over a game of scrabble and a couple of bottles of wine last week, we starting reciting some of favorites from shakespeare. i have too many to list, but here a favorite sonnet:
XXIII.
As an imperfect actor on the stage,
Who with his fear is put besides his part,
Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage,
Whose strength's abundance weakens his own heart;
So I, for fear of trust, forget to say
The perfect ceremony of love's rite,
And in mine own love's strength seem to decay,
O'ercharg'd with burthen of mine own love's might.
O let my books be, then, the eloquence
And dumb presagers of my speaking breast;
Who plead for love, and look for recompense
More than that tongue that more hath more express'd.
O learn to read what silent love hath writ;
To hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit.
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