Monday, January 13, 2003

Sonnet 146: Poor Soul, The Centre Of My Sinful Earth

Rating: 3.1
Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth,
My sinful earth these rebel powers array,
Why dost thou pine within and suffer dearth,
Painting thy outward walls so costly gay?
Why so large cost, having so short a lease,
Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend?
Shall worms, inheritors of this excess,
Eat up thy charge? is this thy body's end?
Then soul live thou upon thy servant's loss,
And let that pine to aggravate thy store;
Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross;
Within be fed, without be rich no more.
So shall thou feed on Death, that feeds on men,
And Death once dead, there's no more dying then.
William Shakespeare
Xochitl 25 May 2018
Love this one such talent
0 1 Reply
Fabrizio Frosini 01 February 2016
again... the same sonnet as in the previous page..
24 0 Reply
Brian Jani 26 April 2014
Awesome I like this poem, check mine out
0 3 Reply
Egal Bohen 02 May 2008
Of riches here brave words do ring That feed on death that death can't win Such riches are not worn by men But writ by Will, with ink and pen.
1 0 Reply

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