Will’s Ladies

Portia
Then must the Jew be merciful.
Shylock: On what compulsion must I? Tell me that.]
Portia: The quality of mercy is not strained.
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath. It is twice blest:
It blesseth him that gives and him that takes.
‘Tis mightiest in the mightiest; it becomes
The thronèd monarch better than his crown.
His scepter shows the force of temporal power,
The attribute to awe and majesty
Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings;
But mercy is above this scepter’d sway.
It is enthronèd in the heart of kings;
It is an attribute to God himself;
And earthly power doth then show likest God’s
When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew,
Though justice be thy plea, consider this:
That in the course of justice none of us
Should see salvation. We do pray for mercy,
And that same prayer doth teach us all to render
The deeds of mercy.

Juliet
Gallop apace, you fiery-footed steeds,
Towards Phoebus' lodging; such a waggoner
As Phaeton would whip you to the west
And bring in cloudy night immediately.
Spread thy close curtain, love-performing night,
That rude day’s eyes may wink, and Romeo
Leap to these arms, untalk’d of and unseen.
Lovers can see to do their amorous rites
By their own beauties: or if love be blind,
It best agrees with night. Come, civil night,
Thou sober-suited matron, all in black,
And learn me how to lose a winning match
Play’d for a pair of stainless maidenhoods:
Hood my unmann’d blood, bating in my cheeks,
With thy black mantle; till strange love, grown bold,
Think true love acted simple modesty.
Come, night; come, Romeo, come, thou day in night;
For thou wilt lie upon the wings of night
Whiter than new snow upon a raven’s back.
Come, gentle night, come, loving, black-brow’d night,
Give me my Romeo; and when he shall die,
Take him and cut him out in little stars,
And he will make the face of heaven so fine
That all the world will be in love with night…

Glamis thou art, and Cawdor; and shalt be
What thou art promised: yet do I fear thy nature;
It is too full o' the milk of human kindness
To catch the nearest way: thou wouldst be great;
Art not without ambition, but without
The illness should attend it: what thou wouldst highly,
That wouldst thou holily; wouldst not play false,
And yet wouldst wrongly win... [thou'ldst have, great Glamis,
That which cries 'Thus thou must do, if thou have it;
And that which rather thou dost fear to do
Than wishest should be undone.']1 Hie thee hither,
That I may pour my spirits in thine ear;
And chastise with the valour of my tongue
All that impedes thee from the golden round,
Which fate and metaphysical aid doth seem
To have thee crown'd withal.

How should I your true love know
From another one?
By his cockle hat and staff,
And his sandal shoon.
*****
He is dead and gone, lady,
He is dead and gone,
At his head a grass-green turf,
At his heels a stone.
*****
White his shroud as the mountain snow—
Larded all with sweet flowers,
Which bewept to the ground did go
With true-love showers.
*****
Lord, we know what we are, but know not what we may be.
*****
Tomorrow is Saint Valentine’s day,
All in the morning betime,
And I a maid at your window,
To be your Valentine.
Then up he rose and donned his clo’es
And dupp’d the chamber door;
Let in the maid, that out a maid
Never departed more.
Quoth she, “Before you tumbled me,
You promised me to wed.”
“So would I ha' done, by yonder sun,
An thou hadst not come to my bed.”
We must be patient; but I cannot choose but weep, 
to think they should lay him i’ the cold ground.
*****
They bore him barefac’d on the bier,
Hey no nonny, nonny, hey nonny.
And on his grave rain’d many a tear,
Down, a-down, an you call him a-down-a.
*****
His beard was as white as snow,
All flaxen was his poll.
He is gone, he is gone,
And we cast away moan,
God ha' mercy on his soul!
*****
There’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance…
And there is pansies, that’s for thoughts…
There’s a daisy. I would give you some violets, 
but they withered all when my father died.