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800 | 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 dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
With all triumphant splendor on my brow;
And all the rest forgot for which he toil'd:
And look upon myself and curse my fate,
But when from highmost pitch, with weary car,
Which, like a jewel hung in ghastly night,
| [
{
"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 dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nWith all triumphant splendor on my brow;\nAnd all the rest forgot for which he toil'd:\nAnd look upon myself and curse my fate,\nBut when from highmost pitch, with weary car,\nWhich, like a jewel hung in ghastly night,\n",
"role": "user"
}
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] |
801 | 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?
Who all in one, one pleasing note do sing:
That I in thy abundance am sufficed
How can I then return in happy plight,
Why lovest thou that which thou receivest not gladly,
But were some child of yours alive that time,
Why lovest thou that which thou receivest not gladly,
Haply I think on thee, and then my state,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Who all in one, one pleasing note do sing:
To show me worthy of thy sweet respect:
And wear their brave state out of memory;
That heals the wound and cures not the disgrace:
Anon permit the basest clouds to ride
But when in thee time's furrows I behold,
Be, as thy presence is, gracious and kind,
Or who is he so fond will be the tomb
Entitled in thy parts do crowned sit,
Such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces.'
Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some 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:\nMusic to hear, why hear'st thou music sadly?\nWho all in one, one pleasing note do sing:\nThat I in thy abundance am sufficed\nHow can I then return in happy plight,\nWhy lovest thou that which thou receivest not gladly,\nBut were some child of yours alive that time,\nWhy lovest thou that which thou receivest not gladly,\nHaply I think on thee, and then my state,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nWho all in one, one pleasing note do sing:\nTo show me worthy of thy sweet respect:\nAnd wear their brave state out of memory;\nThat heals the wound and cures not the disgrace:\nAnon permit the basest clouds to ride\nBut when in thee time's furrows I behold,\nBe, as thy presence is, gracious and kind,\nOr who is he so fond will be the tomb\nEntitled in thy parts do crowned sit,\nSuch heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces.'\nThou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother.\n",
"role": "user"
}
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] |
802 | 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:
To find where your true image pictured lies;
And that fresh blood which youngly thou bestowest
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:\nAnd that unfair which fairly doth excel:\nTo find where your true image pictured lies;\nAnd that fresh blood which youngly thou bestowest\nBorne on the bier with white and bristly beard,\n",
"role": "user"
}
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367,
538,
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518,
29914,
25580,
29962
] |
803 | 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 stretched metre of an antique song:
I may not evermore acknowledge thee,
When I behold the violet past prime,
The one by toil, the other to complain
That beauty still may live in thine or thee.
But thy eternal summer shall not fade
A dearer birth than this his love had brought,
Where wasteful Time debateth with Decay,
And by a part of all thy glory live.
Yourself again after yourself's decease,
| [
{
"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 stretched metre of an antique song:\nI may not evermore acknowledge thee,\nWhen I behold the violet past prime,\nThe one by toil, the other to complain\nThat beauty still may live in thine or thee.\nBut thy eternal summer shall not fade\nA dearer birth than this his love had brought,\nWhere wasteful Time debateth with Decay,\nAnd by a part of all thy glory live.\nYourself again after yourself's decease,\n",
"role": "user"
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25580,
29962
] |
804 | 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;
If thou couldst answer 'This fair child of mine
For where is she so fair whose unear'd womb
To thee I send this written embassage,
But not to tell of good or evil luck,
And trouble deal heaven with my bootless cries
O, learn to read what silent love hath writ:
Thy adverse party is thy advocate--
| [
{
"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;\nIf thou couldst answer 'This fair child of mine\nFor where is she so fair whose unear'd womb\nTo thee I send this written embassage,\nBut not to tell of good or evil luck,\nAnd trouble deal heaven with my bootless cries\nO, learn to read what silent love hath writ:\nThy adverse party is thy advocate--\n",
"role": "user"
}
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] |
805 | 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 I an accessary needs must be
A woman's face with Nature's own hand painted
As interest of the dead, which now appear
Thou mayst call thine when thou from youth convertest.
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:\nThat I an accessary needs must be\nA woman's face with Nature's own hand painted\nAs interest of the dead, which now appear\nThou mayst call thine when thou from youth convertest.\nDevouring Time, blunt thou the lion's paws,\n",
"role": "user"
}
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282,
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] |
806 | 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 from thyself to store thou wouldst convert;
And stretched metre of an antique song:
Of public honour and proud titles boast,
They draw but what they see, know not the heart.
Compare them with the bettering of the time,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
And make me travel forth without my cloak,
Hiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke?
Where all the treasure of thy lusty days,
Nor draw no lines there with thine antique pen;
The bounteous largess given thee to give?
Lo! thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind,
But I forbid thee one most heinous crime:
Find no determination: then you were
And burn the long-lived phoenix in her blood;
The bounteous largess given thee to give?
And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste:
Presents thy shadow to my sightless view,
With beauty's treasure, ere it be self-kill'd.
Hast thou, the master-mistress of my passion;
Calls back the lovely April of her prime:
Even so my sun one early morn did shine
Of his self-love, to stop posterity?
Bearing thy heart, which I will keep so chary
The age to come would say 'This poet lies:
Make glad and sorry seasons as thou fleets,
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:\nIf from thyself to store thou wouldst convert;\nAnd stretched metre of an antique song:\nOf public honour and proud titles boast,\nThey draw but what they see, know not the heart.\nCompare them with the bettering of the time,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nAnd make me travel forth without my cloak,\nHiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke?\nWhere all the treasure of thy lusty days,\nNor draw no lines there with thine antique pen;\nThe bounteous largess given thee to give?\nLo! thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind,\nBut I forbid thee one most heinous crime:\nFind no determination: then you were\nAnd burn the long-lived phoenix in her blood;\nThe bounteous largess given thee to give?\nAnd with old woes new wail my dear time's waste:\nPresents thy shadow to my sightless view,\nWith beauty's treasure, ere it be self-kill'd.\nHast thou, the master-mistress of my passion;\nCalls back the lovely April of her prime:\nEven so my sun one early morn did shine\nOf his self-love, to stop posterity?\nBearing thy heart, which I will keep so chary\nThe age to come would say 'This poet lies:\nMake glad and sorry seasons as thou fleets,\nLike to the lark at break of day arising\n",
"role": "user"
}
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] |
807 | 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 thou among the wastes of time must go,
Though thou repent, yet I have still the loss:
Strikes each in each by mutual ordering,
To see his active child do deeds of youth,
Doth homage to his new-appearing sight,
When I do count the clock that tells the time,
Make sweet some vial; treasure thou some place
And trouble deal heaven with my bootless cries
They draw but what they see, know not the heart.
Nor it nor no remembrance what it was:
Which husbandry in honour might uphold
And in themselves their pride lies buried,
And threescore year would make the world away.
Their images I loved I view in thee,
Shall sum my count and make my old excuse,'
O, carve not with thy hours my love's fair brow,
May make seem bare, in wanting words to show it,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
By children's eyes her husband's shape in mind.
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And in themselves their pride lies buried,
With virtuous wish would bear your living flowers,
Which erst from heat did canopy the herd,
The perfect ceremony of love's rite,
Of his self-love, to stop posterity?
I may not evermore acknowledge thee,
When I perceive that men as plants increase,
As tender nurse her babe from faring ill.
| [
{
"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 thou among the wastes of time must go,\nThough thou repent, yet I have still the loss:\nStrikes each in each by mutual ordering,\nTo see his active child do deeds of youth,\nDoth homage to his new-appearing sight,\nWhen I do count the clock that tells the time,\nMake sweet some vial; treasure thou some place\nAnd trouble deal heaven with my bootless cries\nThey draw but what they see, know not the heart.\nNor it nor no remembrance what it was:\nWhich husbandry in honour might uphold\nAnd in themselves their pride lies buried,\nAnd threescore year would make the world away.\nTheir images I loved I view in thee,\nShall sum my count and make my old excuse,'\nO, carve not with thy hours my love's fair brow,\nMay make seem bare, in wanting words to show it,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nBy children's eyes her husband's shape in mind.\nRough winds do shake the darling buds of May,\nAnd in themselves their pride lies buried,\nWith virtuous wish would bear your living flowers,\nWhich erst from heat did canopy the herd,\nThe perfect ceremony of love's rite,\nOf his self-love, to stop posterity?\nI may not evermore acknowledge thee,\nWhen I perceive that men as plants increase,\nAs tender nurse her babe from faring ill.\n",
"role": "user"
}
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] |
808 | 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 then my thoughts, from far where I abide,
With beauty's treasure, ere it be self-kill'd.
The painful warrior famoused for fight,
Which erst from heat did canopy the herd,
Their images I loved I view in thee,
Suns of the world may stain when heaven's sun staineth.
So thou through windows of thine age shall see
So I, made lame by fortune's dearest spite,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
Unless thou take that honour from thy name:
'Tis not enough that through the cloud thou break,
Shall hate be fairer lodged than gentle love?
Thou gavest me thine, not to give back again.
Be, as thy presence is, gracious and kind,
And for a woman wert thou first created;
To find where your true image pictured lies;
And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;
Die single, and thine image dies with thee.
And weep afresh love's long since cancell'd woe,
By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd;
Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Which, used, lives th' executor to be.
| [
{
"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 then my thoughts, from far where I abide,\nWith beauty's treasure, ere it be self-kill'd.\nThe painful warrior famoused for fight,\nWhich erst from heat did canopy the herd,\nTheir images I loved I view in thee,\nSuns of the world may stain when heaven's sun staineth.\nSo thou through windows of thine age shall see\nSo I, made lame by fortune's dearest spite,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nUnless thou take that honour from thy name:\n'Tis not enough that through the cloud thou break,\nShall hate be fairer lodged than gentle love?\nThou gavest me thine, not to give back again.\nBe, as thy presence is, gracious and kind,\nAnd for a woman wert thou first created;\nTo find where your true image pictured lies;\nAnd often is his gold complexion dimm'd;\nDie single, and thine image dies with thee.\nAnd weep afresh love's long since cancell'd woe,\nBy chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd;\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nWhich, used, lives th' executor to be.\n",
"role": "user"
}
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] |
809 | 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 thou consumest thyself in single life?
So is it not with me as with that Muse
Which hides your life and shows not half your parts.
And moan the expense of many a vanish'd sight:
When day's oppression is not eased by night,
Harsh featureless and rude, barrenly perish:
Yourself again after yourself's decease,
And summer's green all girded up in sheaves
Do in consent shake hands to torture me;
Leaving thee living in posterity?
And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;
When that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover,
Who will believe my verse in time to come,
When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
How can I then be elder than thou art?
Reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme,
Yet doth it steal sweet hours from love's delight.
Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother.
But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,
Thou mayst call thine when thou from youth convertest.
So is it not with me as with that Muse
That's for thyself to breed another thee,
Harsh featureless and rude, barrenly perish:
So I, for fear of trust, forget to say
Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow,
Upon thyself thy beauty's legacy?
If ten of thine ten times refigured thee:
And all in war with Time for love of you,
Points on me graciously with fair aspect
When I perceive that men as plants increase,
For no man well of such a salve can speak
Myself corrupting, salving thy amiss,
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:\nNo more be grieved at that which thou hast done:\nThat thou consumest thyself in single life?\nSo is it not with me as with that Muse\nWhich hides your life and shows not half your parts.\nAnd moan the expense of many a vanish'd sight:\nWhen day's oppression is not eased by night,\nHarsh featureless and rude, barrenly perish:\nYourself again after yourself's decease,\nAnd summer's green all girded up in sheaves\nDo in consent shake hands to torture me;\nLeaving thee living in posterity?\nAnd often is his gold complexion dimm'd;\nWhen that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover,\nWho will believe my verse in time to come,\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nHow can I then be elder than thou art?\nReserve them for my love, not for their rhyme,\nYet doth it steal sweet hours from love's delight.\nThou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother.\nBut if the while I think on thee, dear friend,\nThou mayst call thine when thou from youth convertest.\nSo is it not with me as with that Muse\nThat's for thyself to breed another thee,\nHarsh featureless and rude, barrenly perish:\nSo I, for fear of trust, forget to say\nThen can I drown an eye, unused to flow,\nUpon thyself thy beauty's legacy?\nIf ten of thine ten times refigured thee:\nAnd all in war with Time for love of you,\nPoints on me graciously with fair aspect\nWhen I perceive that men as plants increase,\nFor no man well of such a salve can speak\nMyself corrupting, salving thy amiss,\nLike to the lark at break of day arising\n",
"role": "user"
}
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] |
810 | 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,
From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate;
When in eternal lines to time thou growest:
In singleness the parts that thou shouldst bear.
If I could write the beauty of your eyes
Anon permit the basest clouds to ride
O, therefore, love, be of thyself so wary
Now see what good turns eyes for eyes have done:
When that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover,
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
But when from highmost pitch, with weary car,
And yet methinks I have astronomy,
To change your day of youth to sullied night;
And summer's lease hath all too short a date:
Will play the tyrants to the very same
Or any of these all, or all, or more,
Like feeble age, he reeleth from the day,
An eye more bright than theirs, less false in rolling,
O'ercharged with burden of mine own love's might.
Against this coming end you should prepare,
Stirr'd by a painted beauty to his verse,
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
If the true concord of well-tuned sounds,
But flowers distill'd though they with winter meet,
For to thy sensual fault I bring in sense--
Whose speechless song, being many, seeming one,
Now is the time that face should form another;
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
O, learn to read what silent love hath writ:
When I behold the violet past prime,
Of plagues, of dearths, or seasons' quality;
Is from the book of honour razed quite,
And barren rage of death's eternal cold?
Upon thyself thy beauty's legacy?
The world will wail thee, like a makeless wife;
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
Then how, when nature calls thee to be gone,
| [
{
"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,\nFrom sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate;\nWhen in eternal lines to time thou growest:\nIn singleness the parts that thou shouldst bear.\nIf I could write the beauty of your eyes\nAnon permit the basest clouds to ride\nO, therefore, love, be of thyself so wary\nNow see what good turns eyes for eyes have done:\nWhen that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover,\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nBut when from highmost pitch, with weary car,\nAnd yet methinks I have astronomy,\nTo change your day of youth to sullied night;\nAnd summer's lease hath all too short a date:\nWill play the tyrants to the very same\nOr any of these all, or all, or more,\nLike feeble age, he reeleth from the day,\nAn eye more bright than theirs, less false in rolling,\nO'ercharged with burden of mine own love's might.\nAgainst this coming end you should prepare,\nStirr'd by a painted beauty to his verse,\nRough winds do shake the darling buds of May,\nIf the true concord of well-tuned sounds,\nBut flowers distill'd though they with winter meet,\nFor to thy sensual fault I bring in sense--\nWhose speechless song, being many, seeming one,\nNow is the time that face should form another;\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nO, learn to read what silent love hath writ:\nWhen I behold the violet past prime,\nOf plagues, of dearths, or seasons' quality;\nIs from the book of honour razed quite,\nAnd barren rage of death's eternal cold?\nUpon thyself thy beauty's legacy?\nThe world will wail thee, like a makeless wife;\nRough winds do shake the darling buds of May,\nThen how, when nature calls thee to be gone,\n",
"role": "user"
}
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] |
811 | 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 for thyself art so unprovident.
Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage,
You had a father: let your son say so.
Yet, do thy worst, old Time: despite thy wrong,
An eye more bright than theirs, less false in rolling,
Which though it alter not love's sole effect,
How much more praise deserved thy beauty's use,
I all alone beweep my outcast state
To hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit.
If all were minded so, the times should cease
Whereon the stars in secret influence comment;
Which, like a jewel hung in ghastly night,
Will play the tyrants to the very same
Featured like him, like him with friends possess'd,
Yet eyes this cunning want to grace their art;
In our two loves there is but one respect,
Much steals men's eyes and women's souls amazeth.
Mark how one string, sweet husband to another,
As fast as thou shalt wane, so fast thou growest
| [
{
"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 for thyself art so unprovident.\nOr some fierce thing replete with too much rage,\nYou had a father: let your son say so.\nYet, do thy worst, old Time: despite thy wrong,\nAn eye more bright than theirs, less false in rolling,\nWhich though it alter not love's sole effect,\nHow much more praise deserved thy beauty's use,\nI all alone beweep my outcast state\nTo hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit.\nIf all were minded so, the times should cease\nWhereon the stars in secret influence comment;\nWhich, like a jewel hung in ghastly night,\nWill play the tyrants to the very same\nFeatured like him, like him with friends possess'd,\nYet eyes this cunning want to grace their art;\nIn our two loves there is but one respect,\nMuch steals men's eyes and women's souls amazeth.\nMark how one string, sweet husband to another,\nAs fast as thou shalt wane, so fast thou growest\n",
"role": "user"
}
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] |
812 | 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:
Mark how one string, sweet husband to another,
But if thou live, remember'd not to be,
So thou through windows of thine age shall see
Till then not show my head where thou mayst prove me.
In thy soul's thought, all naked, will bestow it;
In singleness the parts that thou shouldst bear.
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.
That I in thy abundance am sufficed
Lo! in the orient when the gracious light
And night doth nightly make grief's strength seem stronger.
After a thousand victories once foil'd,
For thou art so possess'd with murderous hate
And for a woman wert thou first created;
Make thee another self, for love of me,
Is from the book of honour razed quite,
Makes black night beauteous and her old face new.
O'ercharged with burden of mine own love's might.
Thou gavest me thine, not to give back again.
And in fresh numbers number all your graces,
How many a holy and obsequious tear
So long as youth and thou are of one date;
Which erst from heat did canopy the herd,
For at a frown they in their glory die.
Beauty o'ersnow'd and bareness every where:
Leaving thee living in posterity?
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
Now see what good turns eyes for eyes have done:
Thou shouldst print more, not let that copy die.
Resembling sire and child and happy mother
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:\nMark how one string, sweet husband to another,\nBut if thou live, remember'd not to be,\nSo thou through windows of thine age shall see\nTill then not show my head where thou mayst prove me.\nIn thy soul's thought, all naked, will bestow it;\nIn singleness the parts that thou shouldst bear.\nThat then I scorn to change my state with kings.\nThat I in thy abundance am sufficed\nLo! in the orient when the gracious light\nAnd night doth nightly make grief's strength seem stronger.\nAfter a thousand victories once foil'd,\nFor thou art so possess'd with murderous hate\nAnd for a woman wert thou first created;\nMake thee another self, for love of me,\nIs from the book of honour razed quite,\nMakes black night beauteous and her old face new.\nO'ercharged with burden of mine own love's might.\nThou gavest me thine, not to give back again.\nAnd in fresh numbers number all your graces,\nHow many a holy and obsequious tear\nSo long as youth and thou are of one date;\nWhich erst from heat did canopy the herd,\nFor at a frown they in their glory die.\nBeauty o'ersnow'd and bareness every where:\nLeaving thee living in posterity?\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nNow see what good turns eyes for eyes have done:\nThou shouldst print more, not let that copy die.\nResembling sire and child and happy mother\nI sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,\n",
"role": "user"
}
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29914,
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29962
] |
813 | 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,
The painful warrior famoused for fight,
So should my papers yellow'd with their age
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
To dry the rain on my storm-beaten face,
Suns of the world may stain when heaven's sun staineth.
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
Sweets with sweets war not, joy delights in joy.
Leaving thee living in posterity?
Lest my bewailed guilt should do thee shame,
So thou through windows of thine age shall see
O, carve not with thy hours my love's fair brow,
And dost him grace when clouds do blot the heaven:
In singleness the parts that thou shouldst bear.
But out, alack! he was but one hour mine;
Him in thy course untainted do allow
In our two loves there is but one respect,
And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;
Unless thou take that honour from thy name:
Mine be thy love and thy love's use their treasure.
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow,
All men make faults, and even I in this,
Which I new pay as if not paid before.
Although our undivided loves are one:
O, therefore, love, be of thyself so wary
Find no determination: then you were
This wish I have; then ten times happy me!
Thy beauty's form in table of my heart;
And 'gainst myself a lawful plea commence:
| [
{
"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,\nThe painful warrior famoused for fight,\nSo should my papers yellow'd with their age\nShall I compare thee to a summer's day?\nTo dry the rain on my storm-beaten face,\nSuns of the world may stain when heaven's sun staineth.\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nSweets with sweets war not, joy delights in joy.\nLeaving thee living in posterity?\nLest my bewailed guilt should do thee shame,\nSo thou through windows of thine age shall see\nO, carve not with thy hours my love's fair brow,\nAnd dost him grace when clouds do blot the heaven:\nIn singleness the parts that thou shouldst bear.\nBut out, alack! he was but one hour mine;\nHim in thy course untainted do allow\nIn our two loves there is but one respect,\nAnd often is his gold complexion dimm'd;\nUnless thou take that honour from thy name:\nMine be thy love and thy love's use their treasure.\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nThen can I drown an eye, unused to flow,\nAll men make faults, and even I in this,\nWhich I new pay as if not paid before.\nAlthough our undivided loves are one:\nO, therefore, love, be of thyself so wary\nFind no determination: then you were\nThis wish I have; then ten times happy me!\nThy beauty's form in table of my heart;\nAnd 'gainst myself a lawful plea commence:\n",
"role": "user"
}
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518,
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] |
814 | 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--
For at a frown they in their glory die.
Let me confess that we two must be twain,
Let those whom Nature hath not made for store,
But if thou live, remember'd not to be,
As he takes from you, I engraft you new.
Him in thy course untainted do allow
And your sweet semblance to some other give.
Let me confess that we two must be twain,
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Be not self-will'd, for thou art much too fair
From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate;
Thou art thy mother's glass, and she in thee
For where is she so fair whose unear'd womb
I tell the day, to please them thou art bright
And in themselves their pride lies buried,
Till then not show my head where thou mayst prove me.
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
With ugly rack on his celestial face,
I all alone beweep my outcast state
Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow,
Mine eyes have drawn thy shape, and thine for me
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.
Which happies those that pay the willing loan;
Lord of my love, to whom in vassalage
If ten of thine ten times refigured thee:
That thou among the wastes of time must go,
| [
{
"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--\nFor at a frown they in their glory die.\nLet me confess that we two must be twain,\nLet those whom Nature hath not made for store,\nBut if thou live, remember'd not to be,\nAs he takes from you, I engraft you new.\nHim in thy course untainted do allow\nAnd your sweet semblance to some other give.\nLet me confess that we two must be twain,\nThou art more lovely and more temperate:\nBe not self-will'd, for thou art much too fair\nFrom sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate;\nThou art thy mother's glass, and she in thee\nFor where is she so fair whose unear'd womb\nI tell the day, to please them thou art bright\nAnd in themselves their pride lies buried,\nTill then not show my head where thou mayst prove me.\nYet in these thoughts myself almost despising,\nWith ugly rack on his celestial face,\nI all alone beweep my outcast state\nThen can I drown an eye, unused to flow,\nMine eyes have drawn thy shape, and thine for me\nThat then I scorn to change my state with kings.\nWhich happies those that pay the willing loan;\nLord of my love, to whom in vassalage\nIf ten of thine ten times refigured thee:\nThat thou among the wastes of time must go,\n",
"role": "user"
}
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] |
815 | 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:
Profitless usurer, why dost thou use
And night doth nightly make grief's strength seem stronger.
Now stand you on the top of happy hours,
How many a holy and obsequious tear
By children's eyes her husband's shape in mind.
Of plagues, of dearths, or seasons' quality;
Looking on darkness which the blind do 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:\nProfitless usurer, why dost thou use\nAnd night doth nightly make grief's strength seem stronger.\nNow stand you on the top of happy hours,\nHow many a holy and obsequious tear\nBy children's eyes her husband's shape in mind.\nOf plagues, of dearths, or seasons' quality;\nLooking on darkness which the blind do see\n",
"role": "user"
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] |
816 | 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 shouldst print more, not let that copy die.
For to thy sensual fault I bring in sense--
Or any of these all, or all, or more,
Which, like a jewel hung in ghastly night,
And burn the long-lived phoenix in her blood;
To hideous winter and confounds him there;
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan,
And weep afresh love's long since cancell'd woe,
But then begins a journey in my head,
With virtuous wish would bear your living flowers,
Bearing thy heart, which I will keep so chary
Thou art thy mother's glass, and she in thee
Strikes each in each by mutual ordering,
Who heaven itself for ornament doth use
Of plagues, of dearths, or seasons' quality;
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
Compare them with the bettering of the time,
For never-resting time leads summer on
But wherefore do not you a mightier way
| [
{
"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 shouldst print more, not let that copy die.\nFor to thy sensual fault I bring in sense--\nOr any of these all, or all, or more,\nWhich, like a jewel hung in ghastly night,\nAnd burn the long-lived phoenix in her blood;\nTo hideous winter and confounds him there;\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nThe sad account of fore-bemoaned moan,\nAnd weep afresh love's long since cancell'd woe,\nBut then begins a journey in my head,\nWith virtuous wish would bear your living flowers,\nBearing thy heart, which I will keep so chary\nThou art thy mother's glass, and she in thee\nStrikes each in each by mutual ordering,\nWho heaven itself for ornament doth use\nOf plagues, of dearths, or seasons' quality;\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nCompare them with the bettering of the time,\nFor never-resting time leads summer on\nBut wherefore do not you a mightier way\n",
"role": "user"
}
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518,
29914,
25580,
29962
] |
817 | 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 with old woes new wail my dear time's waste:
Sings this to thee: 'thou single wilt prove none.'
| [
{
"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 with old woes new wail my dear time's waste:\nSings this to thee: 'thou single wilt prove none.'\n",
"role": "user"
}
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] |
818 | 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
Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,
But I forbid thee one most heinous crime:
The region cloud hath mask'd him from me now.
And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er
Flatter the mountain-tops with sovereign eye,
And being frank she lends to those are free.
Without thy help by me be borne alone.
Holds in perfection but a little moment,
But were some child of yours alive that time,
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
And that unfair which fairly doth excel:
Mine eye hath play'd the painter and hath stell'd
The perfect ceremony of love's rite,
Who all in one, one pleasing note do sing:
This were to be new made when thou art old,
The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan,
Which husbandry in honour might uphold
Hung with the trophies of my lovers gone,
When lofty trees I see barren of leaves
Are windows to my breast, where-through the sun
Yet eyes this cunning want to grace their art;
Despite of wrinkles this thy golden time.
| [
{
"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\nNor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,\nBut I forbid thee one most heinous crime:\nThe region cloud hath mask'd him from me now.\nAnd heavily from woe to woe tell o'er\nFlatter the mountain-tops with sovereign eye,\nAnd being frank she lends to those are free.\nWithout thy help by me be borne alone.\nHolds in perfection but a little moment,\nBut were some child of yours alive that time,\nSo long as men can breathe or eyes can see,\nAnd that unfair which fairly doth excel:\nMine eye hath play'd the painter and hath stell'd\nThe perfect ceremony of love's rite,\nWho all in one, one pleasing note do sing:\nThis were to be new made when thou art old,\nThe sad account of fore-bemoaned moan,\nWhich husbandry in honour might uphold\nHung with the trophies of my lovers gone,\nWhen lofty trees I see barren of leaves\nAre windows to my breast, where-through the sun\nYet eyes this cunning want to grace their art;\nDespite of wrinkles this thy golden time.\n",
"role": "user"
}
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] |
819 | 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.
Reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme,
Neither in inward worth nor outward fair,
Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee,
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
Who all in one, one pleasing note do sing:
O, change thy thought, that I may change my mind!
Myself corrupting, salving thy amiss,
Although our undivided loves are one:
Despite of wrinkles this thy golden time.
When I perceive that men as plants increase,
When I do count the clock that tells the time,
Let me confess that we two must be twain,
That heaven's air in this huge rondure hems.
Look, what an unthrift in the world doth spend
Whilst I, whom fortune of such triumph bars,
That due of many now is thine 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:\nFor at a frown they in their glory die.\nReserve them for my love, not for their rhyme,\nNeither in inward worth nor outward fair,\nIntend a zealous pilgrimage to thee,\nRough winds do shake the darling buds of May,\nWho all in one, one pleasing note do sing:\nO, change thy thought, that I may change my mind!\nMyself corrupting, salving thy amiss,\nAlthough our undivided loves are one:\nDespite of wrinkles this thy golden time.\nWhen I perceive that men as plants increase,\nWhen I do count the clock that tells the time,\nLet me confess that we two must be twain,\nThat heaven's air in this huge rondure hems.\nLook, what an unthrift in the world doth spend\nWhilst I, whom fortune of such triumph bars,\nThat due of many now is thine alone:\n",
"role": "user"
}
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1784,
1286,
338,
266,
457,
7432,
29901,
518,
29914,
25580,
29962
] |
820 | 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 were some child of yours alive that time,
Against this coming end you should prepare,
Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day,
From his low tract and look another way:
That beauty still may live in thine or thee.
And yet methinks I have astronomy,
Mark how one string, sweet husband to another,
So flatter I the swart-complexion'd night,
And for a woman wert thou first created;
Now is the time that face should form another;
They do but sweetly chide thee, who confounds
But day by night, and night by day, oppress'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:\nBut were some child of yours alive that time,\nAgainst this coming end you should prepare,\nWhy didst thou promise such a beauteous day,\nFrom his low tract and look another way:\nThat beauty still may live in thine or thee.\nAnd yet methinks I have astronomy,\nMark how one string, sweet husband to another,\nSo flatter I the swart-complexion'd night,\nAnd for a woman wert thou first created;\nNow is the time that face should form another;\nThey do but sweetly chide thee, who confounds\nBut day by night, and night by day, oppress'd?\n",
"role": "user"
}
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] |
821 | 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 adding one thing to my purpose nothing.
To work my mind, when body's work's expired:
That on himself such murderous shame commits.
But since she prick'd thee out for women's pleasure,
And there reigns love and all love's loving parts,
But I forbid thee one most heinous crime:
Who with his fear is put besides his part,
Of his self-love, to stop posterity?
And by addition me of thee defeated,
Full many a glorious morning have I seen
The age to come would say 'This poet lies:
Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed,
In our two loves there is but one respect,
But since he died and poets better prove,
What acceptable audit canst thou leave?
So thou through windows of thine age shall see
And threescore year would make the world away.
Then the conceit of this inconstant stay
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
More than that tongue that more hath more express'd.
Mine eye hath play'd the painter and hath stell'd
But as the riper should by time decease,
My body is the frame wherein 'tis held,
To thee I send this written embassage,
But as the marigold at the sun's eye,
The eyes, 'fore duteous, now converted are
Against the stormy gusts of winter's day
And for a woman wert thou first created;
| [
{
"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 adding one thing to my purpose nothing.\nTo work my mind, when body's work's expired:\nThat on himself such murderous shame commits.\nBut since she prick'd thee out for women's pleasure,\nAnd there reigns love and all love's loving parts,\nBut I forbid thee one most heinous crime:\nWho with his fear is put besides his part,\nOf his self-love, to stop posterity?\nAnd by addition me of thee defeated,\nFull many a glorious morning have I seen\nThe age to come would say 'This poet lies:\nWeary with toil, I haste me to my bed,\nIn our two loves there is but one respect,\nBut since he died and poets better prove,\nWhat acceptable audit canst thou leave?\nSo thou through windows of thine age shall see\nAnd threescore year would make the world away.\nThen the conceit of this inconstant stay\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nMore than that tongue that more hath more express'd.\nMine eye hath play'd the painter and hath stell'd\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nMy body is the frame wherein 'tis held,\nTo thee I send this written embassage,\nBut as the marigold at the sun's eye,\nThe eyes, 'fore duteous, now converted are\nAgainst the stormy gusts of winter's day\nAnd for a woman wert thou first created;\n",
"role": "user"
}
] | [
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518,
29914,
25580,
29962
] |
822 | 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:
yet mortal looks adore his beauty still,
Then the conceit of this inconstant stay
As I, not for myself, but for thee will;
And do whate'er thou wilt, swift-footed Time,
O, carve not with thy hours my love's fair brow,
So should that beauty which you hold in lease
Where I may not remove nor be removed.
Save breed, to brave him when he takes thee hence.
Theirs for their style I'll read, his for his love.'
Can make you live yourself in eyes of men.
How can I then return in happy plight,
| [
{
"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:\nyet mortal looks adore his beauty still,\nThen the conceit of this inconstant stay\nAs I, not for myself, but for thee will;\nAnd do whate'er thou wilt, swift-footed Time,\nO, carve not with thy hours my love's fair brow,\nSo should that beauty which you hold in lease\nWhere I may not remove nor be removed.\nSave breed, to brave him when he takes thee hence.\nTheirs for their style I'll read, his for his love.'\nCan make you live yourself in eyes of men.\nHow can I then return in happy plight,\n",
"role": "user"
}
] | [
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29962,
23868,
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3454,
408,
366,
508,
515,
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3454,
29901,
13,
21482,
6534,
342,
907,
3698,
591,
13521,
7910,
29892,
13,
7058,
27999,
15409,
29915,
29879,
11492,
1795,
2360,
762,
29892,
13,
6246,
408,
278,
10107,
546,
881,
491,
931,
23332,
559,
29892,
13,
29950,
275,
22707,
540,
381,
1795,
11460,
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] |
823 | 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 all alone beweep my outcast state
Make war upon this bloody tyrant, Time?
No longer yours than you yourself here live:
How much more praise deserved thy beauty's use,
Hath dear religious love stol'n from mine eye
| [
{
"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 all alone beweep my outcast state\nMake war upon this bloody tyrant, Time?\nNo longer yours than you yourself here live:\nHow much more praise deserved thy beauty's use,\nHath dear religious love stol'n from mine eye\n",
"role": "user"
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] |
824 | 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:
These poor rude lines of thy deceased lover,
Thy end is truth's and beauty's doom and date.
As interest of the dead, which now appear
O, then vouchsafe me but this loving thought:
Hast thou, the master-mistress of my passion;
| [
{
"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:\nThese poor rude lines of thy deceased lover,\nThy end is truth's and beauty's doom and date.\nAs interest of the dead, which now appear\nO, then vouchsafe me but this loving thought:\nHast thou, the master-mistress of my passion;\n",
"role": "user"
}
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] |
825 | 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:
Profitless usurer, why dost thou use
Though in our lives a separable spite,
When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,
Although our undivided loves are one:
Anon permit the basest clouds to ride
As he takes from you, I engraft you new.
As fast as thou shalt wane, so fast thou growest
Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest;
Despite of wrinkles this thy golden time.
Of plagues, of dearths, or seasons' quality;
So I, for fear of trust, forget to say
| [
{
"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:\nProfitless usurer, why dost thou use\nThough in our lives a separable spite,\nWhen, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,\nAlthough our undivided loves are one:\nAnon permit the basest clouds to ride\nAs he takes from you, I engraft you new.\nAs fast as thou shalt wane, so fast thou growest\nNor lose possession of that fair thou owest;\nDespite of wrinkles this thy golden time.\nOf plagues, of dearths, or seasons' quality;\nSo I, for fear of trust, forget to say\n",
"role": "user"
}
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] |
826 | 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 doth it steal sweet hours from love's delight.
Excusing thy sins more than thy sins are;
Do in consent shake hands to torture me;
And die as fast as they see others grow;
Although our undivided loves are one:
Till then not show my head where thou mayst prove me.
As a decrepit father takes delight
'Had my friend's Muse grown with this growing age,
Calls back the lovely April of her prime:
Nor draw no lines there with thine antique pen;
That due of many now is thine alone:
Reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme,
As interest of the dead, which now appear
But out, alack! he was but one hour mine;
And sable curls all silver'd o'er with white;
With virtuous wish would bear your living flowers,
O, none but unthrifts! Dear my love, you know
Nor thou with public kindness honour me,
Thy bosom is endeared with all hearts,
Make glad and sorry seasons as thou fleets,
Against this coming end you should prepare,
As I, not for myself, but for thee will;
Against this coming end you should prepare,
And shalt by fortune once more re-survey
Save breed, to brave him when he takes thee hence.
Or else receivest with pleasure thine annoy?
Thou of thyself thy sweet self dost deceive.
| [
{
"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 doth it steal sweet hours from love's delight.\nExcusing thy sins more than thy sins are;\nDo in consent shake hands to torture me;\nAnd die as fast as they see others grow;\nAlthough our undivided loves are one:\nTill then not show my head where thou mayst prove me.\nAs a decrepit father takes delight\n'Had my friend's Muse grown with this growing age,\nCalls back the lovely April of her prime:\nNor draw no lines there with thine antique pen;\nThat due of many now is thine alone:\nReserve them for my love, not for their rhyme,\nAs interest of the dead, which now appear\nBut out, alack! he was but one hour mine;\nAnd sable curls all silver'd o'er with white;\nWith virtuous wish would bear your living flowers,\nO, none but unthrifts! Dear my love, you know\nNor thou with public kindness honour me,\nThy bosom is endeared with all hearts,\nMake glad and sorry seasons as thou fleets,\nAgainst this coming end you should prepare,\nAs I, not for myself, but for thee will;\nAgainst this coming end you should prepare,\nAnd shalt by fortune once more re-survey\nSave breed, to brave him when he takes thee hence.\nOr else receivest with pleasure thine annoy?\nThou of thyself thy sweet self dost deceive.\n",
"role": "user"
}
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518,
29914,
25580,
29962
] |
827 | 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:
Look, what an unthrift in the world doth spend
That I in thy abundance am sufficed
Entitled in thy parts do crowned sit,
Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed,
But were some child of yours alive that time,
Yet doth it steal sweet hours from love's delight.
Who for thyself art so unprovident.
That thou no form of thee hast left behind,
Can make you live yourself in eyes of men.
| [
{
"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:\nLook, what an unthrift in the world doth spend\nThat I in thy abundance am sufficed\nEntitled in thy parts do crowned sit,\nWeary with toil, I haste me to my bed,\nBut were some child of yours alive that time,\nYet doth it steal sweet hours from love's delight.\nWho for thyself art so unprovident.\nThat thou no form of thee hast left behind,\nCan make you live yourself in eyes of men.\n",
"role": "user"
}
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] |
828 | 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:
Unlook'd for joy in that I honour most.
Save that my soul's imaginary sight
Look, what is best, that best I wish in thee:
Save that my soul's imaginary sight
Such civil war is in my love and hate
Which, like a jewel hung in ghastly night,
To that sweet thief which sourly robs from me.
And in fresh numbers number all your graces,
In singleness the parts that thou shouldst bear.
Thy merit hath my duty strongly knit,
But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,
They do but sweetly chide thee, who confounds
And there reigns love and all love's loving parts,
In singleness the parts that thou shouldst bear.
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
Are windows to my breast, where-through the sun
With all triumphant splendor on my brow;
The dear repose for limbs with travel tired;
Serving with looks his sacred majesty;
When lofty trees I see barren of leaves
And your true rights be term'd a poet's rage
And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er
But not to tell of good or evil luck,
In thee thy summer, ere thou be distill'd:
How much more praise deserved thy beauty's use,
I make my love engrafted to this store:
But I forbid thee one most heinous crime:
| [
{
"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:\nUnlook'd for joy in that I honour most.\nSave that my soul's imaginary sight\nLook, what is best, that best I wish in thee:\nSave that my soul's imaginary sight\nSuch civil war is in my love and hate\nWhich, like a jewel hung in ghastly night,\nTo that sweet thief which sourly robs from me.\nAnd in fresh numbers number all your graces,\nIn singleness the parts that thou shouldst bear.\nThy merit hath my duty strongly knit,\nBut if the while I think on thee, dear friend,\nThey do but sweetly chide thee, who confounds\nAnd there reigns love and all love's loving parts,\nIn singleness the parts that thou shouldst bear.\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nAre windows to my breast, where-through the sun\nWith all triumphant splendor on my brow;\nThe dear repose for limbs with travel tired;\nServing with looks his sacred majesty;\nWhen lofty trees I see barren of leaves\nAnd your true rights be term'd a poet's rage\nAnd heavily from woe to woe tell o'er\nBut not to tell of good or evil luck,\nIn thee thy summer, ere thou be distill'd:\nHow much more praise deserved thy beauty's use,\nI make my love engrafted to this store:\nBut I forbid thee one most heinous crime:\n",
"role": "user"
}
] | [
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3454,
408,
366,
508,
515,
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3454,
29901,
13,
21482,
6534,
342,
907,
3698,
591,
13521,
7910,
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29879,
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762,
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278,
10107,
546,
881,
491,
931,
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559,
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13,
29950,
275,
22707,
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] |
829 | 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 often is his gold complexion dimm'd;
Gilding the object whereupon it gazeth;
A liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass,
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
An eye more bright than theirs, less false in rolling,
If ten of thine ten times refigured thee:
Be, as thy presence is, gracious and kind,
Delights to peep, to gaze therein on thee;
Anon permit the basest clouds to ride
As those gold candles fix'd in heaven's air:
Vaunt in their youthful sap, at height decrease,
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
Mark how one string, sweet husband to another,
And shalt by fortune once more re-survey
Who will believe my verse in time to come,
Then, were not summer's distillation left,
As those gold candles fix'd in heaven's air:
How many a holy and obsequious tear
Which, used, lives th' executor to be.
And kept unused, the user so destroys it.
And sable curls all silver'd o'er with white;
Whilst I, whom fortune of such triumph bars,
The lovely gaze where every eye doth dwell,
When your sweet issue your sweet form should bear.
But things removed that hidden in thee lie!
Much steals men's eyes and women's souls amazeth.
The eyes, 'fore duteous, now converted are
Why lovest thou that which thou receivest not gladly,
Compare them with the bettering of the time,
| [
{
"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 often is his gold complexion dimm'd;\nGilding the object whereupon it gazeth;\nA liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass,\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nAn eye more bright than theirs, less false in rolling,\nIf ten of thine ten times refigured thee:\nBe, as thy presence is, gracious and kind,\nDelights to peep, to gaze therein on thee;\nAnon permit the basest clouds to ride\nAs those gold candles fix'd in heaven's air:\nVaunt in their youthful sap, at height decrease,\nRough winds do shake the darling buds of May,\nMark how one string, sweet husband to another,\nAnd shalt by fortune once more re-survey\nWho will believe my verse in time to come,\nThen, were not summer's distillation left,\nAs those gold candles fix'd in heaven's air:\nHow many a holy and obsequious tear\nWhich, used, lives th' executor to be.\nAnd kept unused, the user so destroys it.\nAnd sable curls all silver'd o'er with white;\nWhilst I, whom fortune of such triumph bars,\nThe lovely gaze where every eye doth dwell,\nWhen your sweet issue your sweet form should bear.\nBut things removed that hidden in thee lie!\nMuch steals men's eyes and women's souls amazeth.\nThe eyes, 'fore duteous, now converted are\nWhy lovest thou that which thou receivest not gladly,\nCompare them with the bettering of the time,\n",
"role": "user"
}
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] |
830 | 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 by addition me of thee defeated,
By adding one thing to my purpose nothing.
Which I new pay as if not paid before.
And nothing 'gainst Time's scythe can make defence
Doth homage to his new-appearing sight,
But if thou live, remember'd not to be,
For thou art so possess'd with murderous hate
Beauty o'ersnow'd and bareness every where:
Where all the treasure of thy lusty days,
Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,
For beauty's pattern to succeeding men.
When every private widow well may keep
Serving with looks his sacred majesty;
But were some child of yours alive that time,
Full many a glorious morning have I seen
Sap cheque'd with frost and lusty leaves quite gone,
In thy soul's thought, all naked, will bestow it;
And all those friends which I thought buried.
To say, within thine own deep-sunken eyes,
With means more blessed than my barren rhyme?
A man in hue, all 'hues' in his controlling,
Now is the time that face should form another;
| [
{
"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 by addition me of thee defeated,\nBy adding one thing to my purpose nothing.\nWhich I new pay as if not paid before.\nAnd nothing 'gainst Time's scythe can make defence\nDoth homage to his new-appearing sight,\nBut if thou live, remember'd not to be,\nFor thou art so possess'd with murderous hate\nBeauty o'ersnow'd and bareness every where:\nWhere all the treasure of thy lusty days,\nThen can I grieve at grievances foregone,\nFor beauty's pattern to succeeding men.\nWhen every private widow well may keep\nServing with looks his sacred majesty;\nBut were some child of yours alive that time,\nFull many a glorious morning have I seen\nSap cheque'd with frost and lusty leaves quite gone,\nIn thy soul's thought, all naked, will bestow it;\nAnd all those friends which I thought buried.\nTo say, within thine own deep-sunken eyes,\nWith means more blessed than my barren rhyme?\nA man in hue, all 'hues' in his controlling,\nNow is the time that face should form another;\n",
"role": "user"
}
] | [
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] |
831 | 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:
Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest;
Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother.
Beauty o'ersnow'd and bareness every where:
Making a couplement of proud compare,
Till Nature, as she wrought thee, fell a-doting,
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
Till then not show my head where thou mayst prove me.
Where I may not remove nor be removed.
That am debarr'd the benefit of rest?
With April's first-born flowers, and all things rare
Ah! but those tears are pearl which thy love sheds,
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
To hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit.
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
With all triumphant splendor on my brow;
Their images I loved I view in thee,
Their images I loved I view 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:\nNor lose possession of that fair thou owest;\nThou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother.\nBeauty o'ersnow'd and bareness every where:\nMaking a couplement of proud compare,\nTill Nature, as she wrought thee, fell a-doting,\nAnd every fair from fair sometime declines,\nTill then not show my head where thou mayst prove me.\nWhere I may not remove nor be removed.\nThat am debarr'd the benefit of rest?\nWith April's first-born flowers, and all things rare\nAh! but those tears are pearl which thy love sheds,\nAnd every fair from fair sometime declines,\nTo hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit.\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nWith all triumphant splendor on my brow;\nTheir images I loved I view in thee,\nTheir images I loved I view in thee,\n",
"role": "user"
}
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] |
832 | 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 dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.
Yet, do thy worst, old Time: despite thy wrong,
And all those friends which I thought buried.
To dry the rain on my storm-beaten face,
Is but the seemly raiment of my heart,
And see thy blood warm when thou feel'st it cold.
But wherefore do not you a mightier way
Points on me graciously with fair aspect
As those gold candles fix'd in heaven's air:
When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,
I all alone beweep my outcast state
But that thou none lovest is most evident;
But when in thee time's furrows I behold,
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
And by a part of all thy glory live.
My love shall in my verse ever live young.
Then of thy beauty do I question make,
I will not praise that purpose not to sell.
Presents thy shadow to my sightless view,
Die single, and thine image dies with thee.
Anon permit the basest clouds to ride
Featured like him, like him with friends possess'd,
For then my thoughts, from far where I abide,
Devouring Time, blunt thou the lion's paws,
Look, whom she best endow'd she gave the more;
When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
And all those friends which I thought buried.
Then happy I, that love and am beloved
Nature's bequest gives nothing but doth lend,
Who lets so fair a house fall to decay,
That due of many now is thine alone:
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
| [
{
"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 dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThat then I scorn to change my state with kings.\nYet, do thy worst, old Time: despite thy wrong,\nAnd all those friends which I thought buried.\nTo dry the rain on my storm-beaten face,\nIs but the seemly raiment of my heart,\nAnd see thy blood warm when thou feel'st it cold.\nBut wherefore do not you a mightier way\nPoints on me graciously with fair aspect\nAs those gold candles fix'd in heaven's air:\nWhen, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,\nI all alone beweep my outcast state\nBut that thou none lovest is most evident;\nBut when in thee time's furrows I behold,\nShall I compare thee to a summer's day?\nAnd by a part of all thy glory live.\nMy love shall in my verse ever live young.\nThen of thy beauty do I question make,\nI will not praise that purpose not to sell.\nPresents thy shadow to my sightless view,\nDie single, and thine image dies with thee.\nAnon permit the basest clouds to ride\nFeatured like him, like him with friends possess'd,\nFor then my thoughts, from far where I abide,\nDevouring Time, blunt thou the lion's paws,\nLook, whom she best endow'd she gave the more;\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd all those friends which I thought buried.\nThen happy I, that love and am beloved\nNature's bequest gives nothing but doth lend,\nWho lets so fair a house fall to decay,\nThat due of many now is thine alone:\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\n",
"role": "user"
}
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] |
833 | 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 dear repose for limbs with travel tired;
To change your day of youth to sullied night;
As those gold candles fix'd in heaven's air:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Then look I death my days should expiate.
I tell the day, to please them thou art bright
With ugly rack on his celestial face,
Hung with the trophies of my lovers gone,
After a thousand victories once foil'd,
I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,
I may not evermore acknowledge thee,
Authorizing thy trespass with compare,
No more be grieved at that which thou hast done:
Lord of my love, to whom in vassalage
When lofty trees I see barren of leaves
How much more praise deserved thy beauty's use,
Which to repair should be thy chief desire.
O, then vouchsafe me but this loving thought:
With means more blessed than my barren rhyme?
Who with his fear is put besides his part,
And your sweet semblance to some other give.
As, thou being mine, mine is thy good report.
That heals the wound and cures not the disgrace:
Look, what is best, that best I wish in thee:
For at a frown they in their glory die.
When that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover,
Which in thy breast doth live, as thine in me:
And wear their brave state out of memory;
The eyes, 'fore duteous, now converted are
Without this, folly, age and cold decay:
I may not evermore acknowledge thee,
Since sweets and beauties do themselves forsake
So flatter I the swart-complexion'd night,
Nor can thy shame give physic to my grief;
| [
{
"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 dear repose for limbs with travel tired;\nTo change your day of youth to sullied night;\nAs those gold candles fix'd in heaven's air:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nThen look I death my days should expiate.\nI tell the day, to please them thou art bright\nWith ugly rack on his celestial face,\nHung with the trophies of my lovers gone,\nAfter a thousand victories once foil'd,\nI sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,\nI may not evermore acknowledge thee,\nAuthorizing thy trespass with compare,\nNo more be grieved at that which thou hast done:\nLord of my love, to whom in vassalage\nWhen lofty trees I see barren of leaves\nHow much more praise deserved thy beauty's use,\nWhich to repair should be thy chief desire.\nO, then vouchsafe me but this loving thought:\nWith means more blessed than my barren rhyme?\nWho with his fear is put besides his part,\nAnd your sweet semblance to some other give.\nAs, thou being mine, mine is thy good report.\nThat heals the wound and cures not the disgrace:\nLook, what is best, that best I wish in thee:\nFor at a frown they in their glory die.\nWhen that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover,\nWhich in thy breast doth live, as thine in me:\nAnd wear their brave state out of memory;\nThe eyes, 'fore duteous, now converted are\nWithout this, folly, age and cold decay:\nI may not evermore acknowledge thee,\nSince sweets and beauties do themselves forsake\nSo flatter I the swart-complexion'd night,\nNor can thy shame give physic to my grief;\n",
"role": "user"
}
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29936,
518,
29914,
25580,
29962
] |
834 | 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:
My love shall in my verse ever live young.
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
But that I hope some good conceit of thine
Against this coming end you should prepare,
But from thine eyes my knowledge I derive,
| [
{
"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:\nMy love shall in my verse ever live young.\nYet in these thoughts myself almost despising,\nBut that I hope some good conceit of thine\nAgainst this coming end you should prepare,\nBut from thine eyes my knowledge I derive,\n",
"role": "user"
}
] | [
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408,
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266,
457,
5076,
590,
7134,
306,
21340,
29892,
518,
29914,
25580,
29962
] |
835 | 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:
Sets you most rich in youth before my sight,
As he takes from you, I engraft you new.
That I in thy abundance am sufficed
But wherefore do not you a mightier way
The bounteous largess given thee to give?
Lifts up his burning head, each under eye
May make seem bare, in wanting words to show it,
And in mine own love's strength seem to decay,
Then let not winter's ragged hand deface
Grant, if thou wilt, thou art beloved of many,
And having climb'd the steep-up heavenly hill,
Do in consent shake hands to torture me;
As I, not for myself, but for thee will;
Look, what an unthrift in the world doth spend
And sable curls all silver'd o'er with white;
And look upon myself and curse my fate,
And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er
Clouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun,
Mine eye hath play'd the painter and hath stell'd
Mark how one string, sweet husband to another,
Hung with the trophies of my lovers gone,
With virtuous wish would bear your living flowers,
| [
{
"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:\nSets you most rich in youth before my sight,\nAs he takes from you, I engraft you new.\nThat I in thy abundance am sufficed\nBut wherefore do not you a mightier way\nThe bounteous largess given thee to give?\nLifts up his burning head, each under eye\nMay make seem bare, in wanting words to show it,\nAnd in mine own love's strength seem to decay,\nThen let not winter's ragged hand deface\nGrant, if thou wilt, thou art beloved of many,\nAnd having climb'd the steep-up heavenly hill,\nDo in consent shake hands to torture me;\nAs I, not for myself, but for thee will;\nLook, what an unthrift in the world doth spend\nAnd sable curls all silver'd o'er with white;\nAnd look upon myself and curse my fate,\nAnd heavily from woe to woe tell o'er\nClouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun,\nMine eye hath play'd the painter and hath stell'd\nMark how one string, sweet husband to another,\nHung with the trophies of my lovers gone,\nWith virtuous wish would bear your living flowers,\n",
"role": "user"
}
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] |
836 | 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 heavily from woe to woe tell o'er
What acceptable audit canst thou leave?
Which happies those that pay the willing loan;
When lofty trees I see barren of leaves
Kissing with golden face the meadows green,
But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,
That beauty still may live in thine or thee.
Such civil war is in my love and hate
By oft predict that I in heaven find:
Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,
How far I toil, still farther off from thee.
Or ten times happier, be it ten for one;
So great a sum of sums, yet canst not live?
How far I toil, still farther off from thee.
To dry the rain on my storm-beaten face,
By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd;
For never-resting time leads summer on
Which in my bosom's shop is hanging still,
Whose speechless song, being many, seeming one,
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
The age to come would say 'This poet lies:
Clouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun,
The region cloud hath mask'd him from me now.
Look in thy glass, and tell the face thou viewest
Mine eye hath play'd the painter and hath stell'd
By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd;
'Had my friend's Muse grown with this growing age,
For no man well of such a salve can speak
If thou couldst answer 'This fair child of mine
Which bounteous gift thou shouldst in bounty cherish:
When I do count the clock that tells the time,
To dry the rain on my storm-beaten face,
And look upon myself and curse my fate,
Of his self-love, to stop posterity?
When your sweet issue your sweet form should bear.
Can make you live yourself in eyes of men.
Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed,
| [
{
"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 heavily from woe to woe tell o'er\nWhat acceptable audit canst thou leave?\nWhich happies those that pay the willing loan;\nWhen lofty trees I see barren of leaves\nKissing with golden face the meadows green,\nBut if the while I think on thee, dear friend,\nThat beauty still may live in thine or thee.\nSuch civil war is in my love and hate\nBy oft predict that I in heaven find:\nNor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,\nHow far I toil, still farther off from thee.\nOr ten times happier, be it ten for one;\nSo great a sum of sums, yet canst not live?\nHow far I toil, still farther off from thee.\nTo dry the rain on my storm-beaten face,\nBy chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd;\nFor never-resting time leads summer on\nWhich in my bosom's shop is hanging still,\nWhose speechless song, being many, seeming one,\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nThe age to come would say 'This poet lies:\nClouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun,\nThe region cloud hath mask'd him from me now.\nLook in thy glass, and tell the face thou viewest\nMine eye hath play'd the painter and hath stell'd\nBy chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd;\n'Had my friend's Muse grown with this growing age,\nFor no man well of such a salve can speak\nIf thou couldst answer 'This fair child of mine\nWhich bounteous gift thou shouldst in bounty cherish:\nWhen I do count the clock that tells the time,\nTo dry the rain on my storm-beaten face,\nAnd look upon myself and curse my fate,\nOf his self-love, to stop posterity?\nWhen your sweet issue your sweet form should bear.\nCan make you live yourself in eyes of men.\nWeary with toil, I haste me to my bed,\n",
"role": "user"
}
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] |
837 | 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 may not evermore acknowledge thee,
Let them say more than like of hearsay well;
That thou no form of thee hast left behind,
| [
{
"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 may not evermore acknowledge thee,\nLet them say more than like of hearsay well;\nThat thou no form of thee hast left behind,\n",
"role": "user"
}
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] |
838 | 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:
They do but sweetly chide thee, who confounds
Great princes' favourites their fair leaves spread
To hideous winter and confounds him there;
If thou survive my well-contented day,
Despite of wrinkles this thy golden time.
Lord of my love, to whom in vassalage
Proving his beauty by succession thine!
But wherefore do not you a mightier way
And thou, all they, hast all the all of me.
Mark how one string, sweet husband to another,
In thy soul's thought, all naked, will bestow it;
Or who is he so fond will be the tomb
That on himself such murderous shame commits.
If the true concord of well-tuned sounds,
For precious friends hid in death's dateless night,
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
| [
{
"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:\nThey do but sweetly chide thee, who confounds\nGreat princes' favourites their fair leaves spread\nTo hideous winter and confounds him there;\nIf thou survive my well-contented day,\nDespite of wrinkles this thy golden time.\nLord of my love, to whom in vassalage\nProving his beauty by succession thine!\nBut wherefore do not you a mightier way\nAnd thou, all they, hast all the all of me.\nMark how one string, sweet husband to another,\nIn thy soul's thought, all naked, will bestow it;\nOr who is he so fond will be the tomb\nThat on himself such murderous shame commits.\nIf the true concord of well-tuned sounds,\nFor precious friends hid in death's dateless night,\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\n",
"role": "user"
}
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] |
839 | 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:
Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day,
So thou through windows of thine age shall see
And die as fast as they see others grow;
Thy adverse party is thy advocate--
And do whate'er thou wilt, swift-footed Time,
Who will believe my verse in time to come,
Him in thy course untainted do allow
By children's eyes her husband's shape in mind.
Where wasteful Time debateth with Decay,
Find no determination: then you were
That am debarr'd the benefit of rest?
To let base clouds o'ertake me in my way,
And night doth nightly make grief's strength seem stronger.
Do in consent shake hands to torture me;
Be scorn'd like old men of less truth than tongue,
Even so my sun one early morn did shine
For all that beauty that doth cover thee
In one of thine, from that which thou departest;
Will play the tyrants to the very same
From his low tract and look another way:
Music to hear, why hear'st thou music sadly?
When in eternal lines to time thou growest:
If thou couldst answer 'This fair child of mine
O, none but unthrifts! Dear my love, you know
Let those whom Nature hath not made for store,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
| [
{
"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:\nWhy didst thou promise such a beauteous day,\nSo thou through windows of thine age shall see\nAnd die as fast as they see others grow;\nThy adverse party is thy advocate--\nAnd do whate'er thou wilt, swift-footed Time,\nWho will believe my verse in time to come,\nHim in thy course untainted do allow\nBy children's eyes her husband's shape in mind.\nWhere wasteful Time debateth with Decay,\nFind no determination: then you were\nThat am debarr'd the benefit of rest?\nTo let base clouds o'ertake me in my way,\nAnd night doth nightly make grief's strength seem stronger.\nDo in consent shake hands to torture me;\nBe scorn'd like old men of less truth than tongue,\nEven so my sun one early morn did shine\nFor all that beauty that doth cover thee\nIn one of thine, from that which thou departest;\nWill play the tyrants to the very same\nFrom his low tract and look another way:\nMusic to hear, why hear'st thou music sadly?\nWhen in eternal lines to time thou growest:\nIf thou couldst answer 'This fair child of mine\nO, none but unthrifts! Dear my love, you know\nLet those whom Nature hath not made for store,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\n",
"role": "user"
}
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518,
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25580,
29962
] |
840 | 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
As a decrepit father takes delight
O, let my books be then the eloquence
I all alone beweep my outcast state
And dumb presagers of my speaking breast,
But when in thee time's furrows I behold,
And barren rage of death's eternal cold?
For through the painter must you see his skill,
When your sweet issue your sweet form should bear.
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:\nWhen lofty trees I see barren of leaves\nAs a decrepit father takes delight\nO, let my books be then the eloquence\nI all alone beweep my outcast state\nAnd dumb presagers of my speaking breast,\nBut when in thee time's furrows I behold,\nAnd barren rage of death's eternal cold?\nFor through the painter must you see his skill,\nWhen your sweet issue your sweet form should bear.\nThat 'gainst thyself thou stick'st not to conspire.\n",
"role": "user"
}
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] |
841 | 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 all were minded so, the times should cease
A man in hue, all 'hues' in his controlling,
Then may I dare to boast how I do love thee;
A woman's face with Nature's own hand painted
In singleness the parts that thou shouldst bear.
Thy end is truth's and beauty's doom and date.
Desiring this man's art and that man's scope,
Then, were not summer's distillation left,
'Had my friend's Muse grown with this growing age,
Although our undivided loves are one:
Will play the tyrants to the very same
Who all in one, one pleasing note do sing:
The one by toil, the other to complain
Gilding the object whereupon it gazeth;
Cheered and cheque'd even by the self-same sky,
When I do count the clock that tells the time,
With virtuous wish would bear your living flowers,
Lo! in the orient when the gracious light
'Had my friend's Muse grown with this growing age,
Doth homage to his new-appearing sight,
Borne on the bier with white and bristly beard,
And fortify yourself in your decay
A liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass,
Are windows to my breast, where-through the sun
Featured like him, like him with friends possess'd,
And perspective it is the painter's art.
The lovely gaze where every eye doth dwell,
Unless thou take that honour from thy name:
Beauty's effect with beauty were bereft,
Who plead for love and look for recompense
Yet him for this my love no whit disdaineth;
Whilst that this shadow doth such substance give
My glass shall not persuade me I am old,
Nor draw no lines there with thine antique pen;
Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed,
And barren rage of death's eternal cold?
But if thou live, remember'd not to be,
Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy;
| [
{
"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 all were minded so, the times should cease\nA man in hue, all 'hues' in his controlling,\nThen may I dare to boast how I do love thee;\nA woman's face with Nature's own hand painted\nIn singleness the parts that thou shouldst bear.\nThy end is truth's and beauty's doom and date.\nDesiring this man's art and that man's scope,\nThen, were not summer's distillation left,\n'Had my friend's Muse grown with this growing age,\nAlthough our undivided loves are one:\nWill play the tyrants to the very same\nWho all in one, one pleasing note do sing:\nThe one by toil, the other to complain\nGilding the object whereupon it gazeth;\nCheered and cheque'd even by the self-same sky,\nWhen I do count the clock that tells the time,\nWith virtuous wish would bear your living flowers,\nLo! in the orient when the gracious light\n'Had my friend's Muse grown with this growing age,\nDoth homage to his new-appearing sight,\nBorne on the bier with white and bristly beard,\nAnd fortify yourself in your decay\nA liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass,\nAre windows to my breast, where-through the sun\nFeatured like him, like him with friends possess'd,\nAnd perspective it is the painter's art.\nThe lovely gaze where every eye doth dwell,\nUnless thou take that honour from thy name:\nBeauty's effect with beauty were bereft,\nWho plead for love and look for recompense\nYet him for this my love no whit disdaineth;\nWhilst that this shadow doth such substance give\nMy glass shall not persuade me I am old,\nNor draw no lines there with thine antique pen;\nWeary with toil, I haste me to my bed,\nAnd barren rage of death's eternal cold?\nBut if thou live, remember'd not to be,\nGilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy;\n",
"role": "user"
}
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518,
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] |
842 | 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 dearer birth than this his love had brought,
Neither in inward worth nor outward fair,
Let them say more than like of hearsay well;
As interest of the dead, which now appear
Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,
So should my papers yellow'd with their age
When that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover,
Ten times thyself were happier than thou art,
Mine eyes have drawn thy shape, and thine for me
My love shall in my verse ever live young.
Anon permit the basest clouds to ride
Which, like a jewel hung in ghastly night,
Unless thou take that honour from thy name:
And make me travel forth without my cloak,
With virtuous wish would bear your living flowers,
For through the painter must you see his skill,
And dost him grace when clouds do blot the heaven:
Thou of thyself thy sweet self dost deceive.
That 'gainst thyself thou stick'st not to conspire.
For then my thoughts, from far where I abide,
But as the marigold at the sun's eye,
For having traffic with thyself alone,
From his low tract and look another way:
But thy eternal summer shall not fade
Beauty o'ersnow'd and bareness every where:
| [
{
"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 dearer birth than this his love had brought,\nNeither in inward worth nor outward fair,\nLet them say more than like of hearsay well;\nAs interest of the dead, which now appear\nThen can I grieve at grievances foregone,\nSo should my papers yellow'd with their age\nWhen that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover,\nTen times thyself were happier than thou art,\nMine eyes have drawn thy shape, and thine for me\nMy love shall in my verse ever live young.\nAnon permit the basest clouds to ride\nWhich, like a jewel hung in ghastly night,\nUnless thou take that honour from thy name:\nAnd make me travel forth without my cloak,\nWith virtuous wish would bear your living flowers,\nFor through the painter must you see his skill,\nAnd dost him grace when clouds do blot the heaven:\nThou of thyself thy sweet self dost deceive.\nThat 'gainst thyself thou stick'st not to conspire.\nFor then my thoughts, from far where I abide,\nBut as the marigold at the sun's eye,\nFor having traffic with thyself alone,\nFrom his low tract and look another way:\nBut thy eternal summer shall not fade\nBeauty o'ersnow'd and bareness every where:\n",
"role": "user"
}
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] |
843 | 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:
Look, what is best, that best I wish in thee:
The offender's sorrow lends but weak relief
Much steals men's eyes and women's souls amazeth.
Who all in one, one pleasing note do sing:
And in fresh numbers number all your graces,
My glass shall not persuade me I am old,
Vaunt in their youthful sap, at height decrease,
And there reigns love and all love's loving parts,
If it were fill'd with your most high deserts?
So I, for fear of trust, forget to say
And that fresh blood which youngly thou bestowest
But as the marigold at the sun's eye,
Making a couplement of proud compare,
Which in my bosom's shop is hanging still,
But as the marigold at the sun's eye,
Compare them with the bettering of the time,
To him that bears the strong offence's cross.
Let me confess that we two must be twain,
And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;
His tender heir might bear his memory:
When lofty trees I see barren of leaves
If the true concord of well-tuned sounds,
Hiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke?
That 'gainst thyself thou stick'st not to conspire.
But not to tell of good or evil luck,
Which bounteous gift thou shouldst in bounty cherish:
| [
{
"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:\nLook, what is best, that best I wish in thee:\nThe offender's sorrow lends but weak relief\nMuch steals men's eyes and women's souls amazeth.\nWho all in one, one pleasing note do sing:\nAnd in fresh numbers number all your graces,\nMy glass shall not persuade me I am old,\nVaunt in their youthful sap, at height decrease,\nAnd there reigns love and all love's loving parts,\nIf it were fill'd with your most high deserts?\nSo I, for fear of trust, forget to say\nAnd that fresh blood which youngly thou bestowest\nBut as the marigold at the sun's eye,\nMaking a couplement of proud compare,\nWhich in my bosom's shop is hanging still,\nBut as the marigold at the sun's eye,\nCompare them with the bettering of the time,\nTo him that bears the strong offence's cross.\nLet me confess that we two must be twain,\nAnd often is his gold complexion dimm'd;\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nWhen lofty trees I see barren of leaves\nIf the true concord of well-tuned sounds,\nHiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke?\nThat 'gainst thyself thou stick'st not to conspire.\nBut not to tell of good or evil luck,\nWhich bounteous gift thou shouldst in bounty cherish:\n",
"role": "user"
}
] | [
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1795,
2360,
762,
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13,
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408,
278,
10107,
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491,
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559,
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540,
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411,
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363,
8866,
310,
9311,
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9566,
304,
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13,
2855,
393,
10849,
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607,
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371,
681,
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881,
303,
297,
289,
792,
29891,
14954,
728,
29901,
518,
29914,
25580,
29962
] |
844 | 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 whatsoever star that guides my moving
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
How can I then return in happy plight,
Much steals men's eyes and women's souls amazeth.
But then begins a journey in my head,
This wish I have; then ten times happy me!
And every fair with his fair doth rehearse
Look, what an unthrift in the world doth spend
But when in thee time's furrows I behold,
But when from highmost pitch, with weary car,
In one of thine, from that which thou departest;
And in fresh numbers number all your graces,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Mine eye hath play'd the painter and hath stell'd
May make seem bare, in wanting words to show it,
And then believe me, my love is as fair
If thou survive my well-contented day,
Which hides your life and shows not half your parts.
Thy beauty's form in table of my heart;
Seeking that beauteous roof to ruinate
As, thou being mine, mine is thy good report.
Will play the tyrants to the very same
Hast thou, the master-mistress of my passion;
For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings
But things removed that hidden in thee lie!
That due of many now is thine alone:
From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate;
For through the painter must you see his skill,
| [
{
"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 whatsoever star that guides my moving\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nHow can I then return in happy plight,\nMuch steals men's eyes and women's souls amazeth.\nBut then begins a journey in my head,\nThis wish I have; then ten times happy me!\nAnd every fair with his fair doth rehearse\nLook, what an unthrift in the world doth spend\nBut when in thee time's furrows I behold,\nBut when from highmost pitch, with weary car,\nIn one of thine, from that which thou departest;\nAnd in fresh numbers number all your graces,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nMine eye hath play'd the painter and hath stell'd\nMay make seem bare, in wanting words to show it,\nAnd then believe me, my love is as fair\nIf thou survive my well-contented day,\nWhich hides your life and shows not half your parts.\nThy beauty's form in table of my heart;\nSeeking that beauteous roof to ruinate\nAs, thou being mine, mine is thy good report.\nWill play the tyrants to the very same\nHast thou, the master-mistress of my passion;\nFor thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings\nBut things removed that hidden in thee lie!\nThat due of many now is thine alone:\nFrom sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate;\nFor through the painter must you see his skill,\n",
"role": "user"
}
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] |
845 | 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,
Bearing thy heart, which I will keep so chary
Thy merit hath my duty strongly knit,
Lo! thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind,
Till then not show my head where thou mayst prove me.
Are windows to my breast, where-through the sun
For whether beauty, birth, or wealth, or wit,
And trouble deal heaven with my bootless cries
From his low tract and look another way:
Sweets with sweets war not, joy delights in joy.
With April's first-born flowers, and all things rare
To say, within thine own deep-sunken eyes,
Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,
So great a sum of sums, yet canst not live?
Whilst that this shadow doth such substance give
You had a father: let your son say so.
When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
Or any of these all, or all, or more,
Which erst from heat did canopy the herd,
And do whate'er thou wilt, swift-footed Time,
But when from highmost pitch, with weary car,
| [
{
"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,\nBearing thy heart, which I will keep so chary\nThy merit hath my duty strongly knit,\nLo! thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind,\nTill then not show my head where thou mayst prove me.\nAre windows to my breast, where-through the sun\nFor whether beauty, birth, or wealth, or wit,\nAnd trouble deal heaven with my bootless cries\nFrom his low tract and look another way:\nSweets with sweets war not, joy delights in joy.\nWith April's first-born flowers, and all things rare\nTo say, within thine own deep-sunken eyes,\nThen can I grieve at grievances foregone,\nSo great a sum of sums, yet canst not live?\nWhilst that this shadow doth such substance give\nYou had a father: let your son say so.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nOr any of these all, or all, or more,\nWhich erst from heat did canopy the herd,\nAnd do whate'er thou wilt, swift-footed Time,\nBut when from highmost pitch, with weary car,\n",
"role": "user"
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] |
846 | 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:
Exceeded by the height of happier men.
Or say with princes if it shall go well,
Shall sum my count and make my old excuse,'
No longer yours than you yourself here live:
But since she prick'd thee out for women's pleasure,
How many a holy and obsequious tear
And make me travel forth without my cloak,
Whose speechless song, being many, seeming one,
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Vaunt in their youthful sap, at height decrease,
Myself corrupting, salving thy amiss,
Much steals men's eyes and women's souls amazeth.
That hath his windows glazed with thine eyes.
More than that tongue that more hath more express'd.
And in themselves their pride lies buried,
Herein lives wisdom, beauty and increase:
Be not self-will'd, for thou art much too fair
And from the forlorn world his visage hide,
Whilst that this shadow doth such substance give
Leaving thee living in posterity?
To the wide world and all her fading sweets;
To march in ranks of better equipage:
With virtuous wish would bear your living flowers,
Sap cheque'd with frost and lusty leaves quite gone,
So flatter I the swart-complexion'd night,
The world will be thy widow and still weep
Much steals men's eyes and women's souls amazeth.
When I consider every thing that grows
The perfect ceremony of love's rite,
O'ercharged with burden of mine own love's might.
Who all in one, one pleasing note do sing:
Without this, folly, age and cold decay:
Thy beauty's form in table of my heart;
Thou art the grave where buried love doth live,
With all triumphant splendor on my brow;
Though thou repent, yet I have still the loss:
| [
{
"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:\nExceeded by the height of happier men.\nOr say with princes if it shall go well,\nShall sum my count and make my old excuse,'\nNo longer yours than you yourself here live:\nBut since she prick'd thee out for women's pleasure,\nHow many a holy and obsequious tear\nAnd make me travel forth without my cloak,\nWhose speechless song, being many, seeming one,\nShall I compare thee to a summer's day?\nVaunt in their youthful sap, at height decrease,\nMyself corrupting, salving thy amiss,\nMuch steals men's eyes and women's souls amazeth.\nThat hath his windows glazed with thine eyes.\nMore than that tongue that more hath more express'd.\nAnd in themselves their pride lies buried,\nHerein lives wisdom, beauty and increase:\nBe not self-will'd, for thou art much too fair\nAnd from the forlorn world his visage hide,\nWhilst that this shadow doth such substance give\nLeaving thee living in posterity?\nTo the wide world and all her fading sweets;\nTo march in ranks of better equipage:\nWith virtuous wish would bear your living flowers,\nSap cheque'd with frost and lusty leaves quite gone,\nSo flatter I the swart-complexion'd night,\nThe world will be thy widow and still weep\nMuch steals men's eyes and women's souls amazeth.\nWhen I consider every thing that grows\nThe perfect ceremony of love's rite,\nO'ercharged with burden of mine own love's might.\nWho all in one, one pleasing note do sing:\nWithout this, folly, age and cold decay:\nThy beauty's form in table of my heart;\nThou art the grave where buried love doth live,\nWith all triumphant splendor on my brow;\nThough thou repent, yet I have still the loss:\n",
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] |
847 | 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 thereby beauty's rose might never die,
That 'gainst thyself thou stick'st not to conspire.
Thou art the grave where buried love doth live,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Unlook'd for joy in that I honour most.
Which in my bosom's shop is hanging still,
But out, alack! he was but one hour mine;
Seeking that beauteous roof to ruinate
You had a father: let your son say so.
Will play the tyrants to the very same
Delights to peep, to gaze therein on thee;
And sable curls all silver'd o'er with white;
Nor can thy shame give physic to my grief;
So should that beauty which you hold in lease
| [
{
"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 thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nThat 'gainst thyself thou stick'st not to conspire.\nThou art the grave where buried love doth live,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nUnlook'd for joy in that I honour most.\nWhich in my bosom's shop is hanging still,\nBut out, alack! he was but one hour mine;\nSeeking that beauteous roof to ruinate\nYou had a father: let your son say so.\nWill play the tyrants to the very same\nDelights to peep, to gaze therein on thee;\nAnd sable curls all silver'd o'er with white;\nNor can thy shame give physic to my grief;\nSo should that beauty which you hold in lease\n",
"role": "user"
}
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25580,
29962
] |
848 | 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:
Whose speechless song, being many, seeming one,
Take all my comfort of thy worth and truth.
So shall those blots that do with me remain
Which, used, lives th' executor to be.
From his low tract and look another way:
Haply I think on thee, and then my state,
Much liker than your painted counterfeit:
Lifts up his burning head, each under eye
For through the painter must you see his skill,
Devouring Time, blunt thou the lion's paws,
Then, were not summer's distillation left,
And moan the expense of many a vanish'd sight:
Whose speechless song, being many, seeming one,
So I, for fear of trust, forget to say
Then, beauteous niggard, why dost thou abuse
And barren rage of death's eternal cold?
Upon thyself thy beauty's legacy?
| [
{
"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:\nWhose speechless song, being many, seeming one,\nTake all my comfort of thy worth and truth.\nSo shall those blots that do with me remain\nWhich, used, lives th' executor to be.\nFrom his low tract and look another way:\nHaply I think on thee, and then my state,\nMuch liker than your painted counterfeit:\nLifts up his burning head, each under eye\nFor through the painter must you see his skill,\nDevouring Time, blunt thou the lion's paws,\nThen, were not summer's distillation left,\nAnd moan the expense of many a vanish'd sight:\nWhose speechless song, being many, seeming one,\nSo I, for fear of trust, forget to say\nThen, beauteous niggard, why dost thou abuse\nAnd barren rage of death's eternal cold?\nUpon thyself thy beauty's legacy?\n",
"role": "user"
}
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] |
849 | 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 world will wail thee, like a makeless wife;
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
As an unperfect actor on the stage
But out, alack! he was but one hour mine;
The world will wail thee, like a makeless wife;
Anon permit the basest clouds to ride
But were some child of yours alive that time,
Who plead for love and look for recompense
For shame! deny that thou bear'st love to any,
And dumb presagers of my speaking breast,
With means more blessed than my barren rhyme?
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And every fair with his fair doth rehearse
But beauty's waste hath in the world an end,
O' let me, true in love, but truly write,
Thy adverse party is thy advocate--
And being frank she lends to those are free.
And see the brave day sunk in hideous night;
Vaunt in their youthful sap, at height decrease,
Attending on his golden pilgrimage;
To hideous winter and confounds him there;
Nature's bequest gives nothing but doth lend,
| [
{
"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 world will wail thee, like a makeless wife;\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nAs an unperfect actor on the stage\nBut out, alack! he was but one hour mine;\nThe world will wail thee, like a makeless wife;\nAnon permit the basest clouds to ride\nBut were some child of yours alive that time,\nWho plead for love and look for recompense\nFor shame! deny that thou bear'st love to any,\nAnd dumb presagers of my speaking breast,\nWith means more blessed than my barren rhyme?\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd every fair with his fair doth rehearse\nBut beauty's waste hath in the world an end,\nO' let me, true in love, but truly write,\nThy adverse party is thy advocate--\nAnd being frank she lends to those are free.\nAnd see the brave day sunk in hideous night;\nVaunt in their youthful sap, at height decrease,\nAttending on his golden pilgrimage;\nTo hideous winter and confounds him there;\nNature's bequest gives nothing but doth lend,\n",
"role": "user"
}
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] |
850 | 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:
Unthrifty loveliness, why dost thou spend
But I forbid thee one most heinous crime:
But from thine eyes my knowledge I derive,
And for a woman wert thou first created;
Nor can thy shame give physic to my grief;
His tender heir might bear his memory:
Thou of thyself thy sweet self dost deceive.
And by addition me of thee defeated,
Let those whom Nature hath not made for store,
Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother.
Sets you most rich in youth before my sight,
When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,
Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell,
Duty so great, which wit so poor as mine
But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,
And, constant stars, in them I read such art
Is it for fear to wet a widow's eye
And they are rich and ransom all ill deeds.
Nor thou with public kindness honour me,
When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
You had a father: let your son say so.
How many a holy and obsequious tear
Stealing unseen to west with this disgrace:
And see the brave day sunk in hideous night;
That this huge stage presenteth nought but shows
To him that bears the strong offence's cross.
'Had my friend's Muse grown with this growing age,
So should that beauty which you hold in lease
| [
{
"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:\nUnthrifty loveliness, why dost thou spend\nBut I forbid thee one most heinous crime:\nBut from thine eyes my knowledge I derive,\nAnd for a woman wert thou first created;\nNor can thy shame give physic to my grief;\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nThou of thyself thy sweet self dost deceive.\nAnd by addition me of thee defeated,\nLet those whom Nature hath not made for store,\nThou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother.\nSets you most rich in youth before my sight,\nWhen, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,\nNor can I fortune to brief minutes tell,\nDuty so great, which wit so poor as mine\nBut if the while I think on thee, dear friend,\nAnd, constant stars, in them I read such art\nIs it for fear to wet a widow's eye\nAnd they are rich and ransom all ill deeds.\nNor thou with public kindness honour me,\nWhen to the sessions of sweet silent thought\nYou had a father: let your son say so.\nHow many a holy and obsequious tear\nStealing unseen to west with this disgrace:\nAnd see the brave day sunk in hideous night;\nThat this huge stage presenteth nought but shows\nTo him that bears the strong offence's cross.\n'Had my friend's Muse grown with this growing age,\nSo should that beauty which you hold in lease\n",
"role": "user"
}
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] |
851 | 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,
Authorizing thy trespass with compare,
| [
{
"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,\nAuthorizing thy trespass with compare,\n",
"role": "user"
}
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] |
852 | 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:
Now stand you on the top of happy hours,
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
When in eternal lines to time thou growest:
Doth homage to his new-appearing sight,
And in themselves their pride lies buried,
Who with his fear is put besides his part,
Desiring this man's art and that man's scope,
Which I new pay as if not paid before.
And from the forlorn world his visage hide,
Or ten times happier, be it ten for one;
But since she prick'd thee out for women's pleasure,
So long lives this and this gives life to thee.
But since she prick'd thee out for women's pleasure,
And wear their brave state out of memory;
So should that beauty which you hold in lease
Till then not show my head where thou mayst prove me.
Since sweets and beauties do themselves forsake
Though in our lives a separable spite,
And in themselves their pride lies buried,
Which bounteous gift thou shouldst in bounty cherish:
| [
{
"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:\nNow stand you on the top of happy hours,\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nWhen in eternal lines to time thou growest:\nDoth homage to his new-appearing sight,\nAnd in themselves their pride lies buried,\nWho with his fear is put besides his part,\nDesiring this man's art and that man's scope,\nWhich I new pay as if not paid before.\nAnd from the forlorn world his visage hide,\nOr ten times happier, be it ten for one;\nBut since she prick'd thee out for women's pleasure,\nSo long lives this and this gives life to thee.\nBut since she prick'd thee out for women's pleasure,\nAnd wear their brave state out of memory;\nSo should that beauty which you hold in lease\nTill then not show my head where thou mayst prove me.\nSince sweets and beauties do themselves forsake\nThough in our lives a separable spite,\nAnd in themselves their pride lies buried,\nWhich bounteous gift thou shouldst in bounty cherish:\n",
"role": "user"
}
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] |
853 | 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 means more blessed than my barren rhyme?
Is it for fear to wet a widow's eye
Save that my soul's imaginary sight
Roses have thorns, and silver fountains mud;
So great a sum of sums, yet canst not live?
Shall hate be fairer lodged than gentle love?
Yourself again after yourself's decease,
The bounteous largess given thee to give?
So thou, thyself out-going in thy noon,
Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee,
You should live twice; in it and in my rhyme.
But when in thee time's furrows I behold,
With sun and moon, with earth and sea's rich gems,
They do but sweetly chide thee, who confounds
Mark how one string, sweet husband to another,
As fast as thou shalt wane, so fast thou growest
| [
{
"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 means more blessed than my barren rhyme?\nIs it for fear to wet a widow's eye\nSave that my soul's imaginary sight\nRoses have thorns, and silver fountains mud;\nSo great a sum of sums, yet canst not live?\nShall hate be fairer lodged than gentle love?\nYourself again after yourself's decease,\nThe bounteous largess given thee to give?\nSo thou, thyself out-going in thy noon,\nIntend a zealous pilgrimage to thee,\nYou should live twice; in it and in my rhyme.\nBut when in thee time's furrows I behold,\nWith sun and moon, with earth and sea's rich gems,\nThey do but sweetly chide thee, who confounds\nMark how one string, sweet husband to another,\nAs fast as thou shalt wane, so fast thou growest\n",
"role": "user"
}
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] |
854 | 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 eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
Nor it nor no remembrance what it was:
Sets you most rich in youth before my sight,
Or to thyself at least kind-hearted prove:
But since he died and poets better prove,
Which hides your life and shows not half your parts.
To work my mind, when body's work's expired:
Nature's bequest gives nothing but doth lend,
But beauty's waste hath in the world an end,
So I, made lame by fortune's dearest spite,
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
No more be grieved at that which thou hast done:
To say, within thine own deep-sunken eyes,
That beauty still may live in thine or thee.
Which bounteous gift thou shouldst in bounty cherish:
Then being ask'd where all thy beauty lies,
Clouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun,
Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage,
That due of many now is thine alone:
With virtuous wish would bear your living flowers,
The eyes, 'fore duteous, now converted are
These poor rude lines of thy deceased lover,
And nothing 'gainst Time's scythe can make defence
That heals the wound and cures not the disgrace:
But then begins a journey in my head,
But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,
Thy adverse party is thy advocate--
Holds in perfection but a little moment,
Points on me graciously with fair aspect
Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother.
Who will believe my verse in time to come,
So thou, thyself out-going in thy noon,
After a thousand victories once foil'd,
And being frank she lends to those are free.
| [
{
"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 eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nNor it nor no remembrance what it was:\nSets you most rich in youth before my sight,\nOr to thyself at least kind-hearted prove:\nBut since he died and poets better prove,\nWhich hides your life and shows not half your parts.\nTo work my mind, when body's work's expired:\nNature's bequest gives nothing but doth lend,\nBut beauty's waste hath in the world an end,\nSo I, made lame by fortune's dearest spite,\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nNo more be grieved at that which thou hast done:\nTo say, within thine own deep-sunken eyes,\nThat beauty still may live in thine or thee.\nWhich bounteous gift thou shouldst in bounty cherish:\nThen being ask'd where all thy beauty lies,\nClouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun,\nOr some fierce thing replete with too much rage,\nThat due of many now is thine alone:\nWith virtuous wish would bear your living flowers,\nThe eyes, 'fore duteous, now converted are\nThese poor rude lines of thy deceased lover,\nAnd nothing 'gainst Time's scythe can make defence\nThat heals the wound and cures not the disgrace:\nBut then begins a journey in my head,\nBut if the while I think on thee, dear friend,\nThy adverse party is thy advocate--\nHolds in perfection but a little moment,\nPoints on me graciously with fair aspect\nThou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother.\nWho will believe my verse in time to come,\nSo thou, thyself out-going in thy noon,\nAfter a thousand victories once foil'd,\nAnd being frank she lends to those are free.\n",
"role": "user"
}
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] |
855 | 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 many maiden gardens yet unset
To hideous winter and confounds him there;
To that sweet thief which sourly robs from me.
For thee and for myself no quiet find.
But since she prick'd thee out for women's pleasure,
So thou through windows of thine age shall see
Looking on darkness which the blind do see
Let me confess that we two must be twain,
When lofty trees I see barren of leaves
Let those whom Nature hath not made for store,
| [
{
"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 many maiden gardens yet unset\nTo hideous winter and confounds him there;\nTo that sweet thief which sourly robs from me.\nFor thee and for myself no quiet find.\nBut since she prick'd thee out for women's pleasure,\nSo thou through windows of thine age shall see\nLooking on darkness which the blind do see\nLet me confess that we two must be twain,\nWhen lofty trees I see barren of leaves\nLet those whom Nature hath not made for store,\n",
"role": "user"
}
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518,
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] |
856 | 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 public honour and proud titles boast,
Resembling strong youth in his middle age,
And dost him grace when clouds do blot the heaven:
In singleness the parts that thou shouldst bear.
To that sweet thief which sourly robs from me.
As he takes from you, I engraft you new.
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Haply I think on thee, and then my state,
Attending on his golden pilgrimage;
Then how, when nature calls thee to be gone,
I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,
As a decrepit father takes delight
Desiring this man's art and that man's scope,
When day's oppression is not eased by night,
And see thy blood warm when thou feel'st it cold.
Where I may not remove nor be removed.
So should that beauty which you hold in lease
And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste:
Serving with looks his sacred majesty;
Will play the tyrants to the very same
For then my thoughts, from far where I abide,
And sable curls all silver'd o'er with white;
As interest of the dead, which now appear
And all in war with Time for love of you,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Serving with looks his sacred majesty;
Unlook'd on diest, unless thou get a son.
Where I may not remove nor be removed.
But that thou none lovest is most evident;
The one by toil, the other to complain
For to thy sensual fault I bring in sense--
And often is his gold complexion dimm'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:\nOf public honour and proud titles boast,\nResembling strong youth in his middle age,\nAnd dost him grace when clouds do blot the heaven:\nIn singleness the parts that thou shouldst bear.\nTo that sweet thief which sourly robs from me.\nAs he takes from you, I engraft you new.\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nHaply I think on thee, and then my state,\nAttending on his golden pilgrimage;\nThen how, when nature calls thee to be gone,\nI sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,\nAs a decrepit father takes delight\nDesiring this man's art and that man's scope,\nWhen day's oppression is not eased by night,\nAnd see thy blood warm when thou feel'st it cold.\nWhere I may not remove nor be removed.\nSo should that beauty which you hold in lease\nAnd with old woes new wail my dear time's waste:\nServing with looks his sacred majesty;\nWill play the tyrants to the very same\nFor then my thoughts, from far where I abide,\nAnd sable curls all silver'd o'er with white;\nAs interest of the dead, which now appear\nAnd all in war with Time for love of you,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nServing with looks his sacred majesty;\nUnlook'd on diest, unless thou get a son.\nWhere I may not remove nor be removed.\nBut that thou none lovest is most evident;\nThe one by toil, the other to complain\nFor to thy sensual fault I bring in sense--\nAnd often is his gold complexion dimm'd;\n",
"role": "user"
}
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] |
857 | 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:
Hast thou, the master-mistress of my passion;
His tender heir might bear his memory:
And moan the expense of many a vanish'd sight:
The perfect ceremony of love's rite,
If ten of thine ten times refigured thee:
Thy merit hath my duty strongly knit,
For whether beauty, birth, or wealth, or wit,
But since she prick'd thee out for women's pleasure,
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
By adding one thing to my purpose nothing.
In thee thy summer, ere thou be distill'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:\nHast thou, the master-mistress of my passion;\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nAnd moan the expense of many a vanish'd sight:\nThe perfect ceremony of love's rite,\nIf ten of thine ten times refigured thee:\nThy merit hath my duty strongly knit,\nFor whether beauty, birth, or wealth, or wit,\nBut since she prick'd thee out for women's pleasure,\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nBy adding one thing to my purpose nothing.\nIn thee thy summer, ere thou be distill'd:\n",
"role": "user"
}
] | [
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453,
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29901,
518,
29914,
25580,
29962
] |
858 | 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:
Sets you most rich in youth before my sight,
How can I then be elder than thou art?
Mine be thy love and thy love's use their treasure.
The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan,
And, constant stars, in them I read such art
Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell,
More than that tongue that more hath more express'd.
How much more praise deserved thy beauty's use,
Lo! thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind,
For where is she so fair whose unear'd womb
These poor rude lines of thy deceased lover,
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
Hiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke?
To work my mind, when body's work's expired:
O' let me, true in love, but truly write,
That I in thy abundance am sufficed
Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day,
Much liker than your painted counterfeit:
O, change thy thought, that I may change my mind!
Yet doth it steal sweet hours from love's delight.
I tell the day, to please them thou art bright
And perspective it is the painter's art.
The offender's sorrow lends but weak relief
That hath his windows glazed with thine eyes.
Mine be thy love and thy love's use their treasure.
O, let my books be then the eloquence
Though thou repent, yet I have still the loss:
| [
{
"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:\nSets you most rich in youth before my sight,\nHow can I then be elder than thou art?\nMine be thy love and thy love's use their treasure.\nThe sad account of fore-bemoaned moan,\nAnd, constant stars, in them I read such art\nNor can I fortune to brief minutes tell,\nMore than that tongue that more hath more express'd.\nHow much more praise deserved thy beauty's use,\nLo! thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind,\nFor where is she so fair whose unear'd womb\nThese poor rude lines of thy deceased lover,\nRough winds do shake the darling buds of May,\nHiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke?\nTo work my mind, when body's work's expired:\nO' let me, true in love, but truly write,\nThat I in thy abundance am sufficed\nWhy didst thou promise such a beauteous day,\nMuch liker than your painted counterfeit:\nO, change thy thought, that I may change my mind!\nYet doth it steal sweet hours from love's delight.\nI tell the day, to please them thou art bright\nAnd perspective it is the painter's art.\nThe offender's sorrow lends but weak relief\nThat hath his windows glazed with thine eyes.\nMine be thy love and thy love's use their treasure.\nO, let my books be then the eloquence\nThough thou repent, yet I have still the loss:\n",
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] |
859 | 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:
Make war upon this bloody tyrant, Time?
A woman's face with Nature's own hand painted
But day by night, and night by day, oppress'd?
Where all the treasure of thy lusty days,
'Tis not enough that through the cloud thou break,
That heals the wound and cures not the disgrace:
With sun and moon, with earth and sea's rich gems,
Where I may not remove nor be removed.
But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,
Then happy I, that love and am beloved
As, thou being mine, mine is thy good report.
When sparkling stars twire not thou gild'st the even.
So thou through windows of thine age shall see
Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell,
O, let my books be then the eloquence
Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother.
Lifts up his burning head, each under eye
The eyes, 'fore duteous, now converted are
She carved thee for her seal, and meant thereby
No more be grieved at that which thou hast done:
This wish I have; then ten times happy me!
Make war upon this bloody tyrant, Time?
The world will wail thee, like a makeless wife;
A man in hue, all 'hues' in his controlling,
Who lets so fair a house fall to decay,
Of plagues, of dearths, or seasons' quality;
Authorizing thy trespass with compare,
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:\nMake war upon this bloody tyrant, Time?\nA woman's face with Nature's own hand painted\nBut day by night, and night by day, oppress'd?\nWhere all the treasure of thy lusty days,\n'Tis not enough that through the cloud thou break,\nThat heals the wound and cures not the disgrace:\nWith sun and moon, with earth and sea's rich gems,\nWhere I may not remove nor be removed.\nBut if the while I think on thee, dear friend,\nThen happy I, that love and am beloved\nAs, thou being mine, mine is thy good report.\nWhen sparkling stars twire not thou gild'st the even.\nSo thou through windows of thine age shall see\nNor can I fortune to brief minutes tell,\nO, let my books be then the eloquence\nThou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother.\nLifts up his burning head, each under eye\nThe eyes, 'fore duteous, now converted are\nShe carved thee for her seal, and meant thereby\nNo more be grieved at that which thou hast done:\nThis wish I have; then ten times happy me!\nMake war upon this bloody tyrant, Time?\nThe world will wail thee, like a makeless wife;\nA man in hue, all 'hues' in his controlling,\nWho lets so fair a house fall to decay,\nOf plagues, of dearths, or seasons' quality;\nAuthorizing thy trespass with compare,\nWithout thy help by me be borne alone.\n",
"role": "user"
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1371,
491,
592,
367,
9820,
484,
7432,
29889,
518,
29914,
25580,
29962
] |
860 | 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:
Clouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun,
The world will wail thee, like a makeless wife;
Sweets with sweets war not, joy delights in joy.
Thou shouldst print more, not let that copy die.
Thy bosom is endeared with all hearts,
And see thy blood warm when thou feel'st it cold.
That use is not forbidden usury,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
You had a father: let your son say so.
| [
{
"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:\nClouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun,\nThe world will wail thee, like a makeless wife;\nSweets with sweets war not, joy delights in joy.\nThou shouldst print more, not let that copy die.\nThy bosom is endeared with all hearts,\nAnd see thy blood warm when thou feel'st it cold.\nThat use is not forbidden usury,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nYou had a father: let your son say so.\n",
"role": "user"
}
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] |
861 | 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:
Pointing to each his thunder, rain and wind,
When I consider every thing that grows
Full many a glorious morning have I seen
O, then vouchsafe me but this loving thought:
Holds in perfection but a little moment,
Exceeded by the height of happier men.
Making a couplement of proud compare,
Haply I think on thee, and then my state,
And look upon myself and curse my fate,
Then, were not summer's distillation left,
Ten times thyself were happier than thou art,
When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,
Leese but their show; their substance still lives sweet.
For all that beauty that doth cover thee
Makes black night beauteous and her old face new.
More than that tongue that more hath more express'd.
The one by toil, the other to complain
Yourself again after yourself's decease,
In thy soul's thought, all naked, will bestow it;
Desiring this man's art and that man's scope,
Do in consent shake hands to torture me;
When that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover,
They draw but what they see, know not the heart.
So thou, thyself out-going in thy noon,
That I an accessary needs must be
That thou no form of thee hast left behind,
And from the forlorn world his visage hide,
Now is the time that face should form another;
Music to hear, why hear'st thou music sadly?
Thou of thyself thy sweet self dost deceive.
Be scorn'd like old men of less truth than tongue,
Though in our lives a separable spite,
Devouring Time, blunt thou the lion's paws,
Who will believe my verse in time to come,
But as the riper should by time decease,
| [
{
"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:\nPointing to each his thunder, rain and wind,\nWhen I consider every thing that grows\nFull many a glorious morning have I seen\nO, then vouchsafe me but this loving thought:\nHolds in perfection but a little moment,\nExceeded by the height of happier men.\nMaking a couplement of proud compare,\nHaply I think on thee, and then my state,\nAnd look upon myself and curse my fate,\nThen, were not summer's distillation left,\nTen times thyself were happier than thou art,\nWhen, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,\nLeese but their show; their substance still lives sweet.\nFor all that beauty that doth cover thee\nMakes black night beauteous and her old face new.\nMore than that tongue that more hath more express'd.\nThe one by toil, the other to complain\nYourself again after yourself's decease,\nIn thy soul's thought, all naked, will bestow it;\nDesiring this man's art and that man's scope,\nDo in consent shake hands to torture me;\nWhen that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover,\nThey draw but what they see, know not the heart.\nSo thou, thyself out-going in thy noon,\nThat I an accessary needs must be\nThat thou no form of thee hast left behind,\nAnd from the forlorn world his visage hide,\nNow is the time that face should form another;\nMusic to hear, why hear'st thou music sadly?\nThou of thyself thy sweet self dost deceive.\nBe scorn'd like old men of less truth than tongue,\nThough in our lives a separable spite,\nDevouring Time, blunt thou the lion's paws,\nWho will believe my verse in time to come,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\n",
"role": "user"
}
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] |
862 | 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 interest of the dead, which now appear
And shalt by fortune once more re-survey
And every fair with his fair doth rehearse
Then, were not summer's distillation left,
With what I most enjoy contented least;
Against the stormy gusts of winter's day
Who for thyself art so unprovident.
Excusing thy sins more than thy sins are;
Whereon the stars in secret influence comment;
| [
{
"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 interest of the dead, which now appear\nAnd shalt by fortune once more re-survey\nAnd every fair with his fair doth rehearse\nThen, were not summer's distillation left,\nWith what I most enjoy contented least;\nAgainst the stormy gusts of winter's day\nWho for thyself art so unprovident.\nExcusing thy sins more than thy sins are;\nWhereon the stars in secret influence comment;\n",
"role": "user"
}
] | [
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521,
2271,
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2136,
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] |
863 | 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:
Entitled in thy parts do crowned sit,
And by a part of all thy glory live.
No more be grieved at that which thou hast done:
An eye more bright than theirs, less false in rolling,
But if thou live, remember'd not to be,
For precious friends hid in death's dateless night,
And yet methinks I have astronomy,
Full many a glorious morning have I seen
Hung with the trophies of my lovers gone,
Where all the treasure of thy lusty days,
Which in thy breast doth live, as thine in me:
And summer's lease hath all too short a date:
Yet, do thy worst, old Time: despite thy wrong,
Beauty o'ersnow'd and bareness every where:
Unlook'd for joy in that I honour most.
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Cheered and cheque'd even by the self-same sky,
Is it for fear to wet a widow's eye
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
I summon up remembrance of things past,
Suns of the world may stain when heaven's sun staineth.
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:\nEntitled in thy parts do crowned sit,\nAnd by a part of all thy glory live.\nNo more be grieved at that which thou hast done:\nAn eye more bright than theirs, less false in rolling,\nBut if thou live, remember'd not to be,\nFor precious friends hid in death's dateless night,\nAnd yet methinks I have astronomy,\nFull many a glorious morning have I seen\nHung with the trophies of my lovers gone,\nWhere all the treasure of thy lusty days,\nWhich in thy breast doth live, as thine in me:\nAnd summer's lease hath all too short a date:\nYet, do thy worst, old Time: despite thy wrong,\nBeauty o'ersnow'd and bareness every where:\nUnlook'd for joy in that I honour most.\nThou art more lovely and more temperate:\nCheered and cheque'd even by the self-same sky,\nIs it for fear to wet a widow's eye\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nI summon up remembrance of things past,\nSuns of the world may stain when heaven's sun staineth.\nMay make seem bare, in wanting words to show it,\n",
"role": "user"
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] |
864 | 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:
Like to the lark at break of day arising
Cheered and cheque'd even by the self-same sky,
And night doth nightly make grief's strength seem stronger.
From his low tract and look another way:
| [
{
"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:\nLike to the lark at break of day arising\nCheered and cheque'd even by the self-same sky,\nAnd night doth nightly make grief's strength seem stronger.\nFrom his low tract and look another way:\n",
"role": "user"
}
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322,
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982,
29901,
518,
29914,
25580,
29962
] |
865 | 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 use is not forbidden usury,
Beauty's effect with beauty were bereft,
Attending on his golden pilgrimage;
Nature's bequest gives nothing but doth lend,
Even so my sun one early morn did shine
Such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces.'
Find no determination: then you were
And make the earth devour her own sweet brood;
And that unfair which fairly doth excel:
And yet methinks I have astronomy,
That hath his windows glazed with thine eyes.
With sun and moon, with earth and sea's rich gems,
Yourself again after yourself's decease,
How can I then return in happy plight,
Theirs for their style I'll read, his for his love.'
And they are rich and ransom all ill deeds.
Then, beauteous niggard, why dost thou abuse
Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed,
The age to come would say 'This poet lies:
Which I new pay as if not paid before.
For to thy sensual fault I bring in sense--
They draw but what they see, know not the heart.
And all those friends which I thought buried.
The offender's sorrow lends but weak relief
Proving his beauty by succession thine!
When every private widow well may keep
Were an all-eating shame and thriftless praise.
Entitled in thy parts do crowned sit,
To hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit.
You had a father: let your son say so.
When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,
Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
An eye more bright than theirs, less false in rolling,
| [
{
"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 use is not forbidden usury,\nBeauty's effect with beauty were bereft,\nAttending on his golden pilgrimage;\nNature's bequest gives nothing but doth lend,\nEven so my sun one early morn did shine\nSuch heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces.'\nFind no determination: then you were\nAnd make the earth devour her own sweet brood;\nAnd that unfair which fairly doth excel:\nAnd yet methinks I have astronomy,\nThat hath his windows glazed with thine eyes.\nWith sun and moon, with earth and sea's rich gems,\nYourself again after yourself's decease,\nHow can I then return in happy plight,\nTheirs for their style I'll read, his for his love.'\nAnd they are rich and ransom all ill deeds.\nThen, beauteous niggard, why dost thou abuse\nWeary with toil, I haste me to my bed,\nThe age to come would say 'This poet lies:\nWhich I new pay as if not paid before.\nFor to thy sensual fault I bring in sense--\nThey draw but what they see, know not the heart.\nAnd all those friends which I thought buried.\nThe offender's sorrow lends but weak relief\nProving his beauty by succession thine!\nWhen every private widow well may keep\nWere an all-eating shame and thriftless praise.\nEntitled in thy parts do crowned sit,\nTo hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit.\nYou had a father: let your son say so.\nWhen, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nAn eye more bright than theirs, less false in rolling,\n",
"role": "user"
}
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] |
866 | 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 keep my drooping eyelids open wide,
Then may I dare to boast how I do love thee;
Seeking that beauteous roof to ruinate
With means more blessed than my barren rhyme?
The lovely gaze where every eye doth dwell,
For no man well of such a salve can speak
Thou mayst call thine when thou from youth convertest.
By adding one thing to my purpose nothing.
Which erst from heat did canopy the herd,
Pluck the keen teeth from the fierce tiger's jaws,
Is it for fear to wet a widow's eye
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Suns of the world may stain when heaven's sun staineth.
That this huge stage presenteth nought but shows
Mark how one string, sweet husband to another,
When I behold the violet past prime,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
In our two loves there is but one respect,
As he takes from you, I engraft you new.
Or to thyself at least kind-hearted prove:
Which I new pay as if not paid before.
Till then not show my head where thou mayst prove me.
Thou mayst call thine when thou from youth convertest.
For where is she so fair whose unear'd womb
Entitled in thy parts do crowned sit,
To be death's conquest and make worms thine heir.
What acceptable audit canst thou leave?
Devouring Time, blunt thou the lion's paws,
Compare them with the bettering of the time,
For thou art so possess'd with murderous hate
And yet methinks I have astronomy,
And do whate'er thou wilt, swift-footed Time,
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell,
Thou art the grave where buried love doth live,
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
| [
{
"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 keep my drooping eyelids open wide,\nThen may I dare to boast how I do love thee;\nSeeking that beauteous roof to ruinate\nWith means more blessed than my barren rhyme?\nThe lovely gaze where every eye doth dwell,\nFor no man well of such a salve can speak\nThou mayst call thine when thou from youth convertest.\nBy adding one thing to my purpose nothing.\nWhich erst from heat did canopy the herd,\nPluck the keen teeth from the fierce tiger's jaws,\nIs it for fear to wet a widow's eye\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nSuns of the world may stain when heaven's sun staineth.\nThat this huge stage presenteth nought but shows\nMark how one string, sweet husband to another,\nWhen I behold the violet past prime,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nIn our two loves there is but one respect,\nAs he takes from you, I engraft you new.\nOr to thyself at least kind-hearted prove:\nWhich I new pay as if not paid before.\nTill then not show my head where thou mayst prove me.\nThou mayst call thine when thou from youth convertest.\nFor where is she so fair whose unear'd womb\nEntitled in thy parts do crowned sit,\nTo be death's conquest and make worms thine heir.\nWhat acceptable audit canst thou leave?\nDevouring Time, blunt thou the lion's paws,\nCompare them with the bettering of the time,\nFor thou art so possess'd with murderous hate\nAnd yet methinks I have astronomy,\nAnd do whate'er thou wilt, swift-footed Time,\nSometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,\nNor can I fortune to brief minutes tell,\nThou art the grave where buried love doth live,\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\n",
"role": "user"
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] |
867 | 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 adverse party is thy advocate--
Leaving thee living in posterity?
Full many a glorious morning have I seen
And your sweet semblance to some other give.
Looking on darkness which the blind do see
Resembling sire and child and happy mother
Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
Authorizing thy trespass with compare,
| [
{
"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 adverse party is thy advocate--\nLeaving thee living in posterity?\nFull many a glorious morning have I seen\nAnd your sweet semblance to some other give.\nLooking on darkness which the blind do see\nResembling sire and child and happy mother\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nAuthorizing thy trespass with compare,\n",
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] |
868 | 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:
Be scorn'd like old men of less truth than tongue,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
Lifts up his burning head, each under eye
Seeking that beauteous roof to ruinate
To thee I send this written embassage,
But since he died and poets better prove,
Herein lives wisdom, beauty and increase:
And in themselves their pride lies buried,
To work my mind, when body's work's expired:
To find where your true image pictured lies;
Herein lives wisdom, beauty and increase:
And then believe me, my love is as fair
Though in our lives a separable spite,
Against this coming end you should prepare,
To change your day of youth to sullied night;
When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
Holds in perfection but a little moment,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Hung with the trophies of my lovers gone,
Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,
And by a part of all thy glory live.
For thou art so possess'd with murderous hate
That use is not forbidden usury,
For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings
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:\nBe scorn'd like old men of less truth than tongue,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nLifts up his burning head, each under eye\nSeeking that beauteous roof to ruinate\nTo thee I send this written embassage,\nBut since he died and poets better prove,\nHerein lives wisdom, beauty and increase:\nAnd in themselves their pride lies buried,\nTo work my mind, when body's work's expired:\nTo find where your true image pictured lies;\nHerein lives wisdom, beauty and increase:\nAnd then believe me, my love is as fair\nThough in our lives a separable spite,\nAgainst this coming end you should prepare,\nTo change your day of youth to sullied night;\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nHolds in perfection but a little moment,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nHung with the trophies of my lovers gone,\nNor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,\nAnd by a part of all thy glory live.\nFor thou art so possess'd with murderous hate\nThat use is not forbidden usury,\nFor thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings\nDelights to peep, to gaze therein on thee;\n",
"role": "user"
}
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29962
] |
869 | 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:
Bearing thy heart, which I will keep so chary
The world will be thy widow and still weep
Or to thyself at least kind-hearted prove:
Whilst that this shadow doth such substance give
Which hides your life and shows not half your parts.
Thou shouldst print more, not let that copy die.
In our two loves there is but one respect,
And look upon myself and curse my fate,
So flatter I the swart-complexion'd night,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
Presume not on thy heart when mine is slain;
When every private widow well may keep
For to thy sensual fault I bring in sense--
Devouring Time, blunt thou the lion's paws,
Who plead for love and look for recompense
But wherefore do not you a mightier way
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Let those who are in favour with their stars
To dry the rain on my storm-beaten face,
Which I new pay as if not paid before.
With April's first-born flowers, and all things rare
Shall hate be fairer lodged than gentle love?
By unions married, do offend thine ear,
Such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces.'
Thou art thy mother's glass, and she in thee
But flowers distill'd though they with winter meet,
As interest of the dead, which now appear
Though thou repent, yet I have still the loss:
With what I most enjoy contented least;
I all alone beweep my outcast state
And you must live, drawn by your own sweet skill.
| [
{
"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:\nBearing thy heart, which I will keep so chary\nThe world will be thy widow and still weep\nOr to thyself at least kind-hearted prove:\nWhilst that this shadow doth such substance give\nWhich hides your life and shows not half your parts.\nThou shouldst print more, not let that copy die.\nIn our two loves there is but one respect,\nAnd look upon myself and curse my fate,\nSo flatter I the swart-complexion'd night,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nPresume not on thy heart when mine is slain;\nWhen every private widow well may keep\nFor to thy sensual fault I bring in sense--\nDevouring Time, blunt thou the lion's paws,\nWho plead for love and look for recompense\nBut wherefore do not you a mightier way\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nLet those who are in favour with their stars\nTo dry the rain on my storm-beaten face,\nWhich I new pay as if not paid before.\nWith April's first-born flowers, and all things rare\nShall hate be fairer lodged than gentle love?\nBy unions married, do offend thine ear,\nSuch heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces.'\nThou art thy mother's glass, and she in thee\nBut flowers distill'd though they with winter meet,\nAs interest of the dead, which now appear\nThough thou repent, yet I have still the loss:\nWith what I most enjoy contented least;\nI all alone beweep my outcast state\nAnd you must live, drawn by your own sweet skill.\n",
"role": "user"
}
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] |
870 | 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
Without this, folly, age and cold decay:
Lo! thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind,
Sweets with sweets war not, joy delights in joy.
Leese but their show; their substance still lives sweet.
Calls back the lovely April of her prime:
In our two loves there is but one respect,
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
And stretched metre of an antique song:
Making a famine where abundance lies,
After a thousand victories once foil'd,
By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd;
Yet him for this my love no whit disdaineth;
But day doth daily draw my sorrows longer
Presents thy shadow to my sightless view,
To see his active child do deeds of youth,
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:\nOr who is he so fond will be the tomb\nWithout this, folly, age and cold decay:\nLo! thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind,\nSweets with sweets war not, joy delights in joy.\nLeese but their show; their substance still lives sweet.\nCalls back the lovely April of her prime:\nIn our two loves there is but one respect,\nAnd every fair from fair sometime declines,\nAnd stretched metre of an antique song:\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nAfter a thousand victories once foil'd,\nBy chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd;\nYet him for this my love no whit disdaineth;\nBut day doth daily draw my sorrows longer\nPresents thy shadow to my sightless view,\nTo see his active child do deeds of youth,\nDevouring Time, blunt thou the lion's paws,\n",
"role": "user"
}
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] |
871 | 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:
Now stand you on the top of happy hours,
Seeking that beauteous roof to ruinate
Or say with princes if it shall go well,
Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed,
O, learn to read what silent love hath writ:
Exceeded by the height of happier men.
Profitless usurer, why dost thou use
All losses are restored and sorrows end.
Take all my comfort of thy worth and truth.
Unlook'd for joy in that I honour most.
Or to thyself at least kind-hearted prove:
Of public honour and proud titles boast,
Flatter the mountain-tops with sovereign eye,
Will play the tyrants to the very same
To see his active child do deeds of youth,
Till then not show my head where thou mayst prove me.
But things removed that hidden in thee lie!
| [
{
"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:\nNow stand you on the top of happy hours,\nSeeking that beauteous roof to ruinate\nOr say with princes if it shall go well,\nWeary with toil, I haste me to my bed,\nO, learn to read what silent love hath writ:\nExceeded by the height of happier men.\nProfitless usurer, why dost thou use\nAll losses are restored and sorrows end.\nTake all my comfort of thy worth and truth.\nUnlook'd for joy in that I honour most.\nOr to thyself at least kind-hearted prove:\nOf public honour and proud titles boast,\nFlatter the mountain-tops with sovereign eye,\nWill play the tyrants to the very same\nTo see his active child do deeds of youth,\nTill then not show my head where thou mayst prove me.\nBut things removed that hidden in thee lie!\n",
"role": "user"
}
] | [
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3804,
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518,
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25580,
29962
] |
872 | 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:
Sweets with sweets war not, joy delights in joy.
Hath dear religious love stol'n from mine eye
Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy;
And in themselves their pride lies buried,
Duty so great, which wit so poor as mine
With shifting change, as is false women's fashion;
And keep my drooping eyelids open wide,
Vaunt in their youthful sap, at height decrease,
Mine be thy love and thy love's use their treasure.
Now stand you on the top of happy hours,
| [
{
"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:\nSweets with sweets war not, joy delights in joy.\nHath dear religious love stol'n from mine eye\nGilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy;\nAnd in themselves their pride lies buried,\nDuty so great, which wit so poor as mine\nWith shifting change, as is false women's fashion;\nAnd keep my drooping eyelids open wide,\nVaunt in their youthful sap, at height decrease,\nMine be thy love and thy love's use their treasure.\nNow stand you on the top of happy hours,\n",
"role": "user"
}
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] |
873 | 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:
Strikes each in each by mutual ordering,
They do but sweetly chide thee, who confounds
Then, were not summer's distillation left,
Hiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke?
Suns of the world may stain when heaven's sun staineth.
As, thou being mine, mine is thy good report.
Which hides your life and shows not half your parts.
All losses are restored and sorrows end.
And weep afresh love's long since cancell'd woe,
Let those who are in favour with their stars
As tender nurse her babe from faring ill.
To give away yourself keeps yourself still,
Lest my bewailed guilt should do thee shame,
By unions married, do offend thine ear,
To witness duty, not to show my wit:
And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste:
O' let me, true in love, but truly write,
And yet methinks I have astronomy,
No love toward others in that bosom sits
So long lives this and this gives life to thee.
To find where your true image pictured lies;
Great princes' favourites their fair leaves spread
Since sweets and beauties do themselves forsake
For at a frown they in their glory die.
Calls back the lovely April of her prime:
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:\nStrikes each in each by mutual ordering,\nThey do but sweetly chide thee, who confounds\nThen, were not summer's distillation left,\nHiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke?\nSuns of the world may stain when heaven's sun staineth.\nAs, thou being mine, mine is thy good report.\nWhich hides your life and shows not half your parts.\nAll losses are restored and sorrows end.\nAnd weep afresh love's long since cancell'd woe,\nLet those who are in favour with their stars\nAs tender nurse her babe from faring ill.\nTo give away yourself keeps yourself still,\nLest my bewailed guilt should do thee shame,\nBy unions married, do offend thine ear,\nTo witness duty, not to show my wit:\nAnd with old woes new wail my dear time's waste:\nO' let me, true in love, but truly write,\nAnd yet methinks I have astronomy,\nNo love toward others in that bosom sits\nSo long lives this and this gives life to thee.\nTo find where your true image pictured lies;\nGreat princes' favourites their fair leaves spread\nSince sweets and beauties do themselves forsake\nFor at a frown they in their glory die.\nCalls back the lovely April of her prime:\nNor draw no lines there with thine antique pen;\n",
"role": "user"
}
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3677,
1387,
6584,
29936,
518,
29914,
25580,
29962
] |
874 | 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--
Duty so great, which wit so poor as mine
Unlook'd on diest, unless thou get a son.
But flowers distill'd though they with winter meet,
Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell,
Whilst that this shadow doth such substance give
So flatter I the swart-complexion'd night,
So flatter I the swart-complexion'd night,
For never-resting time leads summer on
But do not so; I love thee in such sort
Which in thy breast doth live, as thine in me:
Die single, and thine image dies with thee.
Anon permit the basest clouds to ride
In thy soul's thought, all naked, will bestow it;
And by addition me of thee defeated,
And shalt by fortune once more re-survey
If I could write the beauty of your eyes
Ah! if thou issueless shalt hap to die.
And make the earth devour her own sweet brood;
Serving with looks his sacred majesty;
| [
{
"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--\nDuty so great, which wit so poor as mine\nUnlook'd on diest, unless thou get a son.\nBut flowers distill'd though they with winter meet,\nNor can I fortune to brief minutes tell,\nWhilst that this shadow doth such substance give\nSo flatter I the swart-complexion'd night,\nSo flatter I the swart-complexion'd night,\nFor never-resting time leads summer on\nBut do not so; I love thee in such sort\nWhich in thy breast doth live, as thine in me:\nDie single, and thine image dies with thee.\nAnon permit the basest clouds to ride\nIn thy soul's thought, all naked, will bestow it;\nAnd by addition me of thee defeated,\nAnd shalt by fortune once more re-survey\nIf I could write the beauty of your eyes\nAh! if thou issueless shalt hap to die.\nAnd make the earth devour her own sweet brood;\nServing with looks his sacred majesty;\n",
"role": "user"
}
] | [
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] |
875 | 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 am debarr'd the benefit of rest?
But since she prick'd thee out for women's pleasure,
To dry the rain on my storm-beaten face,
And from the forlorn world his visage hide,
For through the painter must you see his skill,
In our two loves there is but one respect,
Is it for fear to wet a widow's eye
The region cloud hath mask'd him from me now.
The world will wail thee, like a makeless wife;
Look, what an unthrift in the world doth spend
Mark how one string, sweet husband to another,
The painful warrior famoused for fight,
O'ercharged with burden of mine own love's might.
Thy end is truth's and beauty's doom and date.
To dry the rain on my storm-beaten face,
And you must live, drawn by your own sweet skill.
Anon permit the basest clouds to ride
So should that beauty which you hold in lease
To change your day of youth to sullied night;
O, then vouchsafe me but this loving thought:
Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Resembling strong youth in his middle age,
Unthrifty loveliness, why dost thou spend
| [
{
"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 am debarr'd the benefit of rest?\nBut since she prick'd thee out for women's pleasure,\nTo dry the rain on my storm-beaten face,\nAnd from the forlorn world his visage hide,\nFor through the painter must you see his skill,\nIn our two loves there is but one respect,\nIs it for fear to wet a widow's eye\nThe region cloud hath mask'd him from me now.\nThe world will wail thee, like a makeless wife;\nLook, what an unthrift in the world doth spend\nMark how one string, sweet husband to another,\nThe painful warrior famoused for fight,\nO'ercharged with burden of mine own love's might.\nThy end is truth's and beauty's doom and date.\nTo dry the rain on my storm-beaten face,\nAnd you must live, drawn by your own sweet skill.\nAnon permit the basest clouds to ride\nSo should that beauty which you hold in lease\nTo change your day of youth to sullied night;\nO, then vouchsafe me but this loving thought:\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nResembling strong youth in his middle age,\nUnthrifty loveliness, why dost thou spend\n",
"role": "user"
}
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295,
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2020,
27113,
12595,
18864,
518,
29914,
25580,
29962
] |
876 | 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 out, alack! he was but one hour mine;
Roses have thorns, and silver fountains mud;
A man in hue, all 'hues' in his controlling,
When your sweet issue your sweet form should bear.
Then how, when nature calls thee to be gone,
Calls back the lovely April of her prime:
Which I by lacking have supposed dead,
Lo! in the orient when the gracious light
Much steals men's eyes and women's souls amazeth.
How many a holy and obsequious tear
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:\nBut out, alack! he was but one hour mine;\nRoses have thorns, and silver fountains mud;\nA man in hue, all 'hues' in his controlling,\nWhen your sweet issue your sweet form should bear.\nThen how, when nature calls thee to be gone,\nCalls back the lovely April of her prime:\nWhich I by lacking have supposed dead,\nLo! in the orient when the gracious light\nMuch steals men's eyes and women's souls amazeth.\nHow many a holy and obsequious tear\nIf it were fill'd with your most high deserts?\n",
"role": "user"
}
] | [
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29881,
411,
596,
1556,
1880,
18197,
29879,
29973,
518,
29914,
25580,
29962
] |
877 | 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?
So long lives this and this gives life to thee.
With beauty's treasure, ere it be self-kill'd.
Stirr'd by a painted beauty to his verse,
And nothing 'gainst Time's scythe can make defence
By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd;
Bearing thy heart, which I will keep so chary
Kissing with golden face the meadows green,
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.
That thou no form of thee hast left behind,
So long lives this and this gives life to thee.
Resembling sire and child and happy mother
Much liker than your painted counterfeit:
And in fresh numbers number all your graces,
Whose fresh repair if now thou not renewest,
If all were minded so, the times should cease
For precious friends hid in death's dateless night,
And all those friends which I thought buried.
That beauty still may live in thine or thee.
When in eternal lines to time thou growest:
And though they be outstripp'd by every pen,
And dumb presagers of my speaking breast,
But if thou live, remember'd not to be,
Thou art the grave where buried love doth live,
The perfect ceremony of love's rite,
And your true rights be term'd a poet's rage
Such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces.'
The bounteous largess given thee to give?
Is it for fear to wet a widow's eye
Till whatsoever star that guides my moving
The bounteous largess given thee to give?
So I, for fear of trust, forget to say
Devouring Time, blunt thou the lion's paws,
And all the rest forgot for which he toil'd:
To hideous winter and confounds him there;
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:\nBut day by night, and night by day, oppress'd?\nSo long lives this and this gives life to thee.\nWith beauty's treasure, ere it be self-kill'd.\nStirr'd by a painted beauty to his verse,\nAnd nothing 'gainst Time's scythe can make defence\nBy chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd;\nBearing thy heart, which I will keep so chary\nKissing with golden face the meadows green,\nThat then I scorn to change my state with kings.\nThat thou no form of thee hast left behind,\nSo long lives this and this gives life to thee.\nResembling sire and child and happy mother\nMuch liker than your painted counterfeit:\nAnd in fresh numbers number all your graces,\nWhose fresh repair if now thou not renewest,\nIf all were minded so, the times should cease\nFor precious friends hid in death's dateless night,\nAnd all those friends which I thought buried.\nThat beauty still may live in thine or thee.\nWhen in eternal lines to time thou growest:\nAnd though they be outstripp'd by every pen,\nAnd dumb presagers of my speaking breast,\nBut if thou live, remember'd not to be,\nThou art the grave where buried love doth live,\nThe perfect ceremony of love's rite,\nAnd your true rights be term'd a poet's rage\nSuch heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces.'\nThe bounteous largess given thee to give?\nIs it for fear to wet a widow's eye\nTill whatsoever star that guides my moving\nThe bounteous largess given thee to give?\nSo I, for fear of trust, forget to say\nDevouring Time, blunt thou the lion's paws,\nAnd all the rest forgot for which he toil'd:\nTo hideous winter and confounds him there;\nWhich hides your life and shows not half your parts.\n",
"role": "user"
}
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] |
878 | 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 through the painter must you see his skill,
In our two loves there is but one respect,
Presents thy shadow to my sightless view,
They do but sweetly chide thee, who confounds
An eye more bright than theirs, less false in rolling,
As a decrepit father takes delight
But if thou live, remember'd not to be,
Which happies those that pay the willing loan;
Now see what good turns eyes for eyes have done:
And weep afresh love's long since cancell'd woe,
If thou couldst answer 'This fair child of mine
But beauty's waste hath in the world an end,
Haply I think on thee, and then my state,
Save that my soul's imaginary sight
But then begins a journey in my head,
O, therefore, love, be of thyself so wary
Cheered and cheque'd even by the self-same sky,
Nature's bequest gives nothing but doth lend,
And trouble deal heaven with my bootless cries
My glass shall not persuade me I am old,
For then my thoughts, from far where I abide,
Attending on his golden pilgrimage;
| [
{
"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 through the painter must you see his skill,\nIn our two loves there is but one respect,\nPresents thy shadow to my sightless view,\nThey do but sweetly chide thee, who confounds\nAn eye more bright than theirs, less false in rolling,\nAs a decrepit father takes delight\nBut if thou live, remember'd not to be,\nWhich happies those that pay the willing loan;\nNow see what good turns eyes for eyes have done:\nAnd weep afresh love's long since cancell'd woe,\nIf thou couldst answer 'This fair child of mine\nBut beauty's waste hath in the world an end,\nHaply I think on thee, and then my state,\nSave that my soul's imaginary sight\nBut then begins a journey in my head,\nO, therefore, love, be of thyself so wary\nCheered and cheque'd even by the self-same sky,\nNature's bequest gives nothing but doth lend,\nAnd trouble deal heaven with my bootless cries\nMy glass shall not persuade me I am old,\nFor then my thoughts, from far where I abide,\nAttending on his golden pilgrimage;\n",
"role": "user"
}
] | [
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393,
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363,
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505,
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591,
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508,
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281,
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373,
670,
22843,
8230,
629,
3027,
29936,
518,
29914,
25580,
29962
] |
879 | 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 though it alter not love's sole effect,
Now is the time that face should form another;
Who plead for love and look for recompense
Be scorn'd like old men of less truth than tongue,
They draw but what they see, know not the heart.
That heaven's air in this huge rondure hems.
I all alone beweep my outcast state
For having traffic with thyself alone,
Herein lives wisdom, beauty and increase:
To march in ranks of better equipage:
Do in consent shake hands to torture me;
Yet, do thy worst, old Time: despite thy wrong,
But out, alack! he was but one hour mine;
And yet methinks I have astronomy,
To let base clouds o'ertake me in my way,
Ah! but those tears are pearl which thy love sheds,
| [
{
"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 though it alter not love's sole effect,\nNow is the time that face should form another;\nWho plead for love and look for recompense\nBe scorn'd like old men of less truth than tongue,\nThey draw but what they see, know not the heart.\nThat heaven's air in this huge rondure hems.\nI all alone beweep my outcast state\nFor having traffic with thyself alone,\nHerein lives wisdom, beauty and increase:\nTo march in ranks of better equipage:\nDo in consent shake hands to torture me;\nYet, do thy worst, old Time: despite thy wrong,\nBut out, alack! he was but one hour mine;\nAnd yet methinks I have astronomy,\nTo let base clouds o'ertake me in my way,\nAh! but those tears are pearl which thy love sheds,\n",
"role": "user"
}
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] |
880 | 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 to repair should be thy chief desire.
Herein lives wisdom, beauty and increase:
Grant, if thou wilt, thou art beloved of many,
Hung with the trophies of my lovers gone,
Whilst that this shadow doth such substance give
Nor thou with public kindness honour me,
All men make faults, and even I in this,
When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,
Let me confess that we two must be twain,
Or who is he so fond will be the tomb
Clouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun,
You should live twice; in it and in my rhyme.
As interest of the dead, which now appear
For shame! deny that thou bear'st love to any,
| [
{
"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 to repair should be thy chief desire.\nHerein lives wisdom, beauty and increase:\nGrant, if thou wilt, thou art beloved of many,\nHung with the trophies of my lovers gone,\nWhilst that this shadow doth such substance give\nNor thou with public kindness honour me,\nAll men make faults, and even I in this,\nWhen, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,\nLet me confess that we two must be twain,\nOr who is he so fond will be the tomb\nClouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun,\nYou should live twice; in it and in my rhyme.\nAs interest of the dead, which now appear\nFor shame! deny that thou bear'st love to any,\n",
"role": "user"
}
] | [
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5360,
304,
738,
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518,
29914,
25580,
29962
] |
881 | 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:
Pointing to each his thunder, rain and wind,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
Reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
Pointing to each his thunder, rain and wind,
Nor draw no lines there with thine antique pen;
But since he died and poets better prove,
You should live twice; in it and in my rhyme.
If thou survive my well-contented 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:\nPointing to each his thunder, rain and wind,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nReserve them for my love, not for their rhyme,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nSo long as men can breathe or eyes can see,\nPointing to each his thunder, rain and wind,\nNor draw no lines there with thine antique pen;\nBut since he died and poets better prove,\nYou should live twice; in it and in my rhyme.\nIf thou survive my well-contented day,\n",
"role": "user"
}
] | [
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518,
29914,
25580,
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] |
882 | 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 themselves their pride lies buried,
So flatter I the swart-complexion'd night,
My body is the frame wherein 'tis held,
And burn the long-lived phoenix in her blood;
And all the rest forgot for which he toil'd:
And having climb'd the steep-up heavenly hill,
For all that beauty that doth cover thee
So thou, thyself out-going in thy noon,
Despite of wrinkles this thy golden time.
How far I toil, still farther off from thee.
Be not self-will'd, for thou art much too fair
Shall sum my count and make my old excuse,'
For beauty's pattern to succeeding men.
These poor rude lines of thy deceased lover,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date:
Which to repair should be thy chief desire.
And all in war with Time for love of you,
How much more praise deserved thy beauty's use,
Let me confess that we two must be twain,
O, let my books be then the eloquence
That heaven's air in this huge rondure hems.
And that unfair which fairly doth excel:
How many a holy and obsequious tear
Like feeble age, he reeleth from the day,
When every private widow well may keep
Exceeded by the height of happier men.
Which, like a jewel hung in ghastly night,
Lo! in the orient when the gracious light
And by a part of all thy glory live.
When I do count the clock that tells the time,
The dear repose for limbs with travel tired;
For then my thoughts, from far where I abide,
When I do count the clock that tells the time,
Looking on darkness which the blind do 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:\nAnd in themselves their pride lies buried,\nSo flatter I the swart-complexion'd night,\nMy body is the frame wherein 'tis held,\nAnd burn the long-lived phoenix in her blood;\nAnd all the rest forgot for which he toil'd:\nAnd having climb'd the steep-up heavenly hill,\nFor all that beauty that doth cover thee\nSo thou, thyself out-going in thy noon,\nDespite of wrinkles this thy golden time.\nHow far I toil, still farther off from thee.\nBe not self-will'd, for thou art much too fair\nShall sum my count and make my old excuse,'\nFor beauty's pattern to succeeding men.\nThese poor rude lines of thy deceased lover,\nAnd summer's lease hath all too short a date:\nWhich to repair should be thy chief desire.\nAnd all in war with Time for love of you,\nHow much more praise deserved thy beauty's use,\nLet me confess that we two must be twain,\nO, let my books be then the eloquence\nThat heaven's air in this huge rondure hems.\nAnd that unfair which fairly doth excel:\nHow many a holy and obsequious tear\nLike feeble age, he reeleth from the day,\nWhen every private widow well may keep\nExceeded by the height of happier men.\nWhich, like a jewel hung in ghastly night,\nLo! in the orient when the gracious light\nAnd by a part of all thy glory live.\nWhen I do count the clock that tells the time,\nThe dear repose for limbs with travel tired;\nFor then my thoughts, from far where I abide,\nWhen I do count the clock that tells the time,\nLooking on darkness which the blind do see\n",
"role": "user"
}
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] |
883 | 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:
Shifts but his place, for still the world enjoys it;
All losses are restored and sorrows end.
Thy end is truth's and beauty's doom and date.
Who heaven itself for ornament doth use
Who with his fear is put besides his part,
To show me worthy of thy sweet respect:
Thou of thyself thy sweet self dost deceive.
And weep afresh love's long since cancell'd woe,
Flatter the mountain-tops with sovereign eye,
Which husbandry in honour might uphold
Devouring Time, blunt thou the lion's paws,
Till then not show my head where thou mayst prove me.
Take all my comfort of thy worth and truth.
And night doth nightly make grief's strength seem stronger.
Whose fresh repair if now thou not renewest,
Which in thy breast doth live, as thine in me:
Can make you live yourself in eyes of men.
Which to repair should be thy chief desire.
Sings this to thee: 'thou single wilt prove none.'
From his low tract and look another way:
That I an accessary needs must be
For at a frown they in their glory die.
Mine eyes have drawn thy shape, and thine for 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:\nShifts but his place, for still the world enjoys it;\nAll losses are restored and sorrows end.\nThy end is truth's and beauty's doom and date.\nWho heaven itself for ornament doth use\nWho with his fear is put besides his part,\nTo show me worthy of thy sweet respect:\nThou of thyself thy sweet self dost deceive.\nAnd weep afresh love's long since cancell'd woe,\nFlatter the mountain-tops with sovereign eye,\nWhich husbandry in honour might uphold\nDevouring Time, blunt thou the lion's paws,\nTill then not show my head where thou mayst prove me.\nTake all my comfort of thy worth and truth.\nAnd night doth nightly make grief's strength seem stronger.\nWhose fresh repair if now thou not renewest,\nWhich in thy breast doth live, as thine in me:\nCan make you live yourself in eyes of men.\nWhich to repair should be thy chief desire.\nSings this to thee: 'thou single wilt prove none.'\nFrom his low tract and look another way:\nThat I an accessary needs must be\nFor at a frown they in their glory die.\nMine eyes have drawn thy shape, and thine for me\n",
"role": "user"
}
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] |
884 | 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:
Clouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun,
If I could write the beauty of your eyes
'Tis not enough that through the cloud thou break,
For never-resting time leads summer on
For whether beauty, birth, or wealth, or wit,
Such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces.'
Whose strength's abundance weakens his own heart.
Then, were not summer's distillation left,
Of plagues, of dearths, or seasons' quality;
And sable curls all silver'd o'er with white;
As truth and beauty shall together thrive,
Although our undivided loves are one:
Or else of thee this I prognosticate:
O, carve not with thy hours my love's fair brow,
Then how, when nature calls thee to be gone,
When lofty trees I see barren of leaves
She carved thee for her seal, and meant thereby
Against the stormy gusts of winter's day
Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
This wish I have; then ten times happy me!
This were to be new made when thou art old,
Or else receivest with pleasure thine annoy?
So great a sum of sums, yet canst not live?
Exceeded by the height of happier men.
I tell the day, to please them thou art bright
Authorizing thy trespass with compare,
Look in thy glass, and tell the face thou viewest
Let those whom Nature hath not made for store,
That due of many now is thine alone:
As he takes from you, I engraft you new.
They do but sweetly chide thee, who confounds
When I perceive that men as plants increase,
Shall sum my count and make my old excuse,'
Suns of the world may stain when heaven's sun staineth.
Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother.
Sets you most rich in youth before my sight,
To show me worthy of thy sweet respect:
| [
{
"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:\nClouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun,\nIf I could write the beauty of your eyes\n'Tis not enough that through the cloud thou break,\nFor never-resting time leads summer on\nFor whether beauty, birth, or wealth, or wit,\nSuch heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces.'\nWhose strength's abundance weakens his own heart.\nThen, were not summer's distillation left,\nOf plagues, of dearths, or seasons' quality;\nAnd sable curls all silver'd o'er with white;\nAs truth and beauty shall together thrive,\nAlthough our undivided loves are one:\nOr else of thee this I prognosticate:\nO, carve not with thy hours my love's fair brow,\nThen how, when nature calls thee to be gone,\nWhen lofty trees I see barren of leaves\nShe carved thee for her seal, and meant thereby\nAgainst the stormy gusts of winter's day\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nThis wish I have; then ten times happy me!\nThis were to be new made when thou art old,\nOr else receivest with pleasure thine annoy?\nSo great a sum of sums, yet canst not live?\nExceeded by the height of happier men.\nI tell the day, to please them thou art bright\nAuthorizing thy trespass with compare,\nLook in thy glass, and tell the face thou viewest\nLet those whom Nature hath not made for store,\nThat due of many now is thine alone:\nAs he takes from you, I engraft you new.\nThey do but sweetly chide thee, who confounds\nWhen I perceive that men as plants increase,\nShall sum my count and make my old excuse,'\nSuns of the world may stain when heaven's sun staineth.\nThou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother.\nSets you most rich in youth before my sight,\nTo show me worthy of thy sweet respect:\n",
"role": "user"
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] |
885 | 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 loathsome canker lives in sweetest bud.
Beauty o'ersnow'd and bareness every where:
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And summer's green all girded up in sheaves
O'ercharged with burden of mine own love's might.
Be scorn'd like old men of less truth than tongue,
Unlook'd for joy in that I honour most.
Points on me graciously with fair aspect
So should my papers yellow'd with their age
To work my mind, when body's work's expired:
No more be grieved at that which thou hast done:
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy;
For thee and for myself no quiet find.
And that fresh blood which youngly thou bestowest
If from thyself to store thou wouldst convert;
Yourself again after yourself's decease,
Yet him for this my love no whit disdaineth;
Unlook'd on diest, unless thou get a son.
This were to be new made when thou art old,
And every fair with his fair doth rehearse
Or say with princes if it shall go well,
Nor can thy shame give physic to my grief;
Which, like a jewel hung in ghastly night,
I summon up remembrance of things past,
O, carve not with thy hours my love's fair brow,
| [
{
"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 loathsome canker lives in sweetest bud.\nBeauty o'ersnow'd and bareness every where:\nSometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,\nAnd summer's green all girded up in sheaves\nO'ercharged with burden of mine own love's might.\nBe scorn'd like old men of less truth than tongue,\nUnlook'd for joy in that I honour most.\nPoints on me graciously with fair aspect\nSo should my papers yellow'd with their age\nTo work my mind, when body's work's expired:\nNo more be grieved at that which thou hast done:\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nGilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy;\nFor thee and for myself no quiet find.\nAnd that fresh blood which youngly thou bestowest\nIf from thyself to store thou wouldst convert;\nYourself again after yourself's decease,\nYet him for this my love no whit disdaineth;\nUnlook'd on diest, unless thou get a son.\nThis were to be new made when thou art old,\nAnd every fair with his fair doth rehearse\nOr say with princes if it shall go well,\nNor can thy shame give physic to my grief;\nWhich, like a jewel hung in ghastly night,\nI summon up remembrance of things past,\nO, carve not with thy hours my love's fair brow,\n",
"role": "user"
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] |
886 | 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,
How far I toil, still farther off from thee.
Which though it alter not love's sole effect,
As any mother's child, though not so bright
For having traffic with thyself alone,
For no man well of such a salve can speak
So should the lines of life that life repair,
And each, though enemies to either's reign,
But then begins a journey in my head,
O, therefore, love, be of thyself so wary
A man in hue, all 'hues' in his controlling,
And loathsome canker lives in sweetest bud.
From his low tract and look another way:
But not to tell of good or evil luck,
Myself corrupting, salving thy amiss,
And your true rights be term'd a poet's rage
So long lives this and this gives life to thee.
Which I by lacking have supposed dead,
That thou no form of thee hast left behind,
| [
{
"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,\nHow far I toil, still farther off from thee.\nWhich though it alter not love's sole effect,\nAs any mother's child, though not so bright\nFor having traffic with thyself alone,\nFor no man well of such a salve can speak\nSo should the lines of life that life repair,\nAnd each, though enemies to either's reign,\nBut then begins a journey in my head,\nO, therefore, love, be of thyself so wary\nA man in hue, all 'hues' in his controlling,\nAnd loathsome canker lives in sweetest bud.\nFrom his low tract and look another way:\nBut not to tell of good or evil luck,\nMyself corrupting, salving thy amiss,\nAnd your true rights be term'd a poet's rage\nSo long lives this and this gives life to thee.\nWhich I by lacking have supposed dead,\nThat thou no form of thee hast left behind,\n",
"role": "user"
}
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] |
887 | 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 merit hath my duty strongly knit,
Who plead for love and look for recompense
Disdains the tillage of thy husbandry?
Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow,
Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy;
Looking on darkness which the blind do see
But when from highmost pitch, with weary car,
Lo! in the orient when the gracious light
All men make faults, and even I in this,
Seeking that beauteous roof to ruinate
The dear repose for limbs with travel tired;
And dumb presagers of my speaking breast,
Hath dear religious love stol'n from mine eye
Mark how one string, sweet husband to another,
From his low tract and look another way:
When I consider every thing that grows
To be death's conquest and make worms thine heir.
If all were minded so, the times should cease
Of public honour and proud titles boast,
Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,
When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
Anon permit the basest clouds to ride
Then happy I, that love and am beloved
All losses are restored and sorrows end.
Look in thy glass, and tell the face thou viewest
Thy beauty's form in table of my heart;
As truth and beauty shall together thrive,
For shame! deny that thou bear'st love to any,
And then believe me, my love is as fair
| [
{
"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 merit hath my duty strongly knit,\nWho plead for love and look for recompense\nDisdains the tillage of thy husbandry?\nThen can I drown an eye, unused to flow,\nGilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy;\nLooking on darkness which the blind do see\nBut when from highmost pitch, with weary car,\nLo! in the orient when the gracious light\nAll men make faults, and even I in this,\nSeeking that beauteous roof to ruinate\nThe dear repose for limbs with travel tired;\nAnd dumb presagers of my speaking breast,\nHath dear religious love stol'n from mine eye\nMark how one string, sweet husband to another,\nFrom his low tract and look another way:\nWhen I consider every thing that grows\nTo be death's conquest and make worms thine heir.\nIf all were minded so, the times should cease\nOf public honour and proud titles boast,\nNor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnon permit the basest clouds to ride\nThen happy I, that love and am beloved\nAll losses are restored and sorrows end.\nLook in thy glass, and tell the face thou viewest\nThy beauty's form in table of my heart;\nAs truth and beauty shall together thrive,\nFor shame! deny that thou bear'st love to any,\nAnd then believe me, my love is as fair\n",
"role": "user"
}
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338,
408,
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518,
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25580,
29962
] |
888 | 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:
Be not self-will'd, for thou art much too fair
But day doth daily draw my sorrows longer
Resembling strong youth in his middle age,
And make me travel forth without my cloak,
My glass shall not persuade me I am old,
And by a part of all thy glory live.
Then of thy beauty do I question make,
Make thee another self, for love of me,
How much more praise deserved thy beauty's use,
But when from highmost pitch, with weary car,
As any mother's child, though not so bright
For never-resting time leads summer on
Nature's bequest gives nothing but doth lend,
And moan the expense of many a vanish'd sight:
When I perceive that men as plants increase,
As tender nurse her babe from faring ill.
Seeking that beauteous roof to ruinate
These poor rude lines of thy deceased lover,
Or say with princes if it shall go well,
When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage,
To see his active child do deeds of youth,
| [
{
"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:\nBe not self-will'd, for thou art much too fair\nBut day doth daily draw my sorrows longer\nResembling strong youth in his middle age,\nAnd make me travel forth without my cloak,\nMy glass shall not persuade me I am old,\nAnd by a part of all thy glory live.\nThen of thy beauty do I question make,\nMake thee another self, for love of me,\nHow much more praise deserved thy beauty's use,\nBut when from highmost pitch, with weary car,\nAs any mother's child, though not so bright\nFor never-resting time leads summer on\nNature's bequest gives nothing but doth lend,\nAnd moan the expense of many a vanish'd sight:\nWhen I perceive that men as plants increase,\nAs tender nurse her babe from faring ill.\nSeeking that beauteous roof to ruinate\nThese poor rude lines of thy deceased lover,\nOr say with princes if it shall go well,\nWhen to the sessions of sweet silent thought\nOr some fierce thing replete with too much rage,\nTo see his active child do deeds of youth,\n",
"role": "user"
}
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] |
889 | 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,
When day's oppression is not eased by night,
Then, beauteous niggard, why dost thou abuse
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
Where all the treasure of thy lusty days,
Let them say more than like of hearsay well;
Which, used, lives th' executor to be.
That's for thyself to breed another thee,
Of his self-love, to stop posterity?
Till whatsoever star that guides my moving
How far I toil, still farther off from thee.
Whose strength's abundance weakens his own heart.
Though thou repent, yet I have still the loss:
For to thy sensual fault I bring in sense--
To find where your true image pictured lies;
Then, beauteous niggard, why dost thou abuse
Theirs for their style I'll read, his for his love.'
My glass shall not persuade me I am old,
Make sweet some vial; treasure thou some place
And in mine own love's strength seem to decay,
And puts apparel on my tatter'd loving,
Music to hear, why hear'st thou music sadly?
But do not so; I love thee in such sort
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
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:\nBut if the while I think on thee, dear friend,\nWhen day's oppression is not eased by night,\nThen, beauteous niggard, why dost thou abuse\nSo long as men can breathe or eyes can see,\nWhere all the treasure of thy lusty days,\nLet them say more than like of hearsay well;\nWhich, used, lives th' executor to be.\nThat's for thyself to breed another thee,\nOf his self-love, to stop posterity?\nTill whatsoever star that guides my moving\nHow far I toil, still farther off from thee.\nWhose strength's abundance weakens his own heart.\nThough thou repent, yet I have still the loss:\nFor to thy sensual fault I bring in sense--\nTo find where your true image pictured lies;\nThen, beauteous niggard, why dost thou abuse\nTheirs for their style I'll read, his for his love.'\nMy glass shall not persuade me I am old,\nMake sweet some vial; treasure thou some place\nAnd in mine own love's strength seem to decay,\nAnd puts apparel on my tatter'd loving,\nMusic to hear, why hear'st thou music sadly?\nBut do not so; I love thee in such sort\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nTo hideous winter and confounds him there;\n",
"role": "user"
}
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] |
890 | 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 what could death do, if thou shouldst depart,
Sweets with sweets war not, joy delights in joy.
To let base clouds o'ertake me in my way,
Attending on his golden pilgrimage;
Make glad and sorry seasons as thou fleets,
And do whate'er thou wilt, swift-footed Time,
I summon up remembrance of things past,
Or who is he so fond will be the tomb
But when from highmost pitch, with weary car,
Bearing thy heart, which I will keep so chary
And burn the long-lived phoenix in her blood;
When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,
That on himself such murderous shame commits.
Though yet, heaven knows, it is but as a tomb
And 'gainst myself a lawful plea commence:
| [
{
"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 what could death do, if thou shouldst depart,\nSweets with sweets war not, joy delights in joy.\nTo let base clouds o'ertake me in my way,\nAttending on his golden pilgrimage;\nMake glad and sorry seasons as thou fleets,\nAnd do whate'er thou wilt, swift-footed Time,\nI summon up remembrance of things past,\nOr who is he so fond will be the tomb\nBut when from highmost pitch, with weary car,\nBearing thy heart, which I will keep so chary\nAnd burn the long-lived phoenix in her blood;\nWhen, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,\nThat on himself such murderous shame commits.\nThough yet, heaven knows, it is but as a tomb\nAnd 'gainst myself a lawful plea commence:\n",
"role": "user"
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] |
891 | 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:
Make sweet some vial; treasure thou some place
Then how, when nature calls thee to be gone,
Then look I death my days should expiate.
Nor thou with public kindness honour me,
Thy merit hath my duty strongly knit,
For at a frown they in their glory die.
When sparkling stars twire not thou gild'st the even.
Which to repair should be thy chief desire.
For beauty's pattern to succeeding men.
Presents thy shadow to my sightless view,
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
But that I hope some good conceit of thine
That heaven's air in this huge rondure hems.
As tender nurse her babe from faring ill.
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.
Be, as thy presence is, gracious and kind,
I may not evermore acknowledge thee,
To let base clouds o'ertake me in my way,
As interest of the dead, which now appear
Or say with princes if it shall go well,
Which this, Time's pencil, or my pupil pen,
Thy end is truth's and beauty's doom and date.
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:\nMake sweet some vial; treasure thou some place\nThen how, when nature calls thee to be gone,\nThen look I death my days should expiate.\nNor thou with public kindness honour me,\nThy merit hath my duty strongly knit,\nFor at a frown they in their glory die.\nWhen sparkling stars twire not thou gild'st the even.\nWhich to repair should be thy chief desire.\nFor beauty's pattern to succeeding men.\nPresents thy shadow to my sightless view,\nWishing me like to one more rich in hope,\nBut that I hope some good conceit of thine\nThat heaven's air in this huge rondure hems.\nAs tender nurse her babe from faring ill.\nThat then I scorn to change my state with kings.\nBe, as thy presence is, gracious and kind,\nI may not evermore acknowledge thee,\nTo let base clouds o'ertake me in my way,\nAs interest of the dead, which now appear\nOr say with princes if it shall go well,\nWhich this, Time's pencil, or my pupil pen,\nThy end is truth's and beauty's doom and date.\nIf thou couldst answer 'This fair child of mine\n",
"role": "user"
}
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] |
892 | 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:
Let me confess that we two must be twain,
When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
The world will be thy widow and still weep
Ah! if thou issueless shalt hap to die.
But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,
The one by toil, the other to complain
Thou of thyself thy sweet self dost deceive.
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
Haply I think on thee, and then my state,
Points on me graciously with fair aspect
Against the stormy gusts of winter's day
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Suns of the world may stain when heaven's sun staineth.
To him that bears the strong offence's cross.
When I perceive that men as plants increase,
And do whate'er thou wilt, swift-footed Time,
Those hours, that with gentle work did frame
And being frank she lends to those are free.
And nothing 'gainst Time's scythe can make defence
Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell,
Where I may not remove nor be removed.
That heals the wound and cures not the disgrace:
Hiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke?
And puts apparel on my tatter'd loving,
And weep afresh love's long since cancell'd woe,
Or say with princes if it shall go well,
That heals the wound and cures not the disgrace:
And see the brave day sunk in hideous night;
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
Without thy help by me be borne alone.
How can I then return in happy plight,
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:\nLet me confess that we two must be twain,\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nThe world will be thy widow and still weep\nAh! if thou issueless shalt hap to die.\nBut if the while I think on thee, dear friend,\nThe one by toil, the other to complain\nThou of thyself thy sweet self dost deceive.\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nHaply I think on thee, and then my state,\nPoints on me graciously with fair aspect\nAgainst the stormy gusts of winter's day\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nSuns of the world may stain when heaven's sun staineth.\nTo him that bears the strong offence's cross.\nWhen I perceive that men as plants increase,\nAnd do whate'er thou wilt, swift-footed Time,\nThose hours, that with gentle work did frame\nAnd being frank she lends to those are free.\nAnd nothing 'gainst Time's scythe can make defence\nNor can I fortune to brief minutes tell,\nWhere I may not remove nor be removed.\nThat heals the wound and cures not the disgrace:\nHiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke?\nAnd puts apparel on my tatter'd loving,\nAnd weep afresh love's long since cancell'd woe,\nOr say with princes if it shall go well,\nThat heals the wound and cures not the disgrace:\nAnd see the brave day sunk in hideous night;\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nWithout thy help by me be borne alone.\nHow can I then return in happy plight,\nDisdains the tillage of thy husbandry?\n",
"role": "user"
}
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] |
893 | 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,
Though thou repent, yet I have still the loss:
| [
{
"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,\nThough thou repent, yet I have still the loss:\n",
"role": "user"
}
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] |
894 | 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;
Points on me graciously with fair aspect
Exceeded by the height of happier men.
Are windows to my breast, where-through the sun
Kissing with golden face the meadows green,
More than that tongue that more hath more express'd.
Yet eyes this cunning want to grace their art;
May make seem bare, in wanting words to show it,
Hiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke?
With virtuous wish would bear your living flowers,
Unthrifty loveliness, why dost thou spend
But out, alack! he was but one hour mine;
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
That thou consumest thyself in single life?
Let me confess that we two must be twain,
Which though it alter not love's sole effect,
So then I am not lame, poor, nor despised,
For having traffic with thyself alone,
Whereon the stars in secret influence comment;
Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest;
Then look I death my days should expiate.
Though thou repent, yet I have still the loss:
Then being ask'd where all thy beauty lies,
Proving his beauty by succession thine!
Now see what good turns eyes for eyes have done:
Will play the tyrants to the very same
With April's first-born flowers, and all things rare
Who heaven itself for ornament doth use
Hath dear religious love stol'n from mine eye
And your sweet semblance to some other give.
If ten of thine ten times refigured thee:
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
For precious friends hid in death's dateless night,
So long lives this and this gives life to thee.
Look, what is best, that best I wish in thee:
Full many a glorious morning have I seen
| [
{
"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;\nPoints on me graciously with fair aspect\nExceeded by the height of happier men.\nAre windows to my breast, where-through the sun\nKissing with golden face the meadows green,\nMore than that tongue that more hath more express'd.\nYet eyes this cunning want to grace their art;\nMay make seem bare, in wanting words to show it,\nHiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke?\nWith virtuous wish would bear your living flowers,\nUnthrifty loveliness, why dost thou spend\nBut out, alack! he was but one hour mine;\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nThat thou consumest thyself in single life?\nLet me confess that we two must be twain,\nWhich though it alter not love's sole effect,\nSo then I am not lame, poor, nor despised,\nFor having traffic with thyself alone,\nWhereon the stars in secret influence comment;\nNor lose possession of that fair thou owest;\nThen look I death my days should expiate.\nThough thou repent, yet I have still the loss:\nThen being ask'd where all thy beauty lies,\nProving his beauty by succession thine!\nNow see what good turns eyes for eyes have done:\nWill play the tyrants to the very same\nWith April's first-born flowers, and all things rare\nWho heaven itself for ornament doth use\nHath dear religious love stol'n from mine eye\nAnd your sweet semblance to some other give.\nIf ten of thine ten times refigured thee:\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nFor precious friends hid in death's dateless night,\nSo long lives this and this gives life to thee.\nLook, what is best, that best I wish in thee:\nFull many a glorious morning have I seen\n",
"role": "user"
}
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] |
895 | 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:
Delights to peep, to gaze therein on thee;
To say, within thine own deep-sunken eyes,
Are windows to my breast, where-through the sun
Hiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke?
A dearer birth than this his love had brought,
How much more praise deserved thy beauty's use,
My body is the frame wherein 'tis held,
A dearer birth than this his love had brought,
That this huge stage presenteth nought but shows
| [
{
"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:\nDelights to peep, to gaze therein on thee;\nTo say, within thine own deep-sunken eyes,\nAre windows to my breast, where-through the sun\nHiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke?\nA dearer birth than this his love had brought,\nHow much more praise deserved thy beauty's use,\nMy body is the frame wherein 'tis held,\nA dearer birth than this his love had brought,\nThat this huge stage presenteth nought but shows\n",
"role": "user"
}
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] |
896 | 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:
Nor it nor no remembrance what it was:
That I in thy abundance am sufficed
That thou among the wastes of time must go,
Find no determination: then you were
To give away yourself keeps yourself still,
Full many a glorious morning have I seen
But as the riper should by time decease,
Against the stormy gusts of winter's day
And all those friends which I thought buried.
Then of thy beauty do I question make,
Or any of these all, or all, or more,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Will play the tyrants to the very same
When your sweet issue your sweet form should bear.
No longer yours than you yourself here live:
With ugly rack on his celestial face,
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:\nNor it nor no remembrance what it was:\nThat I in thy abundance am sufficed\nThat thou among the wastes of time must go,\nFind no determination: then you were\nTo give away yourself keeps yourself still,\nFull many a glorious morning have I seen\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nAgainst the stormy gusts of winter's day\nAnd all those friends which I thought buried.\nThen of thy beauty do I question make,\nOr any of these all, or all, or more,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nWill play the tyrants to the very same\nWhen your sweet issue your sweet form should bear.\nNo longer yours than you yourself here live:\nWith ugly rack on his celestial face,\nBut if the while I think on thee, dear friend,\n",
"role": "user"
}
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] |
897 | 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,
Or else of thee this I prognosticate:
And, constant stars, in them I read such art
To show me worthy of thy sweet respect:
And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er
That due of many now is thine alone:
And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;
How much more praise deserved thy beauty's use,
And see thy blood warm when thou feel'st it cold.
When sparkling stars twire not thou gild'st the even.
Unlook'd on diest, unless thou get a son.
As fast as thou shalt wane, so fast thou growest
But beauty's waste hath in the world an end,
Myself corrupting, salving thy amiss,
But were some child of yours alive that time,
Looking on darkness which the blind do see
And loathsome canker lives in sweetest bud.
For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings
Be, as thy presence is, gracious and kind,
| [
{
"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,\nOr else of thee this I prognosticate:\nAnd, constant stars, in them I read such art\nTo show me worthy of thy sweet respect:\nAnd heavily from woe to woe tell o'er\nThat due of many now is thine alone:\nAnd often is his gold complexion dimm'd;\nHow much more praise deserved thy beauty's use,\nAnd see thy blood warm when thou feel'st it cold.\nWhen sparkling stars twire not thou gild'st the even.\nUnlook'd on diest, unless thou get a son.\nAs fast as thou shalt wane, so fast thou growest\nBut beauty's waste hath in the world an end,\nMyself corrupting, salving thy amiss,\nBut were some child of yours alive that time,\nLooking on darkness which the blind do see\nAnd loathsome canker lives in sweetest bud.\nFor thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings\nBe, as thy presence is, gracious and kind,\n",
"role": "user"
}
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] |
898 | 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
Herein lives wisdom, beauty and increase:
O, carve not with thy hours my love's fair brow,
If thou survive my well-contented day,
And your true rights be term'd a poet's rage
Make glad and sorry seasons as thou fleets,
For precious friends hid in death's dateless night,
| [
{
"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\nHerein lives wisdom, beauty and increase:\nO, carve not with thy hours my love's fair brow,\nIf thou survive my well-contented day,\nAnd your true rights be term'd a poet's rage\nMake glad and sorry seasons as thou fleets,\nFor precious friends hid in death's dateless night,\n",
"role": "user"
}
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] |
899 | 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 themselves their pride lies buried,
And threescore year would make the world away.
For beauty's pattern to succeeding men.
For never-resting time leads summer on
Resembling strong youth in his middle age,
Such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces.'
By adding one thing to my purpose nothing.
O, none but unthrifts! Dear my love, you know
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
Nor can thy shame give physic to my grief;
Nor draw no lines there with thine antique pen;
My love shall in my verse ever live young.
Beauty's effect with beauty were bereft,
I make my love engrafted to this store:
And loathsome canker lives in sweetest bud.
Grant, if thou wilt, thou art beloved of many,
But as the riper should by time decease,
Clouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
Music to hear, why hear'st thou music sadly?
That I an accessary needs must be
Shifts but his place, for still the world enjoys it;
For precious friends hid in death's dateless night,
I summon up remembrance of things past,
The one by toil, the other to complain
All losses are restored and sorrows end.
But day doth daily draw my sorrows longer
But when from highmost pitch, with weary car,
Thy bosom is endeared with all hearts,
As an unperfect actor on the stage
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed,
The one by toil, the other to complain
Myself corrupting, salving thy amiss,
And wear their brave state out of memory;
Myself corrupting, salving thy amiss,
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:\nAnd in themselves their pride lies buried,\nAnd threescore year would make the world away.\nFor beauty's pattern to succeeding men.\nFor never-resting time leads summer on\nResembling strong youth in his middle age,\nSuch heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces.'\nBy adding one thing to my purpose nothing.\nO, none but unthrifts! Dear my love, you know\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nNor can thy shame give physic to my grief;\nNor draw no lines there with thine antique pen;\nMy love shall in my verse ever live young.\nBeauty's effect with beauty were bereft,\nI make my love engrafted to this store:\nAnd loathsome canker lives in sweetest bud.\nGrant, if thou wilt, thou art beloved of many,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nClouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nMusic to hear, why hear'st thou music sadly?\nThat I an accessary needs must be\nShifts but his place, for still the world enjoys it;\nFor precious friends hid in death's dateless night,\nI summon up remembrance of things past,\nThe one by toil, the other to complain\nAll losses are restored and sorrows end.\nBut day doth daily draw my sorrows longer\nBut when from highmost pitch, with weary car,\nThy bosom is endeared with all hearts,\nAs an unperfect actor on the stage\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nWeary with toil, I haste me to my bed,\nThe one by toil, the other to complain\nMyself corrupting, salving thy amiss,\nAnd wear their brave state out of memory;\nMyself corrupting, salving thy amiss,\nAnd your true rights be term'd a poet's rage\n",
"role": "user"
}
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