO, therefore, love, be of thyself so wary\nDo in consent shake hands to torture me;\nSweets with sweets war not, joy delights in joy.\nMake glad and sorry seasons as thou fleets,\n", "role": "user" } ]
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138
Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
FROM fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory: But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. When forty winters shall beseige thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held: Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother. You should live twice; in it and in my rhyme. O' let me, true in love, but truly write, Whose fresh repair if now thou not renewest, And make the earth devour her own sweet brood; And sable curls all silver'd o'er with white; Hath dear religious love stol'n from mine eye Making a famine where abundance lies, By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd; Is but the seemly raiment of my heart, From his low tract and look another way: Let those whom Nature hath not made for store, Lo! thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind, And wear their brave state out of memory;
[ { "content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nThou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother.\nYou should live twice; in it and in my rhyme.\nO' let me, true in love, but truly write,\nWhose fresh repair if now thou not renewest,\nAnd make the earth devour her own sweet brood;\nAnd sable curls all silver'd o'er with white;\nHath dear religious love stol'n from mine eye\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nBy chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd;\nIs but the seemly raiment of my heart,\nFrom his low tract and look another way:\nLet those whom Nature hath not made for store,\nLo! thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind,\nAnd wear their brave state out of memory;\n", "role": "user" } ]
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139
Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
FROM fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory: But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. When forty winters shall beseige thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held: For to thy sensual fault I bring in sense-- Look in thy glass, and tell the face thou viewest Stirr'd by a painted beauty to his verse, And puts apparel on my tatter'd loving, Though thou repent, yet I have still the loss: Desiring this man's art and that man's scope,
[ { "content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nFor to thy sensual fault I bring in sense--\nLook in thy glass, and tell the face thou viewest\nStirr'd by a painted beauty to his verse,\nAnd puts apparel on my tatter'd loving,\nThough thou repent, yet I have still the loss:\nDesiring this man's art and that man's scope,\n", "role": "user" } ]
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140
Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
FROM fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory: But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. When forty winters shall beseige thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held: And in fresh numbers number all your graces, Thou art the grave where buried love doth live, Herein lives wisdom, beauty and increase: The region cloud hath mask'd him from me now. And loathsome canker lives in sweetest bud. Seeking that beauteous roof to ruinate Or else of thee this I prognosticate: 'Had my friend's Muse grown with this growing age, Yet eyes this cunning want to grace their art; Which in my bosom's shop is hanging still, That due of many now is thine alone: And moan the expense of many a vanish'd sight: A dearer birth than this his love had brought, Make sweet some vial; treasure thou some place Of public honour and proud titles boast, Or else of thee this I prognosticate: And many maiden gardens yet unset But as the riper should by time decease, From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate; Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? Hast thou, the master-mistress of my passion; Pluck the keen teeth from the fierce tiger's jaws, Yet doth it steal sweet hours from love's delight. Yet, do thy worst, old Time: despite thy wrong, Pointing to each his thunder, rain and wind, Yet doth it steal sweet hours from love's delight. To find where your true image pictured lies; But day by night, and night by day, oppress'd? More than that tongue that more hath more express'd. Neither in inward worth nor outward fair, As an unperfect actor on the stage And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste: And though they be outstripp'd by every pen, Kissing with golden face the meadows green, That thou consumest thyself in single life? Then the conceit of this inconstant stay Now see what good turns eyes for eyes have done:
[ { "content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nAnd in fresh numbers number all your graces,\nThou art the grave where buried love doth live,\nHerein lives wisdom, beauty and increase:\nThe region cloud hath mask'd him from me now.\nAnd loathsome canker lives in sweetest bud.\nSeeking that beauteous roof to ruinate\nOr else of thee this I prognosticate:\n'Had my friend's Muse grown with this growing age,\nYet eyes this cunning want to grace their art;\nWhich in my bosom's shop is hanging still,\nThat due of many now is thine alone:\nAnd moan the expense of many a vanish'd sight:\nA dearer birth than this his love had brought,\nMake sweet some vial; treasure thou some place\nOf public honour and proud titles boast,\nOr else of thee this I prognosticate:\nAnd many maiden gardens yet unset\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nFrom sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate;\nShall I compare thee to a summer's day?\nHast thou, the master-mistress of my passion;\nPluck the keen teeth from the fierce tiger's jaws,\nYet doth it steal sweet hours from love's delight.\nYet, do thy worst, old Time: despite thy wrong,\nPointing to each his thunder, rain and wind,\nYet doth it steal sweet hours from love's delight.\nTo find where your true image pictured lies;\nBut day by night, and night by day, oppress'd?\nMore than that tongue that more hath more express'd.\nNeither in inward worth nor outward fair,\nAs an unperfect actor on the stage\nAnd with old woes new wail my dear time's waste:\nAnd though they be outstripp'd by every pen,\nKissing with golden face the meadows green,\nThat thou consumest thyself in single life?\nThen the conceit of this inconstant stay\nNow see what good turns eyes for eyes have done:\n", "role": "user" } ]
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141
Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
FROM fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory: But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. When forty winters shall beseige thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held: And there reigns love and all love's loving parts, Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade, Mine be thy love and thy love's use their treasure. And barren rage of death's eternal cold? A woman's face with Nature's own hand painted But that I hope some good conceit of thine Pluck the keen teeth from the fierce tiger's jaws, And shalt by fortune once more re-survey Thy end is truth's and beauty's doom and date. Ah! if thou issueless shalt hap to die. Roses have thorns, and silver fountains mud; And every fair with his fair doth rehearse Lord of my love, to whom in vassalage And often is his gold complexion dimm'd; And yet methinks I have astronomy, Whilst I, whom fortune of such triumph bars, Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage, Yet him for this my love no whit disdaineth; What acceptable audit canst thou leave? To hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit. With what I most enjoy contented least; To hideous winter and confounds him there; Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament I summon up remembrance of things past, Making a couplement of proud compare, When sparkling stars twire not thou gild'st the even. Thou gavest me thine, not to give back again. So great a sum of sums, yet canst not live? In thy soul's thought, all naked, will bestow it; With ugly rack on his celestial face,
[ { "content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nAnd there reigns love and all love's loving parts,\nNor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,\nMine be thy love and thy love's use their treasure.\nAnd barren rage of death's eternal cold?\nA woman's face with Nature's own hand painted\nBut that I hope some good conceit of thine\nPluck the keen teeth from the fierce tiger's jaws,\nAnd shalt by fortune once more re-survey\nThy end is truth's and beauty's doom and date.\nAh! if thou issueless shalt hap to die.\nRoses have thorns, and silver fountains mud;\nAnd every fair with his fair doth rehearse\nLord of my love, to whom in vassalage\nAnd often is his gold complexion dimm'd;\nAnd yet methinks I have astronomy,\nWhilst I, whom fortune of such triumph bars,\nOr some fierce thing replete with too much rage,\nYet him for this my love no whit disdaineth;\nWhat acceptable audit canst thou leave?\nTo hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit.\nWith what I most enjoy contented least;\nTo hideous winter and confounds him there;\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nI summon up remembrance of things past,\nMaking a couplement of proud compare,\nWhen sparkling stars twire not thou gild'st the even.\nThou gavest me thine, not to give back again.\nSo great a sum of sums, yet canst not live?\nIn thy soul's thought, all naked, will bestow it;\nWith ugly rack on his celestial face,\n", "role": "user" } ]
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142
Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
FROM fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory: But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. When forty winters shall beseige thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held: By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd; Holds in perfection but a little moment, Compare them with the bettering of the time, That beauty still may live in thine or thee. Lo! thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind, But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Thy bosom is endeared with all hearts, Resembling sire and child and happy mother Serving with looks his sacred majesty; Borne on the bier with white and bristly beard, But flowers distill'd though they with winter meet, And all the rest forgot for which he toil'd: And kept unused, the user so destroys it.
[ { "content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nBy chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd;\nHolds in perfection but a little moment,\nCompare them with the bettering of the time,\nThat beauty still may live in thine or thee.\nLo! thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind,\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nThy bosom is endeared with all hearts,\nResembling sire and child and happy mother\nServing with looks his sacred majesty;\nBorne on the bier with white and bristly beard,\nBut flowers distill'd though they with winter meet,\nAnd all the rest forgot for which he toil'd:\nAnd kept unused, the user so destroys it.\n", "role": "user" } ]
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143
Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
FROM fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory: But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. When forty winters shall beseige thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held: Looking on darkness which the blind do see For through the painter must you see his skill, That I in thy abundance am sufficed To give away yourself keeps yourself still, Much liker than your painted counterfeit: So shall those blots that do with me remain And barren rage of death's eternal cold? Resembling strong youth in his middle age, That then I scorn to change my state with kings. Entitled in thy parts do crowned sit, I may not evermore acknowledge thee, By children's eyes her husband's shape in mind. And moan the expense of many a vanish'd sight: To find where your true image pictured lies; Who heaven itself for ornament doth use Which, like a jewel hung in ghastly night, Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, When every private widow well may keep If ten of thine ten times refigured thee: Nor draw no lines there with thine antique pen; To give away yourself keeps yourself still, Ah! but those tears are pearl which thy love sheds, Yourself again after yourself's decease, Resembling sire and child and happy mother Profitless usurer, why dost thou use Exceeded by the height of happier men. To hideous winter and confounds him there; Ten times thyself were happier than thou art, And having climb'd the steep-up heavenly hill, She carved thee for her seal, and meant thereby Disdains the tillage of thy husbandry?
[ { "content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nLooking on darkness which the blind do see\nFor through the painter must you see his skill,\nThat I in thy abundance am sufficed\nTo give away yourself keeps yourself still,\nMuch liker than your painted counterfeit:\nSo shall those blots that do with me remain\nAnd barren rage of death's eternal cold?\nResembling strong youth in his middle age,\nThat then I scorn to change my state with kings.\nEntitled in thy parts do crowned sit,\nI may not evermore acknowledge thee,\nBy children's eyes her husband's shape in mind.\nAnd moan the expense of many a vanish'd sight:\nTo find where your true image pictured lies;\nWho heaven itself for ornament doth use\nWhich, like a jewel hung in ghastly night,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWhen every private widow well may keep\nIf ten of thine ten times refigured thee:\nNor draw no lines there with thine antique pen;\nTo give away yourself keeps yourself still,\nAh! but those tears are pearl which thy love sheds,\nYourself again after yourself's decease,\nResembling sire and child and happy mother\nProfitless usurer, why dost thou use\nExceeded by the height of happier men.\nTo hideous winter and confounds him there;\nTen times thyself were happier than thou art,\nAnd having climb'd the steep-up heavenly hill,\nShe carved thee for her seal, and meant thereby\nDisdains the tillage of thy husbandry?\n", "role": "user" } ]
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144
Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
FROM fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory: But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. When forty winters shall beseige thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held: Great princes' favourites their fair leaves spread More than that tongue that more hath more express'd. And in fresh numbers number all your graces, Shifts but his place, for still the world enjoys it; As tender nurse her babe from faring ill. With shifting change, as is false women's fashion; The bounteous largess given thee to give? That this huge stage presenteth nought but shows The world will be thy widow and still weep Roses have thorns, and silver fountains mud; Neither in inward worth nor outward fair, Let them say more than like of hearsay well; In thy soul's thought, all naked, will bestow it; To show me worthy of thy sweet respect: Of his self-love, to stop posterity? Suns of the world may stain when heaven's sun staineth. But day by night, and night by day, oppress'd? That thou among the wastes of time must go, Of his self-love, to stop posterity? Be, as thy presence is, gracious and kind, My glass shall not persuade me I am old, Sap cheque'd with frost and lusty leaves quite gone, Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother. Sings this to thee: 'thou single wilt prove none.' That I in thy abundance am sufficed Unthrifty loveliness, why dost thou spend So shall those blots that do with me remain That on himself such murderous shame commits. To hideous winter and confounds him there; Yet, do thy worst, old Time: despite thy wrong, Looking on darkness which the blind do see Mark how one string, sweet husband to another, Without this, folly, age and cold decay: That 'gainst thyself thou stick'st not to conspire. Suns of the world may stain when heaven's sun staineth. Nor draw no lines there with thine antique pen;
[ { "content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nGreat princes' favourites their fair leaves spread\nMore than that tongue that more hath more express'd.\nAnd in fresh numbers number all your graces,\nShifts but his place, for still the world enjoys it;\nAs tender nurse her babe from faring ill.\nWith shifting change, as is false women's fashion;\nThe bounteous largess given thee to give?\nThat this huge stage presenteth nought but shows\nThe world will be thy widow and still weep\nRoses have thorns, and silver fountains mud;\nNeither in inward worth nor outward fair,\nLet them say more than like of hearsay well;\nIn thy soul's thought, all naked, will bestow it;\nTo show me worthy of thy sweet respect:\nOf his self-love, to stop posterity?\nSuns of the world may stain when heaven's sun staineth.\nBut day by night, and night by day, oppress'd?\nThat thou among the wastes of time must go,\nOf his self-love, to stop posterity?\nBe, as thy presence is, gracious and kind,\nMy glass shall not persuade me I am old,\nSap cheque'd with frost and lusty leaves quite gone,\nThou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother.\nSings this to thee: 'thou single wilt prove none.'\nThat I in thy abundance am sufficed\nUnthrifty loveliness, why dost thou spend\nSo shall those blots that do with me remain\nThat on himself such murderous shame commits.\nTo hideous winter and confounds him there;\nYet, do thy worst, old Time: despite thy wrong,\nLooking on darkness which the blind do see\nMark how one string, sweet husband to another,\nWithout this, folly, age and cold decay:\nThat 'gainst thyself thou stick'st not to conspire.\nSuns of the world may stain when heaven's sun staineth.\nNor draw no lines there with thine antique pen;\n", "role": "user" } ]
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145
Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
FROM fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory: But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. When forty winters shall beseige thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held: When forty winters shall beseige thy brow, Making a famine where abundance lies, Though thou repent, yet I have still the loss: Sap cheque'd with frost and lusty leaves quite gone, Thy merit hath my duty strongly knit, To the wide world and all her fading sweets; As those gold candles fix'd in heaven's air: A liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass, Of his self-love, to stop posterity? As those gold candles fix'd in heaven's air: Vaunt in their youthful sap, at height decrease, That then I scorn to change my state with kings. No longer yours than you yourself here live: When your sweet issue your sweet form should bear. And loathsome canker lives in sweetest bud. And sable curls all silver'd o'er with white; If thou couldst answer 'This fair child of mine Thy merit hath my duty strongly knit, Mine eyes have drawn thy shape, and thine for me Then what could death do, if thou shouldst depart, Be not self-will'd, for thou art much too fair Whose speechless song, being many, seeming one, Can make you live yourself in eyes of men. To hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit. That I in thy abundance am sufficed And loathsome canker lives in sweetest bud. And in fresh numbers number all your graces, Proving his beauty by succession thine! Whose fresh repair if now thou not renewest, This were to be new made when thou art old, May make seem bare, in wanting words to show it, For thee and for myself no quiet find. And in mine own love's strength seem to decay, With April's first-born flowers, and all things rare Reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme, How much more praise deserved thy beauty's use, That heals the wound and cures not the disgrace:
[ { "content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThough thou repent, yet I have still the loss:\nSap cheque'd with frost and lusty leaves quite gone,\nThy merit hath my duty strongly knit,\nTo the wide world and all her fading sweets;\nAs those gold candles fix'd in heaven's air:\nA liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass,\nOf his self-love, to stop posterity?\nAs those gold candles fix'd in heaven's air:\nVaunt in their youthful sap, at height decrease,\nThat then I scorn to change my state with kings.\nNo longer yours than you yourself here live:\nWhen your sweet issue your sweet form should bear.\nAnd loathsome canker lives in sweetest bud.\nAnd sable curls all silver'd o'er with white;\nIf thou couldst answer 'This fair child of mine\nThy merit hath my duty strongly knit,\nMine eyes have drawn thy shape, and thine for me\nThen what could death do, if thou shouldst depart,\nBe not self-will'd, for thou art much too fair\nWhose speechless song, being many, seeming one,\nCan make you live yourself in eyes of men.\nTo hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit.\nThat I in thy abundance am sufficed\nAnd loathsome canker lives in sweetest bud.\nAnd in fresh numbers number all your graces,\nProving his beauty by succession thine!\nWhose fresh repair if now thou not renewest,\nThis were to be new made when thou art old,\nMay make seem bare, in wanting words to show it,\nFor thee and for myself no quiet find.\nAnd in mine own love's strength seem to decay,\nWith April's first-born flowers, and all things rare\nReserve them for my love, not for their rhyme,\nHow much more praise deserved thy beauty's use,\nThat heals the wound and cures not the disgrace:\n", "role": "user" } ]
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146
Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
FROM fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory: But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. When forty winters shall beseige thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held: Who all in one, one pleasing note do sing: Yet, do thy worst, old Time: despite thy wrong, Thy unused beauty must be tomb'd with thee, If ten of thine ten times refigured thee: Whose fresh repair if now thou not renewest, Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell, Clouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun, Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel, Who for thyself art so unprovident. And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? Yet him for this my love no whit disdaineth; And from the forlorn world his visage hide, Nor can thy shame give physic to my grief; Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day, Thy merit hath my duty strongly knit, Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? My glass shall not persuade me I am old, Who plead for love and look for recompense Then the conceit of this inconstant stay
[ { "content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nWho all in one, one pleasing note do sing:\nYet, do thy worst, old Time: despite thy wrong,\nThy unused beauty must be tomb'd with thee,\nIf ten of thine ten times refigured thee:\nWhose fresh repair if now thou not renewest,\nNor can I fortune to brief minutes tell,\nClouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nWho for thyself art so unprovident.\nAnd heavily from woe to woe tell o'er\nShall I compare thee to a summer's day?\nYet him for this my love no whit disdaineth;\nAnd from the forlorn world his visage hide,\nNor can thy shame give physic to my grief;\nWhy didst thou promise such a beauteous day,\nThy merit hath my duty strongly knit,\nShall I compare thee to a summer's day?\nMy glass shall not persuade me I am old,\nWho plead for love and look for recompense\nThen the conceit of this inconstant stay\n", "role": "user" } ]
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147
Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
FROM fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory: But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. When forty winters shall beseige thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held: Yet, do thy worst, old Time: despite thy wrong, Stealing unseen to west with this disgrace: But thy eternal summer shall not fade And in fresh numbers number all your graces, Without this, folly, age and cold decay: I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,
[ { "content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nYet, do thy worst, old Time: despite thy wrong,\nStealing unseen to west with this disgrace:\nBut thy eternal summer shall not fade\nAnd in fresh numbers number all your graces,\nWithout this, folly, age and cold decay:\nI sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,\n", "role": "user" } ]
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148
Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
FROM fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory: But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. When forty winters shall beseige thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held: So should the lines of life that life repair, Stealing unseen to west with this disgrace: But do not so; I love thee in such sort To the wide world and all her fading sweets; So should the lines of life that life repair, Pity the world, or else this glutton be, Reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme, Or to thyself at least kind-hearted prove: That thou among the wastes of time must go, Desiring this man's art and that man's scope, And many maiden gardens yet unset Full many a glorious morning have I seen Mine be thy love and thy love's use their treasure. Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? Although our undivided loves are one: Vaunt in their youthful sap, at height decrease, Mark how one string, sweet husband to another, And weep afresh love's long since cancell'd woe, Lo! in the orient when the gracious light And trouble deal heaven with my bootless cries
[ { "content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nSo should the lines of life that life repair,\nStealing unseen to west with this disgrace:\nBut do not so; I love thee in such sort\nTo the wide world and all her fading sweets;\nSo should the lines of life that life repair,\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nReserve them for my love, not for their rhyme,\nOr to thyself at least kind-hearted prove:\nThat thou among the wastes of time must go,\nDesiring this man's art and that man's scope,\nAnd many maiden gardens yet unset\nFull many a glorious morning have I seen\nMine be thy love and thy love's use their treasure.\nShall I compare thee to a summer's day?\nAlthough our undivided loves are one:\nVaunt in their youthful sap, at height decrease,\nMark how one string, sweet husband to another,\nAnd weep afresh love's long since cancell'd woe,\nLo! in the orient when the gracious light\nAnd trouble deal heaven with my bootless cries\n", "role": "user" } ]
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149
Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
FROM fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory: But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. When forty winters shall beseige thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held: When to the sessions of sweet silent thought That 'gainst thyself thou stick'st not to conspire. Then of thy beauty do I question make, Without this, folly, age and cold decay: Or any of these all, or all, or more, And then believe me, my love is as fair Now see what good turns eyes for eyes have done: A woman's face with Nature's own hand painted Unlook'd on diest, unless thou get a son. Resembling strong youth in his middle age, Hath dear religious love stol'n from mine eye Hung with the trophies of my lovers gone, And stretched metre of an antique song: Haply I think on thee, and then my state, With shifting change, as is false women's fashion; But that thou none lovest is most evident; Pointing to each his thunder, rain and wind, For shame! deny that thou bear'st love to any, Nor draw no lines there with thine antique pen; For shame! deny that thou bear'st love to any, When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes, Make glad and sorry seasons as thou fleets, May make seem bare, in wanting words to show it, How can I then return in happy plight, Herein lives wisdom, beauty and increase: The world will be thy widow and still weep Then of thy beauty do I question make, So should that beauty which you hold in lease Shall hate be fairer lodged than gentle love?
[ { "content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nWhen to the sessions of sweet silent thought\nThat 'gainst thyself thou stick'st not to conspire.\nThen of thy beauty do I question make,\nWithout this, folly, age and cold decay:\nOr any of these all, or all, or more,\nAnd then believe me, my love is as fair\nNow see what good turns eyes for eyes have done:\nA woman's face with Nature's own hand painted\nUnlook'd on diest, unless thou get a son.\nResembling strong youth in his middle age,\nHath dear religious love stol'n from mine eye\nHung with the trophies of my lovers gone,\nAnd stretched metre of an antique song:\nHaply I think on thee, and then my state,\nWith shifting change, as is false women's fashion;\nBut that thou none lovest is most evident;\nPointing to each his thunder, rain and wind,\nFor shame! deny that thou bear'st love to any,\nNor draw no lines there with thine antique pen;\nFor shame! deny that thou bear'st love to any,\nWhen, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,\nMake glad and sorry seasons as thou fleets,\nMay make seem bare, in wanting words to show it,\nHow can I then return in happy plight,\nHerein lives wisdom, beauty and increase:\nThe world will be thy widow and still weep\nThen of thy beauty do I question make,\nSo should that beauty which you hold in lease\nShall hate be fairer lodged than gentle love?\n", "role": "user" } ]
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150
Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
FROM fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory: But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. When forty winters shall beseige thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held: When lofty trees I see barren of leaves Then what could death do, if thou shouldst depart, Compare them with the bettering of the time, As those gold candles fix'd in heaven's air: That I in thy abundance am sufficed Which though it alter not love's sole effect, Mine eye hath play'd the painter and hath stell'd Mark how one string, sweet husband to another, Such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces.' Music to hear, why hear'st thou music sadly? I make my love engrafted to this store: As an unperfect actor on the stage So long as youth and thou are of one date; Which happies those that pay the willing loan; In thy soul's thought, all naked, will bestow it; That thou consumest thyself in single life?
[ { "content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nWhen lofty trees I see barren of leaves\nThen what could death do, if thou shouldst depart,\nCompare them with the bettering of the time,\nAs those gold candles fix'd in heaven's air:\nThat I in thy abundance am sufficed\nWhich though it alter not love's sole effect,\nMine eye hath play'd the painter and hath stell'd\nMark how one string, sweet husband to another,\nSuch heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces.'\nMusic to hear, why hear'st thou music sadly?\nI make my love engrafted to this store:\nAs an unperfect actor on the stage\nSo long as youth and thou are of one date;\nWhich happies those that pay the willing loan;\nIn thy soul's thought, all naked, will bestow it;\nThat thou consumest thyself in single life?\n", "role": "user" } ]
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151
Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
FROM fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory: But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. When forty winters shall beseige thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held: That on himself such murderous shame commits. Mine eye hath play'd the painter and hath stell'd Then of thy beauty do I question make, To dry the rain on my storm-beaten face, Such civil war is in my love and hate And die as fast as they see others grow; Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held: Then let not winter's ragged hand deface But as the marigold at the sun's eye, Pluck the keen teeth from the fierce tiger's jaws, How many a holy and obsequious tear Like to the lark at break of day arising Profitless usurer, why dost thou use Is it for fear to wet a widow's eye Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, For no man well of such a salve can speak
[ { "content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nThat on himself such murderous shame commits.\nMine eye hath play'd the painter and hath stell'd\nThen of thy beauty do I question make,\nTo dry the rain on my storm-beaten face,\nSuch civil war is in my love and hate\nAnd die as fast as they see others grow;\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nThen let not winter's ragged hand deface\nBut as the marigold at the sun's eye,\nPluck the keen teeth from the fierce tiger's jaws,\nHow many a holy and obsequious tear\nLike to the lark at break of day arising\nProfitless usurer, why dost thou use\nIs it for fear to wet a widow's eye\nRough winds do shake the darling buds of May,\nSometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,\nFor no man well of such a salve can speak\n", "role": "user" } ]
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152
Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
FROM fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory: But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. When forty winters shall beseige thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held: If thou couldst answer 'This fair child of mine Which to repair should be thy chief desire. And often is his gold complexion dimm'd; So should that beauty which you hold in lease If ten of thine ten times refigured thee: But wherefore do not you a mightier way For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings Make sweet some vial; treasure thou some place And puts apparel on my tatter'd loving, For no man well of such a salve can speak Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, When I behold the violet past prime, Stealing unseen to west with this disgrace: But as the marigold at the sun's eye, Till Nature, as she wrought thee, fell a-doting, So shall those blots that do with me remain With shifting change, as is false women's fashion; So should the lines of life that life repair, And, constant stars, in them I read such art No love toward others in that bosom sits To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate; But as the riper should by time decease, As interest of the dead, which now appear O, learn to read what silent love hath writ: As those gold candles fix'd in heaven's air: His tender heir might bear his memory: Then let not winter's ragged hand deface But when from highmost pitch, with weary car, Disdains the tillage of thy husbandry? And all the rest forgot for which he toil'd: With all triumphant splendor on my brow; Which bounteous gift thou shouldst in bounty cherish: And shalt by fortune once more re-survey
[ { "content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nIf thou couldst answer 'This fair child of mine\nWhich to repair should be thy chief desire.\nAnd often is his gold complexion dimm'd;\nSo should that beauty which you hold in lease\nIf ten of thine ten times refigured thee:\nBut wherefore do not you a mightier way\nFor thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings\nMake sweet some vial; treasure thou some place\nAnd puts apparel on my tatter'd loving,\nFor no man well of such a salve can speak\nRough winds do shake the darling buds of May,\nWhen I behold the violet past prime,\nStealing unseen to west with this disgrace:\nBut as the marigold at the sun's eye,\nTill Nature, as she wrought thee, fell a-doting,\nSo shall those blots that do with me remain\nWith shifting change, as is false women's fashion;\nSo should the lines of life that life repair,\nAnd, constant stars, in them I read such art\nNo love toward others in that bosom sits\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nFrom sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate;\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nAs interest of the dead, which now appear\nO, learn to read what silent love hath writ:\nAs those gold candles fix'd in heaven's air:\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nThen let not winter's ragged hand deface\nBut when from highmost pitch, with weary car,\nDisdains the tillage of thy husbandry?\nAnd all the rest forgot for which he toil'd:\nWith all triumphant splendor on my brow;\nWhich bounteous gift thou shouldst in bounty cherish:\nAnd shalt by fortune once more re-survey\n", "role": "user" } ]
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153
Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
FROM fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory: But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. When forty winters shall beseige thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held: Stealing unseen to west with this disgrace: Nor can thy shame give physic to my grief; Wishing me like to one more rich in hope, Roses have thorns, and silver fountains mud; Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, Whereon the stars in secret influence comment; Without this, folly, age and cold decay: Thou art more lovely and more temperate: Nor it nor no remembrance what it was: Pluck the keen teeth from the fierce tiger's jaws, 'Tis not enough that through the cloud thou break, O, change thy thought, that I may change my mind! The age to come would say 'This poet lies: And kept unused, the user so destroys it. For where is she so fair whose unear'd womb Look, whom she best endow'd she gave the more; And, constant stars, in them I read such art O, change thy thought, that I may change my mind! And often is his gold complexion dimm'd; That this huge stage presenteth nought but shows Thou gavest me thine, not to give back again. Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament Mine eyes have drawn thy shape, and thine for me No more be grieved at that which thou hast done: Disdains the tillage of thy husbandry? Borne on the bier with white and bristly beard,
[ { "content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nStealing unseen to west with this disgrace:\nNor can thy shame give physic to my grief;\nWishing me like to one more rich in hope,\nRoses have thorns, and silver fountains mud;\nRough winds do shake the darling buds of May,\nWhereon the stars in secret influence comment;\nWithout this, folly, age and cold decay:\nThou art more lovely and more temperate:\nNor it nor no remembrance what it was:\nPluck the keen teeth from the fierce tiger's jaws,\n'Tis not enough that through the cloud thou break,\nO, change thy thought, that I may change my mind!\nThe age to come would say 'This poet lies:\nAnd kept unused, the user so destroys it.\nFor where is she so fair whose unear'd womb\nLook, whom she best endow'd she gave the more;\nAnd, constant stars, in them I read such art\nO, change thy thought, that I may change my mind!\nAnd often is his gold complexion dimm'd;\nThat this huge stage presenteth nought but shows\nThou gavest me thine, not to give back again.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nMine eyes have drawn thy shape, and thine for me\nNo more be grieved at that which thou hast done:\nDisdains the tillage of thy husbandry?\nBorne on the bier with white and bristly beard,\n", "role": "user" } ]
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154
Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
FROM fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory: But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. When forty winters shall beseige thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held: That's for thyself to breed another thee, This were to be new made when thou art old, With sun and moon, with earth and sea's rich gems, Who heaven itself for ornament doth use My glass shall not persuade me I am old, Mine eye hath play'd the painter and hath stell'd Herein lives wisdom, beauty and increase: Which in thy breast doth live, as thine in me: Which happies those that pay the willing loan; Shall sum my count and make my old excuse,' Yet doth it steal sweet hours from love's delight. Yet doth it steal sweet hours from love's delight. Theirs for their style I'll read, his for his love.' Mark how one string, sweet husband to another, Shall hate be fairer lodged than gentle love?
[ { "content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nThat's for thyself to breed another thee,\nThis were to be new made when thou art old,\nWith sun and moon, with earth and sea's rich gems,\nWho heaven itself for ornament doth use\nMy glass shall not persuade me I am old,\nMine eye hath play'd the painter and hath stell'd\nHerein lives wisdom, beauty and increase:\nWhich in thy breast doth live, as thine in me:\nWhich happies those that pay the willing loan;\nShall sum my count and make my old excuse,'\nYet doth it steal sweet hours from love's delight.\nYet doth it steal sweet hours from love's delight.\nTheirs for their style I'll read, his for his love.'\nMark how one string, sweet husband to another,\nShall hate be fairer lodged than gentle love?\n", "role": "user" } ]
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155
Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
FROM fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory: But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. When forty winters shall beseige thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held: Featured like him, like him with friends possess'd, And thou, all they, hast all the all of me. Compare them with the bettering of the time, To say, within thine own deep-sunken eyes, Mine eyes have drawn thy shape, and thine for me Let those who are in favour with their stars
[ { "content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nFeatured like him, like him with friends possess'd,\nAnd thou, all they, hast all the all of me.\nCompare them with the bettering of the time,\nTo say, within thine own deep-sunken eyes,\nMine eyes have drawn thy shape, and thine for me\nLet those who are in favour with their stars\n", "role": "user" } ]
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156
Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
FROM fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory: But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. When forty winters shall beseige thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held: But since she prick'd thee out for women's pleasure, And there reigns love and all love's loving parts, Herein lives wisdom, beauty and increase: If ten of thine ten times refigured thee: Of public honour and proud titles boast, Though in our lives a separable spite, Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
[ { "content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nBut since she prick'd thee out for women's pleasure,\nAnd there reigns love and all love's loving parts,\nHerein lives wisdom, beauty and increase:\nIf ten of thine ten times refigured thee:\nOf public honour and proud titles boast,\nThough in our lives a separable spite,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\n", "role": "user" } ]
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157
Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
FROM fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory: But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. When forty winters shall beseige thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held: And kept unused, the user so destroys it. All losses are restored and sorrows end. Him in thy course untainted do allow Which in thy breast doth live, as thine in me: And die as fast as they see others grow; And dumb presagers of my speaking breast, And 'gainst myself a lawful plea commence: And though they be outstripp'd by every pen, Upon thyself thy beauty's legacy? But do not so; I love thee in such sort Flatter the mountain-tops with sovereign eye, I tell the day, to please them thou art bright But out, alack! he was but one hour mine; So thou through windows of thine age shall see Make glad and sorry seasons as thou fleets, Then being ask'd where all thy beauty lies, Hath dear religious love stol'n from mine eye Or else receivest with pleasure thine annoy?
[ { "content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nAnd kept unused, the user so destroys it.\nAll losses are restored and sorrows end.\nHim in thy course untainted do allow\nWhich in thy breast doth live, as thine in me:\nAnd die as fast as they see others grow;\nAnd dumb presagers of my speaking breast,\nAnd 'gainst myself a lawful plea commence:\nAnd though they be outstripp'd by every pen,\nUpon thyself thy beauty's legacy?\nBut do not so; I love thee in such sort\nFlatter the mountain-tops with sovereign eye,\nI tell the day, to please them thou art bright\nBut out, alack! he was but one hour mine;\nSo thou through windows of thine age shall see\nMake glad and sorry seasons as thou fleets,\nThen being ask'd where all thy beauty lies,\nHath dear religious love stol'n from mine eye\nOr else receivest with pleasure thine annoy?\n", "role": "user" } ]
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158
Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
FROM fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory: But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. When forty winters shall beseige thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held: Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed, When I do count the clock that tells the time, How can I then be elder than thou art? And they are rich and ransom all ill deeds. With sun and moon, with earth and sea's rich gems, Delights to peep, to gaze therein on thee; When I perceive that men as plants increase, That's for thyself to breed another thee, For shame! deny that thou bear'st love to any, If thou survive my well-contented day, Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow, Which husbandry in honour might uphold Beauty's effect with beauty were bereft, My glass shall not persuade me I am old,
[ { "content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nWeary with toil, I haste me to my bed,\nWhen I do count the clock that tells the time,\nHow can I then be elder than thou art?\nAnd they are rich and ransom all ill deeds.\nWith sun and moon, with earth and sea's rich gems,\nDelights to peep, to gaze therein on thee;\nWhen I perceive that men as plants increase,\nThat's for thyself to breed another thee,\nFor shame! deny that thou bear'st love to any,\nIf thou survive my well-contented day,\nThen can I drown an eye, unused to flow,\nWhich husbandry in honour might uphold\nBeauty's effect with beauty were bereft,\nMy glass shall not persuade me I am old,\n", "role": "user" } ]
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159
Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
FROM fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory: But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. When forty winters shall beseige thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held: The bounteous largess given thee to give? Resembling sire and child and happy mother No love toward others in that bosom sits When lofty trees I see barren of leaves Thou art more lovely and more temperate: To be death's conquest and make worms thine heir. Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. They do but sweetly chide thee, who confounds Against this coming end you should prepare, Now see what good turns eyes for eyes have done: I make my love engrafted to this store: Harsh featureless and rude, barrenly perish: Pity the world, or else this glutton be, Be scorn'd like old men of less truth than tongue, The region cloud hath mask'd him from me now. When every private widow well may keep To let base clouds o'ertake me in my way, And 'gainst myself a lawful plea commence: And shalt by fortune once more re-survey My love shall in my verse ever live young. But if the while I think on thee, dear friend, Who plead for love and look for recompense And by addition me of thee defeated, 'Had my friend's Muse grown with this growing age, Which, used, lives th' executor to be. Yet doth it steal sweet hours from love's delight. And see the brave day sunk in hideous night; By unions married, do offend thine ear, Though in our lives a separable spite, Then how, when nature calls thee to be gone, That thou consumest thyself in single life? But wherefore do not you a mightier way That thou consumest thyself in single life? Pointing to each his thunder, rain and wind, Myself corrupting, salving thy amiss, My glass shall not persuade me I am old,
[ { "content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nThe bounteous largess given thee to give?\nResembling sire and child and happy mother\nNo love toward others in that bosom sits\nWhen lofty trees I see barren of leaves\nThou art more lovely and more temperate:\nTo be death's conquest and make worms thine heir.\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThey do but sweetly chide thee, who confounds\nAgainst this coming end you should prepare,\nNow see what good turns eyes for eyes have done:\nI make my love engrafted to this store:\nHarsh featureless and rude, barrenly perish:\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nBe scorn'd like old men of less truth than tongue,\nThe region cloud hath mask'd him from me now.\nWhen every private widow well may keep\nTo let base clouds o'ertake me in my way,\nAnd 'gainst myself a lawful plea commence:\nAnd shalt by fortune once more re-survey\nMy love shall in my verse ever live young.\nBut if the while I think on thee, dear friend,\nWho plead for love and look for recompense\nAnd by addition me of thee defeated,\n'Had my friend's Muse grown with this growing age,\nWhich, used, lives th' executor to be.\nYet doth it steal sweet hours from love's delight.\nAnd see the brave day sunk in hideous night;\nBy unions married, do offend thine ear,\nThough in our lives a separable spite,\nThen how, when nature calls thee to be gone,\nThat thou consumest thyself in single life?\nBut wherefore do not you a mightier way\nThat thou consumest thyself in single life?\nPointing to each his thunder, rain and wind,\nMyself corrupting, salving thy amiss,\nMy glass shall not persuade me I am old,\n", "role": "user" } ]
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160
Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
FROM fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory: But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. When forty winters shall beseige thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held: Where all the treasure of thy lusty days, Suns of the world may stain when heaven's sun staineth. In one of thine, from that which thou departest; And burn the long-lived phoenix in her blood; Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy; Devouring Time, blunt thou the lion's paws,
[ { "content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nWhere all the treasure of thy lusty days,\nSuns of the world may stain when heaven's sun staineth.\nIn one of thine, from that which thou departest;\nAnd burn the long-lived phoenix in her blood;\nGilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy;\nDevouring Time, blunt thou the lion's paws,\n", "role": "user" } ]
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161
Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
FROM fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory: But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. When forty winters shall beseige thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held: 'Tis not enough that through the cloud thou break, Which, like a jewel hung in ghastly night, So should that beauty which you hold in lease Looking on darkness which the blind do see How much more praise deserved thy beauty's use, With all triumphant splendor on my brow; The dear repose for limbs with travel tired; As any mother's child, though not so bright And your true rights be term'd a poet's rage If it were fill'd with your most high deserts? To give away yourself keeps yourself still, Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother. Kissing with golden face the meadows green, For to thy sensual fault I bring in sense-- O, that you were yourself! but, love, you are Shifts but his place, for still the world enjoys it; Which, used, lives th' executor to be. But day doth daily draw my sorrows longer Find no determination: then you were Their images I loved I view in thee, Thy unused beauty must be tomb'd with thee,
[ { "content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\n'Tis not enough that through the cloud thou break,\nWhich, like a jewel hung in ghastly night,\nSo should that beauty which you hold in lease\nLooking on darkness which the blind do see\nHow much more praise deserved thy beauty's use,\nWith all triumphant splendor on my brow;\nThe dear repose for limbs with travel tired;\nAs any mother's child, though not so bright\nAnd your true rights be term'd a poet's rage\nIf it were fill'd with your most high deserts?\nTo give away yourself keeps yourself still,\nThou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother.\nKissing with golden face the meadows green,\nFor to thy sensual fault I bring in sense--\nO, that you were yourself! but, love, you are\nShifts but his place, for still the world enjoys it;\nWhich, used, lives th' executor to be.\nBut day doth daily draw my sorrows longer\nFind no determination: then you were\nTheir images I loved I view in thee,\nThy unused beauty must be tomb'd with thee,\n", "role": "user" } ]
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162
Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
FROM fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory: But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. When forty winters shall beseige thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held: By children's eyes her husband's shape in mind. Despite of wrinkles this thy golden time. So flatter I the swart-complexion'd night, So long as youth and thou are of one date; To let base clouds o'ertake me in my way, With beauty's treasure, ere it be self-kill'd. Upon thyself thy beauty's legacy? Entitled in thy parts do crowned sit,
[ { "content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nBy children's eyes her husband's shape in mind.\nDespite of wrinkles this thy golden time.\nSo flatter I the swart-complexion'd night,\nSo long as youth and thou are of one date;\nTo let base clouds o'ertake me in my way,\nWith beauty's treasure, ere it be self-kill'd.\nUpon thyself thy beauty's legacy?\nEntitled in thy parts do crowned sit,\n", "role": "user" } ]
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163
Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
FROM fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory: But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. When forty winters shall beseige thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held: And thou, all they, hast all the all of me. Is from the book of honour razed quite, Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising, Where all the treasure of thy lusty days, Which in thy breast doth live, as thine in me: And perspective it is the painter's art. As fast as thou shalt wane, so fast thou growest Excusing thy sins more than thy sins are; As he takes from you, I engraft you new. Then may I dare to boast how I do love thee; For having traffic with thyself alone, When I consider every thing that grows For where is she so fair whose unear'd womb So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, And puts apparel on my tatter'd loving, And loathsome canker lives in sweetest bud. The perfect ceremony of love's rite,
[ { "content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nAnd thou, all they, hast all the all of me.\nIs from the book of honour razed quite,\nYet in these thoughts myself almost despising,\nWhere all the treasure of thy lusty days,\nWhich in thy breast doth live, as thine in me:\nAnd perspective it is the painter's art.\nAs fast as thou shalt wane, so fast thou growest\nExcusing thy sins more than thy sins are;\nAs he takes from you, I engraft you new.\nThen may I dare to boast how I do love thee;\nFor having traffic with thyself alone,\nWhen I consider every thing that grows\nFor where is she so fair whose unear'd womb\nSo long as men can breathe or eyes can see,\nAnd puts apparel on my tatter'd loving,\nAnd loathsome canker lives in sweetest bud.\nThe perfect ceremony of love's rite,\n", "role": "user" } ]
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164
Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
FROM fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory: But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. When forty winters shall beseige thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held: To him that bears the strong offence's cross. Nor thou with public kindness honour me,
[ { "content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nTo him that bears the strong offence's cross.\nNor thou with public kindness honour me,\n", "role": "user" } ]
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165
Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
FROM fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory: But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. When forty winters shall beseige thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held: Will play the tyrants to the very same All men make faults, and even I in this, Thy bosom is endeared with all hearts, For through the painter must you see his skill, When to the sessions of sweet silent thought Roses have thorns, and silver fountains mud; Unlook'd for joy in that I honour most. Is but the seemly raiment of my heart, Which in thy breast doth live, as thine in me: The lovely gaze where every eye doth dwell, They do but sweetly chide thee, who confounds Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade, Let those whom Nature hath not made for store, They draw but what they see, know not the heart. But I forbid thee one most heinous crime: For to thy sensual fault I bring in sense-- A liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass, The one by toil, the other to complain Where I may not remove nor be removed. And fortify yourself in your decay
[ { "content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nWill play the tyrants to the very same\nAll men make faults, and even I in this,\nThy bosom is endeared with all hearts,\nFor through the painter must you see his skill,\nWhen to the sessions of sweet silent thought\nRoses have thorns, and silver fountains mud;\nUnlook'd for joy in that I honour most.\nIs but the seemly raiment of my heart,\nWhich in thy breast doth live, as thine in me:\nThe lovely gaze where every eye doth dwell,\nThey do but sweetly chide thee, who confounds\nNor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,\nLet those whom Nature hath not made for store,\nThey draw but what they see, know not the heart.\nBut I forbid thee one most heinous crime:\nFor to thy sensual fault I bring in sense--\nA liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass,\nThe one by toil, the other to complain\nWhere I may not remove nor be removed.\nAnd fortify yourself in your decay\n", "role": "user" } ]
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166
Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
FROM fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory: But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. When forty winters shall beseige thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held: Though thou repent, yet I have still the loss: For never-resting time leads summer on May make seem bare, in wanting words to show it, Reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme, The world will wail thee, like a makeless wife; Against this coming end you should prepare, Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed, Within thine own bud buriest thy content And threescore year would make the world away. Anon permit the basest clouds to ride Hiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke? Thou art more lovely and more temperate: And in fresh numbers number all your graces, Where all the treasure of thy lusty days, For shame! deny that thou bear'st love to any, Seeking that beauteous roof to ruinate This wish I have; then ten times happy me! As a decrepit father takes delight Mark how one string, sweet husband to another, And in fresh numbers number all your graces, Since sweets and beauties do themselves forsake The world will wail thee, like a makeless wife; And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste: And fortify yourself in your decay As fast as thou shalt wane, so fast thou growest And wear their brave state out of memory; Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
[ { "content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nThough thou repent, yet I have still the loss:\nFor never-resting time leads summer on\nMay make seem bare, in wanting words to show it,\nReserve them for my love, not for their rhyme,\nThe world will wail thee, like a makeless wife;\nAgainst this coming end you should prepare,\nWeary with toil, I haste me to my bed,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd threescore year would make the world away.\nAnon permit the basest clouds to ride\nHiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke?\nThou art more lovely and more temperate:\nAnd in fresh numbers number all your graces,\nWhere all the treasure of thy lusty days,\nFor shame! deny that thou bear'st love to any,\nSeeking that beauteous roof to ruinate\nThis wish I have; then ten times happy me!\nAs a decrepit father takes delight\nMark how one string, sweet husband to another,\nAnd in fresh numbers number all your graces,\nSince sweets and beauties do themselves forsake\nThe world will wail thee, like a makeless wife;\nAnd with old woes new wail my dear time's waste:\nAnd fortify yourself in your decay\nAs fast as thou shalt wane, so fast thou growest\nAnd wear their brave state out of memory;\nShall I compare thee to a summer's day?\n", "role": "user" } ]
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167
Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
FROM fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory: But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. When forty winters shall beseige thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held: Harsh featureless and rude, barrenly perish: All losses are restored and sorrows end. Then look I death my days should expiate. Unthrifty loveliness, why dost thou spend And wear their brave state out of memory; Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed, Music to hear, why hear'st thou music sadly? Yet doth it steal sweet hours from love's delight. And for a woman wert thou first created; If thou couldst answer 'This fair child of mine And nothing 'gainst Time's scythe can make defence Till Nature, as she wrought thee, fell a-doting, Can make you live yourself in eyes of men. Resembling sire and child and happy mother O, therefore, love, be of thyself so wary Now is the time that face should form another; Where wasteful Time debateth with Decay, But thy eternal summer shall not fade For precious friends hid in death's dateless night, And by addition me of thee defeated, For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings
[ { "content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nHarsh featureless and rude, barrenly perish:\nAll losses are restored and sorrows end.\nThen look I death my days should expiate.\nUnthrifty loveliness, why dost thou spend\nAnd wear their brave state out of memory;\nWeary with toil, I haste me to my bed,\nMusic to hear, why hear'st thou music sadly?\nYet doth it steal sweet hours from love's delight.\nAnd for a woman wert thou first created;\nIf thou couldst answer 'This fair child of mine\nAnd nothing 'gainst Time's scythe can make defence\nTill Nature, as she wrought thee, fell a-doting,\nCan make you live yourself in eyes of men.\nResembling sire and child and happy mother\nO, therefore, love, be of thyself so wary\nNow is the time that face should form another;\nWhere wasteful Time debateth with Decay,\nBut thy eternal summer shall not fade\nFor precious friends hid in death's dateless night,\nAnd by addition me of thee defeated,\nFor thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings\n", "role": "user" } ]
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168
Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
FROM fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory: But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. When forty winters shall beseige thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held: To work my mind, when body's work's expired: Then may I dare to boast how I do love thee; Stirr'd by a painted beauty to his verse, Mine eyes have drawn thy shape, and thine for me To hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit. Thou art thy mother's glass, and she in thee Look, what is best, that best I wish in thee: With April's first-born flowers, and all things rare And all in war with Time for love of you, To the wide world and all her fading sweets; You should live twice; in it and in my rhyme. Which in thy breast doth live, as thine in me: Devouring Time, blunt thou the lion's paws, Save breed, to brave him when he takes thee hence. Those hours, that with gentle work did frame Which hides your life and shows not half your parts. Herein lives wisdom, beauty and increase: Of his self-love, to stop posterity? Making a couplement of proud compare, Which this, Time's pencil, or my pupil pen, The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan, Shall hate be fairer lodged than gentle love? Nature's bequest gives nothing but doth lend, Mine be thy love and thy love's use their treasure.
[ { "content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nTo work my mind, when body's work's expired:\nThen may I dare to boast how I do love thee;\nStirr'd by a painted beauty to his verse,\nMine eyes have drawn thy shape, and thine for me\nTo hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit.\nThou art thy mother's glass, and she in thee\nLook, what is best, that best I wish in thee:\nWith April's first-born flowers, and all things rare\nAnd all in war with Time for love of you,\nTo the wide world and all her fading sweets;\nYou should live twice; in it and in my rhyme.\nWhich in thy breast doth live, as thine in me:\nDevouring Time, blunt thou the lion's paws,\nSave breed, to brave him when he takes thee hence.\nThose hours, that with gentle work did frame\nWhich hides your life and shows not half your parts.\nHerein lives wisdom, beauty and increase:\nOf his self-love, to stop posterity?\nMaking a couplement of proud compare,\nWhich this, Time's pencil, or my pupil pen,\nThe sad account of fore-bemoaned moan,\nShall hate be fairer lodged than gentle love?\nNature's bequest gives nothing but doth lend,\nMine be thy love and thy love's use their treasure.\n", "role": "user" } ]
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169
Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
FROM fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory: But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. When forty winters shall beseige thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held: And weep afresh love's long since cancell'd woe, Or ten times happier, be it ten for one; Such civil war is in my love and hate Much liker than your painted counterfeit: When every private widow well may keep O, let my books be then the eloquence But that I hope some good conceit of thine For having traffic with thyself alone, And then believe me, my love is as fair And night doth nightly make grief's strength seem stronger. Whose strength's abundance weakens his own heart. But do not so; I love thee in such sort To that sweet thief which sourly robs from me. Wishing me like to one more rich in hope, And wear their brave state out of memory; But day doth daily draw my sorrows longer Making a famine where abundance lies, In one of thine, from that which thou departest; And all those friends which I thought buried. May make seem bare, in wanting words to show it, Excusing thy sins more than thy sins are; Which in thy breast doth live, as thine in me: And they are rich and ransom all ill deeds. Then how, when nature calls thee to be gone, Who with his fear is put besides his part, With ugly rack on his celestial face, Save that my soul's imaginary sight Beauty o'ersnow'd and bareness every where: And keep my drooping eyelids open wide, So should that beauty which you hold in lease A man in hue, all 'hues' in his controlling, So is it not with me as with that Muse Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage, His tender heir might bear his memory: Featured like him, like him with friends possess'd, A woman's face with Nature's own hand painted Do in consent shake hands to torture me;
[ { "content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nAnd weep afresh love's long since cancell'd woe,\nOr ten times happier, be it ten for one;\nSuch civil war is in my love and hate\nMuch liker than your painted counterfeit:\nWhen every private widow well may keep\nO, let my books be then the eloquence\nBut that I hope some good conceit of thine\nFor having traffic with thyself alone,\nAnd then believe me, my love is as fair\nAnd night doth nightly make grief's strength seem stronger.\nWhose strength's abundance weakens his own heart.\nBut do not so; I love thee in such sort\nTo that sweet thief which sourly robs from me.\nWishing me like to one more rich in hope,\nAnd wear their brave state out of memory;\nBut day doth daily draw my sorrows longer\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nIn one of thine, from that which thou departest;\nAnd all those friends which I thought buried.\nMay make seem bare, in wanting words to show it,\nExcusing thy sins more than thy sins are;\nWhich in thy breast doth live, as thine in me:\nAnd they are rich and ransom all ill deeds.\nThen how, when nature calls thee to be gone,\nWho with his fear is put besides his part,\nWith ugly rack on his celestial face,\nSave that my soul's imaginary sight\nBeauty o'ersnow'd and bareness every where:\nAnd keep my drooping eyelids open wide,\nSo should that beauty which you hold in lease\nA man in hue, all 'hues' in his controlling,\nSo is it not with me as with that Muse\nOr some fierce thing replete with too much rage,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nFeatured like him, like him with friends possess'd,\nA woman's face with Nature's own hand painted\nDo in consent shake hands to torture me;\n", "role": "user" } ]
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170
Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
FROM fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory: But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. When forty winters shall beseige thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held: Leaving thee living in posterity? Why lovest thou that which thou receivest not gladly, With virtuous wish would bear your living flowers, When to the sessions of sweet silent thought Then, beauteous niggard, why dost thou abuse But if the while I think on thee, dear friend, And sable curls all silver'd o'er with white; And being frank she lends to those are free. Be scorn'd like old men of less truth than tongue, As tender nurse her babe from faring ill. Desiring this man's art and that man's scope, And by addition me of thee defeated, Look in thy glass, and tell the face thou viewest Whilst that this shadow doth such substance give Till Nature, as she wrought thee, fell a-doting, When sparkling stars twire not thou gild'st the even. As an unperfect actor on the stage I make my love engrafted to this store: They do but sweetly chide thee, who confounds Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest; And in themselves their pride lies buried, Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed, Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother. The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan, By adding one thing to my purpose nothing. Then happy I, that love and am beloved Thy beauty's form in table of my heart; Points on me graciously with fair aspect By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd;
[ { "content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nLeaving thee living in posterity?\nWhy lovest thou that which thou receivest not gladly,\nWith virtuous wish would bear your living flowers,\nWhen to the sessions of sweet silent thought\nThen, beauteous niggard, why dost thou abuse\nBut if the while I think on thee, dear friend,\nAnd sable curls all silver'd o'er with white;\nAnd being frank she lends to those are free.\nBe scorn'd like old men of less truth than tongue,\nAs tender nurse her babe from faring ill.\nDesiring this man's art and that man's scope,\nAnd by addition me of thee defeated,\nLook in thy glass, and tell the face thou viewest\nWhilst that this shadow doth such substance give\nTill Nature, as she wrought thee, fell a-doting,\nWhen sparkling stars twire not thou gild'st the even.\nAs an unperfect actor on the stage\nI make my love engrafted to this store:\nThey do but sweetly chide thee, who confounds\nNor lose possession of that fair thou owest;\nAnd in themselves their pride lies buried,\nWeary with toil, I haste me to my bed,\nThou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother.\nThe sad account of fore-bemoaned moan,\nBy adding one thing to my purpose nothing.\nThen happy I, that love and am beloved\nThy beauty's form in table of my heart;\nPoints on me graciously with fair aspect\nBy chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd;\n", "role": "user" } ]
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171
Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
FROM fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory: But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. When forty winters shall beseige thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held: Which hides your life and shows not half your parts. Now stand you on the top of happy hours, Why lovest thou that which thou receivest not gladly, Kissing with golden face the meadows green, When to the sessions of sweet silent thought The one by toil, the other to complain How far I toil, still farther off from thee. Like to the lark at break of day arising Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, Leese but their show; their substance still lives sweet. Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, Thy bosom is endeared with all hearts, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, Thy bosom is endeared with all hearts, If the true concord of well-tuned sounds, Nor it nor no remembrance what it was: That thou consumest thyself in single life? As an unperfect actor on the stage With virtuous wish would bear your living flowers, But things removed that hidden in thee lie! Which in my bosom's shop is hanging still, Do in consent shake hands to torture me; Within thine own bud buriest thy content Such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces.' You should live twice; in it and in my rhyme. The offender's sorrow lends but weak relief My love shall in my verse ever live young. And many maiden gardens yet unset And stretched metre of an antique song: Which I by lacking have supposed dead, To hideous winter and confounds him there; But wherefore do not you a mightier way Hath dear religious love stol'n from mine eye 'Had my friend's Muse grown with this growing age, Let those who are in favour with their stars With all triumphant splendor on my brow; A woman's face with Nature's own hand painted
[ { "content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nWhich hides your life and shows not half your parts.\nNow stand you on the top of happy hours,\nWhy lovest thou that which thou receivest not gladly,\nKissing with golden face the meadows green,\nWhen to the sessions of sweet silent thought\nThe one by toil, the other to complain\nHow far I toil, still farther off from thee.\nLike to the lark at break of day arising\nSometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,\nLeese but their show; their substance still lives sweet.\nRough winds do shake the darling buds of May,\nThy bosom is endeared with all hearts,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nThy bosom is endeared with all hearts,\nIf the true concord of well-tuned sounds,\nNor it nor no remembrance what it was:\nThat thou consumest thyself in single life?\nAs an unperfect actor on the stage\nWith virtuous wish would bear your living flowers,\nBut things removed that hidden in thee lie!\nWhich in my bosom's shop is hanging still,\nDo in consent shake hands to torture me;\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nSuch heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces.'\nYou should live twice; in it and in my rhyme.\nThe offender's sorrow lends but weak relief\nMy love shall in my verse ever live young.\nAnd many maiden gardens yet unset\nAnd stretched metre of an antique song:\nWhich I by lacking have supposed dead,\nTo hideous winter and confounds him there;\nBut wherefore do not you a mightier way\nHath dear religious love stol'n from mine eye\n'Had my friend's Muse grown with this growing age,\nLet those who are in favour with their stars\nWith all triumphant splendor on my brow;\nA woman's face with Nature's own hand painted\n", "role": "user" } ]
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172
Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
FROM fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory: But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. When forty winters shall beseige thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held: To be death's conquest and make worms thine heir. With what I most enjoy contented least; Sings this to thee: 'thou single wilt prove none.' And from the forlorn world his visage hide, Which happies those that pay the willing loan; Profitless usurer, why dost thou use The bounteous largess given thee to give? Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising, And every fair from fair sometime declines, And every fair with his fair doth rehearse Or else receivest with pleasure thine annoy? Mine eye hath play'd the painter and hath stell'd
[ { "content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nTo be death's conquest and make worms thine heir.\nWith what I most enjoy contented least;\nSings this to thee: 'thou single wilt prove none.'\nAnd from the forlorn world his visage hide,\nWhich happies those that pay the willing loan;\nProfitless usurer, why dost thou use\nThe bounteous largess given thee to give?\nYet in these thoughts myself almost despising,\nAnd every fair from fair sometime declines,\nAnd every fair with his fair doth rehearse\nOr else receivest with pleasure thine annoy?\nMine eye hath play'd the painter and hath stell'd\n", "role": "user" } ]
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173
Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
FROM fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory: But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. When forty winters shall beseige thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held: But from thine eyes my knowledge I derive, With means more blessed than my barren rhyme? By unions married, do offend thine ear, And barren rage of death's eternal cold? And, constant stars, in them I read such art Though thou repent, yet I have still the loss: O, learn to read what silent love hath writ: Disdains the tillage of thy husbandry? Or say with princes if it shall go well, Without thy help by me be borne alone.
[ { "content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nBut from thine eyes my knowledge I derive,\nWith means more blessed than my barren rhyme?\nBy unions married, do offend thine ear,\nAnd barren rage of death's eternal cold?\nAnd, constant stars, in them I read such art\nThough thou repent, yet I have still the loss:\nO, learn to read what silent love hath writ:\nDisdains the tillage of thy husbandry?\nOr say with princes if it shall go well,\nWithout thy help by me be borne alone.\n", "role": "user" } ]
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174
Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
FROM fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory: But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. When forty winters shall beseige thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held: And there reigns love and all love's loving parts, And stretched metre of an antique song: Like feeble age, he reeleth from the day, Myself corrupting, salving thy amiss, That then I scorn to change my state with kings. And summer's lease hath all too short a date: In thy soul's thought, all naked, will bestow it; A man in hue, all 'hues' in his controlling, Without this, folly, age and cold decay: Despite of wrinkles this thy golden time. Pluck the keen teeth from the fierce tiger's jaws, Then the conceit of this inconstant stay Much steals men's eyes and women's souls amazeth. Or else receivest with pleasure thine annoy? Or else receivest with pleasure thine annoy? Nor it nor no remembrance what it was: Save breed, to brave him when he takes thee hence. No longer yours than you yourself here live: Much liker than your painted counterfeit: Now stand you on the top of happy hours, But that thou none lovest is most evident; And in themselves their pride lies buried, May make seem bare, in wanting words to show it, Who will believe my verse in time to come, Lest my bewailed guilt should do thee shame, For to thy sensual fault I bring in sense-- The world will be thy widow and still weep And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er Let them say more than like of hearsay well; To see his active child do deeds of youth, Makes black night beauteous and her old face new. Which though it alter not love's sole effect,
[ { "content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nAnd there reigns love and all love's loving parts,\nAnd stretched metre of an antique song:\nLike feeble age, he reeleth from the day,\nMyself corrupting, salving thy amiss,\nThat then I scorn to change my state with kings.\nAnd summer's lease hath all too short a date:\nIn thy soul's thought, all naked, will bestow it;\nA man in hue, all 'hues' in his controlling,\nWithout this, folly, age and cold decay:\nDespite of wrinkles this thy golden time.\nPluck the keen teeth from the fierce tiger's jaws,\nThen the conceit of this inconstant stay\nMuch steals men's eyes and women's souls amazeth.\nOr else receivest with pleasure thine annoy?\nOr else receivest with pleasure thine annoy?\nNor it nor no remembrance what it was:\nSave breed, to brave him when he takes thee hence.\nNo longer yours than you yourself here live:\nMuch liker than your painted counterfeit:\nNow stand you on the top of happy hours,\nBut that thou none lovest is most evident;\nAnd in themselves their pride lies buried,\nMay make seem bare, in wanting words to show it,\nWho will believe my verse in time to come,\nLest my bewailed guilt should do thee shame,\nFor to thy sensual fault I bring in sense--\nThe world will be thy widow and still weep\nAnd heavily from woe to woe tell o'er\nLet them say more than like of hearsay well;\nTo see his active child do deeds of youth,\nMakes black night beauteous and her old face new.\nWhich though it alter not love's sole effect,\n", "role": "user" } ]
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175
Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
FROM fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory: But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. When forty winters shall beseige thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held: Of his self-love, to stop posterity? From his low tract and look another way: 'Had my friend's Muse grown with this growing age, When that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover, That due of many now is thine alone: Shall hate be fairer lodged than gentle love? And that fresh blood which youngly thou bestowest Proving his beauty by succession thine! Or any of these all, or all, or more, By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd; For thee and for myself no quiet find. Who with his fear is put besides his part, Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, With April's first-born flowers, and all things rare Disdains the tillage of thy husbandry? Flatter the mountain-tops with sovereign eye, Makes black night beauteous and her old face new. For to thy sensual fault I bring in sense-- Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell, Wishing me like to one more rich in hope, 'Had my friend's Muse grown with this growing age, A woman's gentle heart, but not acquainted That thereby beauty's rose might never die, Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising, For beauty's pattern to succeeding men. This wish I have; then ten times happy me! Save breed, to brave him when he takes thee hence. Unthrifty loveliness, why dost thou spend No love toward others in that bosom sits Sweets with sweets war not, joy delights in joy. As those gold candles fix'd in heaven's air: To say, within thine own deep-sunken eyes, Like to the lark at break of day arising Look, what is best, that best I wish in thee:
[ { "content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nOf his self-love, to stop posterity?\nFrom his low tract and look another way:\n'Had my friend's Muse grown with this growing age,\nWhen that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover,\nThat due of many now is thine alone:\nShall hate be fairer lodged than gentle love?\nAnd that fresh blood which youngly thou bestowest\nProving his beauty by succession thine!\nOr any of these all, or all, or more,\nBy chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd;\nFor thee and for myself no quiet find.\nWho with his fear is put besides his part,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWith April's first-born flowers, and all things rare\nDisdains the tillage of thy husbandry?\nFlatter the mountain-tops with sovereign eye,\nMakes black night beauteous and her old face new.\nFor to thy sensual fault I bring in sense--\nNor can I fortune to brief minutes tell,\nWishing me like to one more rich in hope,\n'Had my friend's Muse grown with this growing age,\nA woman's gentle heart, but not acquainted\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nYet in these thoughts myself almost despising,\nFor beauty's pattern to succeeding men.\nThis wish I have; then ten times happy me!\nSave breed, to brave him when he takes thee hence.\nUnthrifty loveliness, why dost thou spend\nNo love toward others in that bosom sits\nSweets with sweets war not, joy delights in joy.\nAs those gold candles fix'd in heaven's air:\nTo say, within thine own deep-sunken eyes,\nLike to the lark at break of day arising\nLook, what is best, that best I wish in thee:\n", "role": "user" } ]
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176
Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
FROM fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory: But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. When forty winters shall beseige thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held: Where all the treasure of thy lusty days, And for a woman wert thou first created; And by addition me of thee defeated, Then may I dare to boast how I do love thee; Who all their parts of me to thee did give; Which to repair should be thy chief desire. And in themselves their pride lies buried, Whose speechless song, being many, seeming one, Nor thou with public kindness honour me, Which I by lacking have supposed dead, To march in ranks of better equipage: And see the brave day sunk in hideous night; Make thee another self, for love of me, But since he died and poets better prove, Even so my sun one early morn did shine No love toward others in that bosom sits Save breed, to brave him when he takes thee hence. To witness duty, not to show my wit: And die as fast as they see others grow; O'ercharged with burden of mine own love's might. The bounteous largess given thee to give? Till Nature, as she wrought thee, fell a-doting,
[ { "content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nWhere all the treasure of thy lusty days,\nAnd for a woman wert thou first created;\nAnd by addition me of thee defeated,\nThen may I dare to boast how I do love thee;\nWho all their parts of me to thee did give;\nWhich to repair should be thy chief desire.\nAnd in themselves their pride lies buried,\nWhose speechless song, being many, seeming one,\nNor thou with public kindness honour me,\nWhich I by lacking have supposed dead,\nTo march in ranks of better equipage:\nAnd see the brave day sunk in hideous night;\nMake thee another self, for love of me,\nBut since he died and poets better prove,\nEven so my sun one early morn did shine\nNo love toward others in that bosom sits\nSave breed, to brave him when he takes thee hence.\nTo witness duty, not to show my wit:\nAnd die as fast as they see others grow;\nO'ercharged with burden of mine own love's might.\nThe bounteous largess given thee to give?\nTill Nature, as she wrought thee, fell a-doting,\n", "role": "user" } ]
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177
Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
FROM fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory: But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. When forty winters shall beseige thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held: Till Nature, as she wrought thee, fell a-doting, Is but the seemly raiment of my heart, You had a father: let your son say so. When day's oppression is not eased by night, Thy end is truth's and beauty's doom and date. Where I may not remove nor be removed. And though they be outstripp'd by every pen, Which happies those that pay the willing loan; But since he died and poets better prove, But day by night, and night by day, oppress'd? As truth and beauty shall together thrive, For at a frown they in their glory die. Making a couplement of proud compare, Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow, Theirs for their style I'll read, his for his love.' And summer's lease hath all too short a date: As a decrepit father takes delight
[ { "content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nTill Nature, as she wrought thee, fell a-doting,\nIs but the seemly raiment of my heart,\nYou had a father: let your son say so.\nWhen day's oppression is not eased by night,\nThy end is truth's and beauty's doom and date.\nWhere I may not remove nor be removed.\nAnd though they be outstripp'd by every pen,\nWhich happies those that pay the willing loan;\nBut since he died and poets better prove,\nBut day by night, and night by day, oppress'd?\nAs truth and beauty shall together thrive,\nFor at a frown they in their glory die.\nMaking a couplement of proud compare,\nThen can I drown an eye, unused to flow,\nTheirs for their style I'll read, his for his love.'\nAnd summer's lease hath all too short a date:\nAs a decrepit father takes delight\n", "role": "user" } ]
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178
Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
FROM fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory: But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. When forty winters shall beseige thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held: When every private widow well may keep Featured like him, like him with friends possess'd, You had a father: let your son say so. Which hides your life and shows not half your parts. O, then vouchsafe me but this loving thought: Then how, when nature calls thee to be gone, Thy merit hath my duty strongly knit, Let those whom Nature hath not made for store, Is but the seemly raiment of my heart, O, none but unthrifts! Dear my love, you know Take all my comfort of thy worth and truth. Shall sum my count and make my old excuse,' And moan the expense of many a vanish'd sight: No longer yours than you yourself here live: Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel, By unions married, do offend thine ear, To work my mind, when body's work's expired: Against the stormy gusts of winter's day To see his active child do deeds of youth, If thou survive my well-contented day, Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed, In our two loves there is but one respect, And kept unused, the user so destroys it. But when from highmost pitch, with weary car, Resembling sire and child and happy mother
[ { "content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nWhen every private widow well may keep\nFeatured like him, like him with friends possess'd,\nYou had a father: let your son say so.\nWhich hides your life and shows not half your parts.\nO, then vouchsafe me but this loving thought:\nThen how, when nature calls thee to be gone,\nThy merit hath my duty strongly knit,\nLet those whom Nature hath not made for store,\nIs but the seemly raiment of my heart,\nO, none but unthrifts! Dear my love, you know\nTake all my comfort of thy worth and truth.\nShall sum my count and make my old excuse,'\nAnd moan the expense of many a vanish'd sight:\nNo longer yours than you yourself here live:\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nBy unions married, do offend thine ear,\nTo work my mind, when body's work's expired:\nAgainst the stormy gusts of winter's day\nTo see his active child do deeds of youth,\nIf thou survive my well-contented day,\nWeary with toil, I haste me to my bed,\nIn our two loves there is but one respect,\nAnd kept unused, the user so destroys it.\nBut when from highmost pitch, with weary car,\nResembling sire and child and happy mother\n", "role": "user" } ]
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179
Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
FROM fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory: But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. When forty winters shall beseige thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held: O' let me, true in love, but truly write, Which husbandry in honour might uphold And from the forlorn world his visage hide, When forty winters shall beseige thy brow, Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? Shall hate be fairer lodged than gentle love? And in themselves their pride lies buried, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, Or any of these all, or all, or more, How much more praise deserved thy beauty's use, Will play the tyrants to the very same
[ { "content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nO' let me, true in love, but truly write,\nWhich husbandry in honour might uphold\nAnd from the forlorn world his visage hide,\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nShall I compare thee to a summer's day?\nShall hate be fairer lodged than gentle love?\nAnd in themselves their pride lies buried,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nOr any of these all, or all, or more,\nHow much more praise deserved thy beauty's use,\nWill play the tyrants to the very same\n", "role": "user" } ]
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180
Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
FROM fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory: But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. When forty winters shall beseige thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held: And all in war with Time for love of you, So should my papers yellow'd with their age Seeking that beauteous roof to ruinate An eye more bright than theirs, less false in rolling, Holds in perfection but a little moment, May make seem bare, in wanting words to show it, Let those whom Nature hath not made for store, 'Had my friend's Muse grown with this growing age, So I, made lame by fortune's dearest spite, Who all in one, one pleasing note do sing: O, therefore, love, be of thyself so wary But out, alack! he was but one hour mine; But since she prick'd thee out for women's pleasure, Be scorn'd like old men of less truth than tongue, Vaunt in their youthful sap, at height decrease, With beauty's treasure, ere it be self-kill'd. This wish I have; then ten times happy me! Their images I loved I view in thee, O'ercharged with burden of mine own love's might. Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising, Compare them with the bettering of the time, That then I scorn to change my state with kings. But since he died and poets better prove, With April's first-born flowers, and all things rare Are windows to my breast, where-through the sun
[ { "content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nAnd all in war with Time for love of you,\nSo should my papers yellow'd with their age\nSeeking that beauteous roof to ruinate\nAn eye more bright than theirs, less false in rolling,\nHolds in perfection but a little moment,\nMay make seem bare, in wanting words to show it,\nLet those whom Nature hath not made for store,\n'Had my friend's Muse grown with this growing age,\nSo I, made lame by fortune's dearest spite,\nWho all in one, one pleasing note do sing:\nO, therefore, love, be of thyself so wary\nBut out, alack! he was but one hour mine;\nBut since she prick'd thee out for women's pleasure,\nBe scorn'd like old men of less truth than tongue,\nVaunt in their youthful sap, at height decrease,\nWith beauty's treasure, ere it be self-kill'd.\nThis wish I have; then ten times happy me!\nTheir images I loved I view in thee,\nO'ercharged with burden of mine own love's might.\nYet in these thoughts myself almost despising,\nCompare them with the bettering of the time,\nThat then I scorn to change my state with kings.\nBut since he died and poets better prove,\nWith April's first-born flowers, and all things rare\nAre windows to my breast, where-through the sun\n", "role": "user" } ]
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181
Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
FROM fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory: But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. When forty winters shall beseige thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held: What acceptable audit canst thou leave? Lo! thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind, Thy adverse party is thy advocate-- Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,
[ { "content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nWhat acceptable audit canst thou leave?\nLo! thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind,\nThy adverse party is thy advocate--\nThen can I grieve at grievances foregone,\n", "role": "user" } ]
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182
Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
FROM fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory: But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. When forty winters shall beseige thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held: Thy bosom is endeared with all hearts, Which, used, lives th' executor to be. Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother. And, constant stars, in them I read such art And your sweet semblance to some other give. And only herald to the gaudy spring, They draw but what they see, know not the heart. May make seem bare, in wanting words to show it, That on himself such murderous shame commits. And that fresh blood which youngly thou bestowest Anon permit the basest clouds to ride Thou mayst call thine when thou from youth convertest. And all those friends which I thought buried. Disdains the tillage of thy husbandry? Serving with looks his sacred majesty; Resembling sire and child and happy mother Suns of the world may stain when heaven's sun staineth. No love toward others in that bosom sits No love toward others in that bosom sits Or who is he so fond will be the tomb And by a part of all thy glory live. O, carve not with thy hours my love's fair brow, For whether beauty, birth, or wealth, or wit, Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed, Or any of these all, or all, or more, Hiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke? Now is the time that face should form another; Hung with the trophies of my lovers gone, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, With ugly rack on his celestial face,
[ { "content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nThy bosom is endeared with all hearts,\nWhich, used, lives th' executor to be.\nThou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother.\nAnd, constant stars, in them I read such art\nAnd your sweet semblance to some other give.\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nThey draw but what they see, know not the heart.\nMay make seem bare, in wanting words to show it,\nThat on himself such murderous shame commits.\nAnd that fresh blood which youngly thou bestowest\nAnon permit the basest clouds to ride\nThou mayst call thine when thou from youth convertest.\nAnd all those friends which I thought buried.\nDisdains the tillage of thy husbandry?\nServing with looks his sacred majesty;\nResembling sire and child and happy mother\nSuns of the world may stain when heaven's sun staineth.\nNo love toward others in that bosom sits\nNo love toward others in that bosom sits\nOr who is he so fond will be the tomb\nAnd by a part of all thy glory live.\nO, carve not with thy hours my love's fair brow,\nFor whether beauty, birth, or wealth, or wit,\nWeary with toil, I haste me to my bed,\nOr any of these all, or all, or more,\nHiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke?\nNow is the time that face should form another;\nHung with the trophies of my lovers gone,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nWith ugly rack on his celestial face,\n", "role": "user" } ]
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183
Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
FROM fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory: But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. When forty winters shall beseige thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held: For no man well of such a salve can speak As tender nurse her babe from faring ill. Which bounteous gift thou shouldst in bounty cherish: Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest; The offender's sorrow lends but weak relief That this huge stage presenteth nought but shows Mark how one string, sweet husband to another, Nor draw no lines there with thine antique pen; Haply I think on thee, and then my state, Who all their parts of me to thee did give; Which erst from heat did canopy the herd, From his low tract and look another way: To show me worthy of thy sweet respect: Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed, And that fresh blood which youngly thou bestowest Neither in inward worth nor outward fair, For then my thoughts, from far where I abide, And summer's lease hath all too short a date: Is it for fear to wet a widow's eye Unthrifty loveliness, why dost thou spend Which this, Time's pencil, or my pupil pen, And your true rights be term'd a poet's rage
[ { "content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nFor no man well of such a salve can speak\nAs tender nurse her babe from faring ill.\nWhich bounteous gift thou shouldst in bounty cherish:\nNor lose possession of that fair thou owest;\nThe offender's sorrow lends but weak relief\nThat this huge stage presenteth nought but shows\nMark how one string, sweet husband to another,\nNor draw no lines there with thine antique pen;\nHaply I think on thee, and then my state,\nWho all their parts of me to thee did give;\nWhich erst from heat did canopy the herd,\nFrom his low tract and look another way:\nTo show me worthy of thy sweet respect:\nWeary with toil, I haste me to my bed,\nAnd that fresh blood which youngly thou bestowest\nNeither in inward worth nor outward fair,\nFor then my thoughts, from far where I abide,\nAnd summer's lease hath all too short a date:\nIs it for fear to wet a widow's eye\nUnthrifty loveliness, why dost thou spend\nWhich this, Time's pencil, or my pupil pen,\nAnd your true rights be term'd a poet's rage\n", "role": "user" } ]
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184
Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
FROM fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory: But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. When forty winters shall beseige thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held: For thee and for myself no quiet find. Pity the world, or else this glutton be, Then being ask'd where all thy beauty lies, Like to the lark at break of day arising
[ { "content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nFor thee and for myself no quiet find.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nThen being ask'd where all thy beauty lies,\nLike to the lark at break of day arising\n", "role": "user" } ]
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185
Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
FROM fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory: But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. When forty winters shall beseige thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held: Makes black night beauteous and her old face new. But flowers distill'd though they with winter meet, Thou gavest me thine, not to give back again. And by a part of all thy glory live. To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. And see thy blood warm when thou feel'st it cold. Thou art thy mother's glass, and she in thee Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee,
[ { "content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nMakes black night beauteous and her old face new.\nBut flowers distill'd though they with winter meet,\nThou gavest me thine, not to give back again.\nAnd by a part of all thy glory live.\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nAnd see thy blood warm when thou feel'st it cold.\nThou art thy mother's glass, and she in thee\nIntend a zealous pilgrimage to thee,\n", "role": "user" } ]
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186
Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
FROM fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory: But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. When forty winters shall beseige thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held: Then how, when nature calls thee to be gone, And they are rich and ransom all ill deeds. Such civil war is in my love and hate They draw but what they see, know not the heart. For all that beauty that doth cover thee And 'gainst myself a lawful plea commence: Of his self-love, to stop posterity? But that I hope some good conceit of thine Featured like him, like him with friends possess'd, Or else receivest with pleasure thine annoy? Make thee another self, for love of me, And stretched metre of an antique song: To the wide world and all her fading sweets; O, then vouchsafe me but this loving thought: For where is she so fair whose unear'd womb Harsh featureless and rude, barrenly perish: A woman's gentle heart, but not acquainted So flatter I the swart-complexion'd night, But since he died and poets better prove, With all triumphant splendor on my brow; These poor rude lines of thy deceased lover, But things removed that hidden in thee lie! Save breed, to brave him when he takes thee hence.
[ { "content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nThen how, when nature calls thee to be gone,\nAnd they are rich and ransom all ill deeds.\nSuch civil war is in my love and hate\nThey draw but what they see, know not the heart.\nFor all that beauty that doth cover thee\nAnd 'gainst myself a lawful plea commence:\nOf his self-love, to stop posterity?\nBut that I hope some good conceit of thine\nFeatured like him, like him with friends possess'd,\nOr else receivest with pleasure thine annoy?\nMake thee another self, for love of me,\nAnd stretched metre of an antique song:\nTo the wide world and all her fading sweets;\nO, then vouchsafe me but this loving thought:\nFor where is she so fair whose unear'd womb\nHarsh featureless and rude, barrenly perish:\nA woman's gentle heart, but not acquainted\nSo flatter I the swart-complexion'd night,\nBut since he died and poets better prove,\nWith all triumphant splendor on my brow;\nThese poor rude lines of thy deceased lover,\nBut things removed that hidden in thee lie!\nSave breed, to brave him when he takes thee hence.\n", "role": "user" } ]
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187
Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
FROM fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory: But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. When forty winters shall beseige thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held: Or who is he so fond will be the tomb A man in hue, all 'hues' in his controlling, Or ten times happier, be it ten for one;
[ { "content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nOr who is he so fond will be the tomb\nA man in hue, all 'hues' in his controlling,\nOr ten times happier, be it ten for one;\n", "role": "user" } ]
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188
Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
FROM fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory: But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. When forty winters shall beseige thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held: And that unfair which fairly doth excel: Mine eyes have drawn thy shape, and thine for me And all the rest forgot for which he toil'd: For precious friends hid in death's dateless night, When that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover, In one of thine, from that which thou departest; A liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass, Yet him for this my love no whit disdaineth; But that thou none lovest is most evident; And each, though enemies to either's reign, Lest my bewailed guilt should do thee shame, Unless thou take that honour from thy name: That thou among the wastes of time must go, Make thee another self, for love of me, Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising, So is it not with me as with that Muse And threescore year would make the world away. All losses are restored and sorrows end. Thou art more lovely and more temperate: As any mother's child, though not so bright In our two loves there is but one respect, Then look I death my days should expiate. Nor it nor no remembrance what it was: Delights to peep, to gaze therein on thee; To dry the rain on my storm-beaten face, To find where your true image pictured lies; Great princes' favourites their fair leaves spread Which, like a jewel hung in ghastly night, O, let my books be then the eloquence As fast as thou shalt wane, so fast thou growest Despite of wrinkles this thy golden time. Ah! but those tears are pearl which thy love sheds, If from thyself to store thou wouldst convert; And do whate'er thou wilt, swift-footed Time, These poor rude lines of thy deceased lover, Stirr'd by a painted beauty to his verse, Look in thy glass, and tell the face thou viewest To thee I send this written embassage,
[ { "content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nAnd that unfair which fairly doth excel:\nMine eyes have drawn thy shape, and thine for me\nAnd all the rest forgot for which he toil'd:\nFor precious friends hid in death's dateless night,\nWhen that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover,\nIn one of thine, from that which thou departest;\nA liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass,\nYet him for this my love no whit disdaineth;\nBut that thou none lovest is most evident;\nAnd each, though enemies to either's reign,\nLest my bewailed guilt should do thee shame,\nUnless thou take that honour from thy name:\nThat thou among the wastes of time must go,\nMake thee another self, for love of me,\nYet in these thoughts myself almost despising,\nSo is it not with me as with that Muse\nAnd threescore year would make the world away.\nAll losses are restored and sorrows end.\nThou art more lovely and more temperate:\nAs any mother's child, though not so bright\nIn our two loves there is but one respect,\nThen look I death my days should expiate.\nNor it nor no remembrance what it was:\nDelights to peep, to gaze therein on thee;\nTo dry the rain on my storm-beaten face,\nTo find where your true image pictured lies;\nGreat princes' favourites their fair leaves spread\nWhich, like a jewel hung in ghastly night,\nO, let my books be then the eloquence\nAs fast as thou shalt wane, so fast thou growest\nDespite of wrinkles this thy golden time.\nAh! but those tears are pearl which thy love sheds,\nIf from thyself to store thou wouldst convert;\nAnd do whate'er thou wilt, swift-footed Time,\nThese poor rude lines of thy deceased lover,\nStirr'd by a painted beauty to his verse,\nLook in thy glass, and tell the face thou viewest\nTo thee I send this written embassage,\n", "role": "user" } ]
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189
Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
FROM fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory: But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. When forty winters shall beseige thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held: If ten of thine ten times refigured thee: Make glad and sorry seasons as thou fleets, To march in ranks of better equipage: And all those friends which I thought buried. So long lives this and this gives life to thee. Resembling sire and child and happy mother This were to be new made when thou art old, Or to thyself at least kind-hearted prove: And summer's green all girded up in sheaves Beauty o'ersnow'd and bareness every where: And look upon myself and curse my fate, Yet him for this my love no whit disdaineth; But as the marigold at the sun's eye, Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell, Or to thyself at least kind-hearted prove: My body is the frame wherein 'tis held, Shifts but his place, for still the world enjoys it; My body is the frame wherein 'tis held, And 'gainst myself a lawful plea commence: And fortify yourself in your decay That 'gainst thyself thou stick'st not to conspire.
[ { "content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nIf ten of thine ten times refigured thee:\nMake glad and sorry seasons as thou fleets,\nTo march in ranks of better equipage:\nAnd all those friends which I thought buried.\nSo long lives this and this gives life to thee.\nResembling sire and child and happy mother\nThis were to be new made when thou art old,\nOr to thyself at least kind-hearted prove:\nAnd summer's green all girded up in sheaves\nBeauty o'ersnow'd and bareness every where:\nAnd look upon myself and curse my fate,\nYet him for this my love no whit disdaineth;\nBut as the marigold at the sun's eye,\nNor can I fortune to brief minutes tell,\nOr to thyself at least kind-hearted prove:\nMy body is the frame wherein 'tis held,\nShifts but his place, for still the world enjoys it;\nMy body is the frame wherein 'tis held,\nAnd 'gainst myself a lawful plea commence:\nAnd fortify yourself in your decay\nThat 'gainst thyself thou stick'st not to conspire.\n", "role": "user" } ]
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190
Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
FROM fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory: But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. When forty winters shall beseige thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held: Wishing me like to one more rich in hope, Such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces.' Though yet, heaven knows, it is but as a tomb Whose strength's abundance weakens his own heart. And dumb presagers of my speaking breast, Not from the stars do I my judgment pluck; Find no determination: then you were Leaving thee living in posterity? Haply I think on thee, and then my state, Mine be thy love and thy love's use their treasure. And night doth nightly make grief's strength seem stronger. That thereby beauty's rose might never die, 'Had my friend's Muse grown with this growing age, With April's first-born flowers, and all things rare Nor it nor no remembrance what it was: Borne on the bier with white and bristly beard, Pity the world, or else this glutton be, Which to repair should be thy chief desire.
[ { "content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nWishing me like to one more rich in hope,\nSuch heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces.'\nThough yet, heaven knows, it is but as a tomb\nWhose strength's abundance weakens his own heart.\nAnd dumb presagers of my speaking breast,\nNot from the stars do I my judgment pluck;\nFind no determination: then you were\nLeaving thee living in posterity?\nHaply I think on thee, and then my state,\nMine be thy love and thy love's use their treasure.\nAnd night doth nightly make grief's strength seem stronger.\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\n'Had my friend's Muse grown with this growing age,\nWith April's first-born flowers, and all things rare\nNor it nor no remembrance what it was:\nBorne on the bier with white and bristly beard,\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nWhich to repair should be thy chief desire.\n", "role": "user" } ]
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191
Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
FROM fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory: But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. When forty winters shall beseige thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held: Ah! but those tears are pearl which thy love sheds, But things removed that hidden in thee lie! You had a father: let your son say so. As he takes from you, I engraft you new. Featured like him, like him with friends possess'd, Let me confess that we two must be twain, And see thy blood warm when thou feel'st it cold. By oft predict that I in heaven find: Where I may not remove nor be removed. Is it for fear to wet a widow's eye But beauty's waste hath in the world an end, To witness duty, not to show my wit: And night doth nightly make grief's strength seem stronger. May make seem bare, in wanting words to show it, But when from highmost pitch, with weary car, Those hours, that with gentle work did frame And trouble deal heaven with my bootless cries All men make faults, and even I in this, To march in ranks of better equipage: When in eternal lines to time thou growest: Till Nature, as she wrought thee, fell a-doting, O'ercharged with burden of mine own love's might. Nor it nor no remembrance what it was: Resembling sire and child and happy mother My body is the frame wherein 'tis held, O, carve not with thy hours my love's fair brow, Presume not on thy heart when mine is slain; And from the forlorn world his visage hide,
[ { "content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nAh! but those tears are pearl which thy love sheds,\nBut things removed that hidden in thee lie!\nYou had a father: let your son say so.\nAs he takes from you, I engraft you new.\nFeatured like him, like him with friends possess'd,\nLet me confess that we two must be twain,\nAnd see thy blood warm when thou feel'st it cold.\nBy oft predict that I in heaven find:\nWhere I may not remove nor be removed.\nIs it for fear to wet a widow's eye\nBut beauty's waste hath in the world an end,\nTo witness duty, not to show my wit:\nAnd night doth nightly make grief's strength seem stronger.\nMay make seem bare, in wanting words to show it,\nBut when from highmost pitch, with weary car,\nThose hours, that with gentle work did frame\nAnd trouble deal heaven with my bootless cries\nAll men make faults, and even I in this,\nTo march in ranks of better equipage:\nWhen in eternal lines to time thou growest:\nTill Nature, as she wrought thee, fell a-doting,\nO'ercharged with burden of mine own love's might.\nNor it nor no remembrance what it was:\nResembling sire and child and happy mother\nMy body is the frame wherein 'tis held,\nO, carve not with thy hours my love's fair brow,\nPresume not on thy heart when mine is slain;\nAnd from the forlorn world his visage hide,\n", "role": "user" } ]
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192
Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
FROM fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory: But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. When forty winters shall beseige thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held: Of plagues, of dearths, or seasons' quality; Make war upon this bloody tyrant, Time? I may not evermore acknowledge thee, Which happies those that pay the willing loan; When day's oppression is not eased by night, Who with his fear is put besides his part, Looking on darkness which the blind do see Resembling sire and child and happy mother Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, If thou survive my well-contented day, Upon thyself thy beauty's legacy? That then I scorn to change my state with kings. Then what could death do, if thou shouldst depart, And every fair with his fair doth rehearse And night doth nightly make grief's strength seem stronger. By adding one thing to my purpose nothing. And do whate'er thou wilt, swift-footed Time, How much more praise deserved thy beauty's use, That 'gainst thyself thou stick'st not to conspire. Thou shouldst print more, not let that copy die. Can make you live yourself in eyes of men. If ten of thine ten times refigured thee: Sings this to thee: 'thou single wilt prove none.' No longer yours than you yourself here live: But flowers distill'd though they with winter meet, By oft predict that I in heaven find: Which husbandry in honour might uphold To change your day of youth to sullied night; So I, for fear of trust, forget to say Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held: Or else receivest with pleasure thine annoy? Upon thyself thy beauty's legacy? Hung with the trophies of my lovers gone, But as the marigold at the sun's eye, Holds in perfection but a little moment, And all those friends which I thought buried.
[ { "content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nOf plagues, of dearths, or seasons' quality;\nMake war upon this bloody tyrant, Time?\nI may not evermore acknowledge thee,\nWhich happies those that pay the willing loan;\nWhen day's oppression is not eased by night,\nWho with his fear is put besides his part,\nLooking on darkness which the blind do see\nResembling sire and child and happy mother\nSometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,\nIf thou survive my well-contented day,\nUpon thyself thy beauty's legacy?\nThat then I scorn to change my state with kings.\nThen what could death do, if thou shouldst depart,\nAnd every fair with his fair doth rehearse\nAnd night doth nightly make grief's strength seem stronger.\nBy adding one thing to my purpose nothing.\nAnd do whate'er thou wilt, swift-footed Time,\nHow much more praise deserved thy beauty's use,\nThat 'gainst thyself thou stick'st not to conspire.\nThou shouldst print more, not let that copy die.\nCan make you live yourself in eyes of men.\nIf ten of thine ten times refigured thee:\nSings this to thee: 'thou single wilt prove none.'\nNo longer yours than you yourself here live:\nBut flowers distill'd though they with winter meet,\nBy oft predict that I in heaven find:\nWhich husbandry in honour might uphold\nTo change your day of youth to sullied night;\nSo I, for fear of trust, forget to say\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nOr else receivest with pleasure thine annoy?\nUpon thyself thy beauty's legacy?\nHung with the trophies of my lovers gone,\nBut as the marigold at the sun's eye,\nHolds in perfection but a little moment,\nAnd all those friends which I thought buried.\n", "role": "user" } ]
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193
Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
FROM fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory: But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. When forty winters shall beseige thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held: When your sweet issue your sweet form should bear. No love toward others in that bosom sits Thou mayst call thine when thou from youth convertest. Then being ask'd where all thy beauty lies, If all were minded so, the times should cease But beauty's waste hath in the world an end, The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan, For to thy sensual fault I bring in sense-- Thou art more lovely and more temperate: That I an accessary needs must be So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, Till then not show my head where thou mayst prove me. Then may I dare to boast how I do love thee; Then look I death my days should expiate. Who with his fear is put besides his part, And in themselves their pride lies buried, And kept unused, the user so destroys it. And moan the expense of many a vanish'd sight: So I, for fear of trust, forget to say O, learn to read what silent love hath writ: And dumb presagers of my speaking breast, That this huge stage presenteth nought but shows I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought, Now stand you on the top of happy hours, But when from highmost pitch, with weary car, But beauty's waste hath in the world an end, Pluck the keen teeth from the fierce tiger's jaws, But beauty's waste hath in the world an end, Within thine own bud buriest thy content I may not evermore acknowledge thee,
[ { "content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nWhen your sweet issue your sweet form should bear.\nNo love toward others in that bosom sits\nThou mayst call thine when thou from youth convertest.\nThen being ask'd where all thy beauty lies,\nIf all were minded so, the times should cease\nBut beauty's waste hath in the world an end,\nThe sad account of fore-bemoaned moan,\nFor to thy sensual fault I bring in sense--\nThou art more lovely and more temperate:\nThat I an accessary needs must be\nSo long as men can breathe or eyes can see,\nTill then not show my head where thou mayst prove me.\nThen may I dare to boast how I do love thee;\nThen look I death my days should expiate.\nWho with his fear is put besides his part,\nAnd in themselves their pride lies buried,\nAnd kept unused, the user so destroys it.\nAnd moan the expense of many a vanish'd sight:\nSo I, for fear of trust, forget to say\nO, learn to read what silent love hath writ:\nAnd dumb presagers of my speaking breast,\nThat this huge stage presenteth nought but shows\nI sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,\nNow stand you on the top of happy hours,\nBut when from highmost pitch, with weary car,\nBut beauty's waste hath in the world an end,\nPluck the keen teeth from the fierce tiger's jaws,\nBut beauty's waste hath in the world an end,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nI may not evermore acknowledge thee,\n", "role": "user" } ]
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194
Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
FROM fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory: But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. When forty winters shall beseige thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held: Myself corrupting, salving thy amiss, This wish I have; then ten times happy me! Compare them with the bettering of the time, Grant, if thou wilt, thou art beloved of many, A man in hue, all 'hues' in his controlling, Whereon the stars in secret influence comment; Anon permit the basest clouds to ride With shifting change, as is false women's fashion; Ten times thyself were happier than thou art, Unless thou take that honour from thy name: And then believe me, my love is as fair With all triumphant splendor on my brow; Beauty o'ersnow'd and bareness every where: Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, To march in ranks of better equipage: And do whate'er thou wilt, swift-footed Time, Though thou repent, yet I have still the loss: By adding one thing to my purpose nothing. Suns of the world may stain when heaven's sun staineth. Yet eyes this cunning want to grace their art; Nor can thy shame give physic to my grief; By children's eyes her husband's shape in mind. Which in my bosom's shop is hanging still, And yet methinks I have astronomy, After a thousand victories once foil'd, Which to repair should be thy chief desire. When I consider every thing that grows And perspective it is the painter's art. And every fair from fair sometime declines, The perfect ceremony of love's rite, You should live twice; in it and in my rhyme. His tender heir might bear his memory:
[ { "content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nMyself corrupting, salving thy amiss,\nThis wish I have; then ten times happy me!\nCompare them with the bettering of the time,\nGrant, if thou wilt, thou art beloved of many,\nA man in hue, all 'hues' in his controlling,\nWhereon the stars in secret influence comment;\nAnon permit the basest clouds to ride\nWith shifting change, as is false women's fashion;\nTen times thyself were happier than thou art,\nUnless thou take that honour from thy name:\nAnd then believe me, my love is as fair\nWith all triumphant splendor on my brow;\nBeauty o'ersnow'd and bareness every where:\nRough winds do shake the darling buds of May,\nTo march in ranks of better equipage:\nAnd do whate'er thou wilt, swift-footed Time,\nThough thou repent, yet I have still the loss:\nBy adding one thing to my purpose nothing.\nSuns of the world may stain when heaven's sun staineth.\nYet eyes this cunning want to grace their art;\nNor can thy shame give physic to my grief;\nBy children's eyes her husband's shape in mind.\nWhich in my bosom's shop is hanging still,\nAnd yet methinks I have astronomy,\nAfter a thousand victories once foil'd,\nWhich to repair should be thy chief desire.\nWhen I consider every thing that grows\nAnd perspective it is the painter's art.\nAnd every fair from fair sometime declines,\nThe perfect ceremony of love's rite,\nYou should live twice; in it and in my rhyme.\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\n", "role": "user" } ]
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195
Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
FROM fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory: But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. When forty winters shall beseige thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held: Yet eyes this cunning want to grace their art; Who will believe my verse in time to come, But beauty's waste hath in the world an end, Such civil war is in my love and hate But out, alack! he was but one hour mine; That thereby beauty's rose might never die, Makes black night beauteous and her old face new. So I, made lame by fortune's dearest spite, So flatter I the swart-complexion'd night, Whose fresh repair if now thou not renewest, Of his self-love, to stop posterity? Which hides your life and shows not half your parts.
[ { "content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nYet eyes this cunning want to grace their art;\nWho will believe my verse in time to come,\nBut beauty's waste hath in the world an end,\nSuch civil war is in my love and hate\nBut out, alack! he was but one hour mine;\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nMakes black night beauteous and her old face new.\nSo I, made lame by fortune's dearest spite,\nSo flatter I the swart-complexion'd night,\nWhose fresh repair if now thou not renewest,\nOf his self-love, to stop posterity?\nWhich hides your life and shows not half your parts.\n", "role": "user" } ]
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196
Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
FROM fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory: But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. When forty winters shall beseige thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held: For at a frown they in their glory die. Or to thyself at least kind-hearted prove: Then happy I, that love and am beloved Which, used, lives th' executor to be. And in fresh numbers number all your graces, Which hides your life and shows not half your parts. For beauty's pattern to succeeding men. Thy adverse party is thy advocate-- But day doth daily draw my sorrows longer Strikes each in each by mutual ordering, How can I then return in happy plight, To give away yourself keeps yourself still, Sings this to thee: 'thou single wilt prove none.' Who plead for love and look for recompense My love shall in my verse ever live young. O, carve not with thy hours my love's fair brow, Which erst from heat did canopy the herd, And moan the expense of many a vanish'd sight: For precious friends hid in death's dateless night, And make the earth devour her own sweet brood; And all the rest forgot for which he toil'd: Thy beauty's form in table of my heart; Were an all-eating shame and thriftless praise. By oft predict that I in heaven find: Thy unused beauty must be tomb'd with thee, Then look I death my days should expiate. My glass shall not persuade me I am old, Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day, This wish I have; then ten times happy me!
[ { "content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nFor at a frown they in their glory die.\nOr to thyself at least kind-hearted prove:\nThen happy I, that love and am beloved\nWhich, used, lives th' executor to be.\nAnd in fresh numbers number all your graces,\nWhich hides your life and shows not half your parts.\nFor beauty's pattern to succeeding men.\nThy adverse party is thy advocate--\nBut day doth daily draw my sorrows longer\nStrikes each in each by mutual ordering,\nHow can I then return in happy plight,\nTo give away yourself keeps yourself still,\nSings this to thee: 'thou single wilt prove none.'\nWho plead for love and look for recompense\nMy love shall in my verse ever live young.\nO, carve not with thy hours my love's fair brow,\nWhich erst from heat did canopy the herd,\nAnd moan the expense of many a vanish'd sight:\nFor precious friends hid in death's dateless night,\nAnd make the earth devour her own sweet brood;\nAnd all the rest forgot for which he toil'd:\nThy beauty's form in table of my heart;\nWere an all-eating shame and thriftless praise.\nBy oft predict that I in heaven find:\nThy unused beauty must be tomb'd with thee,\nThen look I death my days should expiate.\nMy glass shall not persuade me I am old,\nWhy didst thou promise such a beauteous day,\nThis wish I have; then ten times happy me!\n", "role": "user" } ]
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197
Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
FROM fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory: But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. When forty winters shall beseige thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held: Hung with the trophies of my lovers gone, And make me travel forth without my cloak, Nor thou with public kindness honour me, As I, not for myself, but for thee will; Thou of thyself thy sweet self dost deceive. Till whatsoever star that guides my moving My body is the frame wherein 'tis held, But as the riper should by time decease, That beauty still may live in thine or thee.
[ { "content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nHung with the trophies of my lovers gone,\nAnd make me travel forth without my cloak,\nNor thou with public kindness honour me,\nAs I, not for myself, but for thee will;\nThou of thyself thy sweet self dost deceive.\nTill whatsoever star that guides my moving\nMy body is the frame wherein 'tis held,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nThat beauty still may live in thine or thee.\n", "role": "user" } ]
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198
Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
FROM fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory: But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. When forty winters shall beseige thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held: Desiring this man's art and that man's scope, But thy eternal summer shall not fade
[ { "content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nDesiring this man's art and that man's scope,\nBut thy eternal summer shall not fade\n", "role": "user" } ]
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199
Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
FROM fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory: But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. When forty winters shall beseige thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held: Music to hear, why hear'st thou music sadly? When in eternal lines to time thou growest: So thou, thyself out-going in thy noon, Then, were not summer's distillation left, They do but sweetly chide thee, who confounds Sets you most rich in youth before my sight, And sable curls all silver'd o'er with white; And every fair with his fair doth rehearse Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel, Then look I death my days should expiate. To find where your true image pictured lies; Then the conceit of this inconstant stay And dumb presagers of my speaking breast, That 'gainst thyself thou stick'st not to conspire. With virtuous wish would bear your living flowers, Calls back the lovely April of her prime: The painful warrior famoused for fight, And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding. Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Leese but their show; their substance still lives sweet. When to the sessions of sweet silent thought May make seem bare, in wanting words to show it, Though yet, heaven knows, it is but as a tomb They draw but what they see, know not the heart.
[ { "content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nMusic to hear, why hear'st thou music sadly?\nWhen in eternal lines to time thou growest:\nSo thou, thyself out-going in thy noon,\nThen, were not summer's distillation left,\nThey do but sweetly chide thee, who confounds\nSets you most rich in youth before my sight,\nAnd sable curls all silver'd o'er with white;\nAnd every fair with his fair doth rehearse\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nThen look I death my days should expiate.\nTo find where your true image pictured lies;\nThen the conceit of this inconstant stay\nAnd dumb presagers of my speaking breast,\nThat 'gainst thyself thou stick'st not to conspire.\nWith virtuous wish would bear your living flowers,\nCalls back the lovely April of her prime:\nThe painful warrior famoused for fight,\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nLeese but their show; their substance still lives sweet.\nWhen to the sessions of sweet silent thought\nMay make seem bare, in wanting words to show it,\nThough yet, heaven knows, it is but as a tomb\nThey draw but what they see, know not the heart.\n", "role": "user" } ]
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