But see, the shepherds shun the noonday heat, The lowing herds to murmuring brooks retreat, To closer shades the panting flocks remove; Ye gods! and is there no relief for love?

Did he so often lodge in open field, In winter's cold and summer's parching heat, To conquer France, his true inheritance?

Now is the winter of our discontent Made glorious summer by this son of York; And all the clouds that lowered upon our house In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.

Now simmer blinks on flowery braes, And o'er the crystal streamlet plays.

One swallow does not make a summer.

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate. Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, And summer's lease hath all too short a date. Some ...

These are the forgeries of jealousy; And never, since the middle summer's spring, Met we on hill, in dale, forest, or mead, By paved fountain or by rushy brook, Or in the beache ...

Where'er you walk cool gales shall fan the glade, Trees where you sit shall crowd into a shade. Where'er you tread the blushing flowers shall rise, And all things flourish where ...