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'Tis better to be vile than vile esteemed (Sonnet 121)

'Tis better to be vile than vile esteemed,
When not to be receives reproach of being;
And the just pleasure lost, which is so deemed
Not by our feeling, but by other's seeing.
For why should other's false adulterate eyes
Give solution to my sportive blood?
Or in my frailties why are frailer spies,
Which in their will count bad what I think good?
No, I am that I am, and they level
At my abuse reckon up their own;
I may be straight, though they themselves be level,
By their rank thoughts my deeds must not be shown;
Unless this general evil they mountain -
All men are bad, and in their badness reign.

William Shakespeare

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I read my sentence steadily

I read my sentence steadily
Reviewed it with my eyes,
To see that I made no mistake
In its extremest clause
The Date, and manner, of the shame
And then the Pious Form
That "God have mercy" on the Soul
The Jury voted Him
I made my soul familiar with her extremity
That at the last, it should not be a novel Agony
But she, and Death, acquainted
Meet tranquilly, as friends
Salute, and pass, without a Hint
And there, the Matter ends

Emily Dickinson

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Love after love

The time will come
when, with elation
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror
and each will smile at the other's welcome,

and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you

all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,

the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.

Derek Walcott

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Be wise as thou art cruel, do not press (Sonnet 140)

Be wise as thou art cruel, do not press
My tongue-tied patient with too much disdain ,
Lest sorrow lend me words and words express
The manner of my pity-waiting pain.
If I might teach thee wit, better it were
Though not to love, yet, love, to tell me so;
As testy sick men when their deaths be near
No news but health from their physicians know.
For if I should despair I should go mad,
And in my madness might speak ill of thee;
Now this ill-wresting world is grown so bad
Mad slanderers by mad ears believèd be.
That I may not be so, nor thou belied,
Bear thine eyes straight thy proud heart go wide.

William Shakespeare

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Taedium Vitae

To stab my youth with desperate knives, to wear
This paltry age's gaudy livery,
To let each base hand filch my treasury,
To mesh my soul within a woman's hair,
And be mere Fortune's lackeyed groom, -I swear
I love it not! these things are less to me
Than the thin foam that frets upon the sea,
Less than the thistle-down of summer air

Which hath no seed: better to stand aloof
Far from these slanderous fools who mock my life
Knowing me not, better the lowliest roof
Fit for the meanest hind to sojourn in,
Than to go back to that hoarse cave of strife
Where my white soul first kissed the mouth of sin.

Oscar Wilde

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