 Poem One of the Passionate Pilgrim by William Shakespeare. RID by Caliban. When my love swears that she is made of truth, I do believe her, though I know she lies, that she might think me some untutored youth unskilledful in the world's false forgeries, thus mainly thinking that she thinks me young, although I know my years be past the best. I smile in credit her false speaking tongue, out-facing faults in love with love's ill-rest. But wherefore says my love that she is young, and wherefore say not I that I am old? Oh, love's best habit is a soothing tongue, and age in love loves not to have years told. Therefore I lie with love, and love with me, since that I false in love, thus smother it be. And a poem, this recording is in the public domain. Poem Two of the Passionate Pilgrim. This is a LibriVox recording. Two loves I have of comfort and despair, that like two spirits do suggest me still. My better angel is a man, right fair, my worse a spirit of woman, colored ill. To win me soon to hell my female evil tempteth my better angel from my side, and would corrupt my saint to be a devil wooing his purity with her fair pride. And whether that my angel be turned fiend suspect I may yet not directly tell. For being both to me, both to each friend, I guess one angel in another's hell. The truth I shall not know but live in doubt, till my bad angel fire my good one out. And a poem, this recording is place in the public domain. Poem Three of the Passionate Pilgrim by William Shakespeare. Did not the heavenly rhetoric of thine eye, against whom the world could not hold argument, persuade my heart to this false perjury? Vows for the broke deserve not punishment. A woman I forceful, but I will prove. Thou being a goddess I forceful not thee. My vow was earthly, thou a heavenly love. Thy grace being gained cures all disgrace in me. My vow was breath, and breath of vapor is. Then thou fair sun, that on this earth doth shine, Exhaled this vapor vow, in thee it is. If broken, then it is no fault of mine. If by me broke what fool is not so wise To break an oath to win a paradise. And a poem, this recording is place in the public domain. Poem Four of the Passionate Pilgrim by William Shakespeare. This is a Librabox recording. It's Scytheria, sitting by a brook With young Adonis, lovely, fresh, and green. Then caught the lad with many a lovely look, Such looks as none could look but beauty's queen. She told him stories to delight his ear. She showed him favours to lure his eye. To win his heart she touched him here and there. Touched so soft, still conquer chastity, That whether unripe years did want conceit, Or he refused to take her figure proper, The tender nibbling would not touch the bait, But smile ingest at every gentle offer. Then fell she on her back, fair queen, And toward, he rose and ran away, ha, fool. Toothfraud. End of Poem. This recording is in the public domain. Poem Five of the Passionate Pilgrim. This is a Librabox recording. If love make me, post-worn, How shall I swear to love? Oh, never faith could hold Not the beauty bowed. Though to myself, post-worn, To thee I'll constant through, Though thoughts to me like oaks, To thee like osiers bowed. Study his biased leaves, And make his book thine eyes, For all those pleasures live, That art can comprehend. If knowledge be the mark, To know thee shall suffice, And well learned is that tongue That well can decommend. All ignorant that soul That sees thee without wonder, Which is to me some praise That I thy parts admire. Thy eye-joved lightning seems, Thy voice, His dreadful thunder, Which not too anger-bent Is music and sweet fire. Celestial as thou art, O, do not love that wrong, To sing heaven praise With such an earthly tongue. End of Poem. This recording is placed in the public domain. Poem Six of the Passionate Pilgrim by William Shakespeare. Scarce had the sun dried up to do him on, And scarce had her'd gone to the hedge for shade, When, Cetheria, all in love, Poelon, Allugging terriots for Adonis made. Under an OSHA growing by a brook, A brook where Aden used to cool his spleen. Hot was the day, She, hotter, that did look for his approach, That often there had been. Anon he comes, and throws his mantle by, And stood, stark naked, on the brook's green brim. The sun looked on the world with a glorious eye, Yet not so whistly as his queen on him. He, spying her, bounced in, Where as he stood. Oh, Joe Koshy, why was I not a flood? End of Poem. This recording is in the public domain. Poem Seven of the Passionate Pilgrim by William Shakespeare. This is a LibriVox recording. Fair is my love, but not so fair as fickle, Mild as a dub, but neither true nor trusty. Brighter than glass, and yet as glass is, Brittle, softer than wax, yet as iron, rusty. A lily pale, with the mass, died to grace her, None fairer, nor none falter to deface her. Her lips to mind how often hath she joined, Between each kiss her o's of true love swearing. How many tales to please me, hath she coined, Dreading my love, the loss thereof still fearing. She did in the midst of all her pure protestings, Her faith, her o's, her tears, and all were justings. She burned with love as straw with fire, Flemeth. She burned out love as soon as straw out burneth. She framed the love, and yet she foiled the framing. She bade love last and yet she fell the turning. Was this a lover or a letcher-weather? Bad in the best, though excellent in neither. In the poem, this recording is in the public domain. Poem eight, The Passionate Pilgrim by William Shakespeare. If music and sweet poetry agree, As they must need, the sister and the brother, Then must the love be great quicks thee and me, Because I love so one, and I the other. Thou lint to thee is there, whose heavenly touch upon the lute Does ravish human sense. Spencer to me, whose deep conceit is such, As passing all conceit, needs no defence. Thou loves to hear the sweet melodious sound That fevers lute the queen of music makes, And I in deep delight am cheaply drowned, When as himself to singing he betakes. One God is God of bothless poets vain, One night loves both, and both in thee remain. End of Poem. Fair was Simone with a fair queen of love, Pay lip a sorrow than her milk-white dove, For aid in sake, a youngster, proud and wild. Her stand she takes upon a steep uphill, A non-adonis comes with horn and hounds. She, silly queen, with more than love's good will, For bad the boy he should not pass those grounds. Once Poe she did, I see a fair sweet youth Here in these breaks deep wounded with a bore, Deep in the thigh, a spectacle of roof. She in my thigh, quote she, Here was the soul. She showed hers, he saw more wounds than one, And blushing flint, and left her all alone. End of Poem, this recording is in the public domain. Poem 10 of the Passionate Pilgrim by William Shakespeare. This is a LibriVox recording. Sweet rose, fair flower, untimely plucked, Stone-vaded, plucked in the bud and vaded in the spring, Bright ory and pearl, a lack too timely shaded, Fair creature killed too soon by death-sharp sting, Like a green plum that hangs upon a tree, And falls through wind, before the fall should be. I weep for thee, and yet no cause I have, For why, thou lets me nothing in thy will, And yet thou lets me more than I did crave, For why, I crave nothing of these two. O yes, dear friend, I pardon crave of thee, Thy discontent thou didst bequeath to me. End of Poem, this recording is in the public domain. Poem 11 of the Passionate Pilgrim by William Shakespeare. This is a LibriVox recording. Venus, with younger Donna sitting by her under a Myrtle shade, began to woo him. She told the youngling how God Mars did try her. And as he fell to her, so fell she to him. Even thus, quote she, the war like God embraced me, And then she clipped the Donna's in her arms. Even thus, quote she, the war like God unlaced me, As if the boy should use like loving charms. Even thus, quote she, he seized on my lips, And with her lips on his did act the seizure. And as she fetched breath away he skips, And would not take her meaning nor her pleasure. O did I had my lady at this bay, The kissin' clip me till I run away. End of Poem, this recording is in the public domain. Poem 12 of the Passionate Pilgrim by William Shakespeare. This is a LibriVox recording. Crabbed age and youth cannot live together. Youth is full of pleasant, age is full of care. Youth like summer morn, age like winter weather. Youth like summer brave, age like winter bare. Youth is full of sport, age as breath is short. Youth is nimble, age is lame. Youth is hot and bold, age is weak and cold. Youth is wild and age is tame. Age I do abhor thee. Youth I do adore thee. Oh, my love, my love is young. Age I do defy thee. Oh, sweet shepherd, hi thee, While we think thou stayest too long. End of Poem, this recording is placed in the public domain. Poem 13 of the Passionate Pilgrim by William Shakespeare. This is a LibriVox recording. Beauty is but a vain and doubtful good. A shining gloss that faded suddenly. A flower that dies when first it begins to bud. A brittle glass that's broken presently. A doubtful good. A gloss. A glass. A flower. Lost, vaded, broken. Dead within an hour. And as goods lost or sold or never found. As faded gloss no rubbing will be fresh. As flowers dead like withered on the ground. As broken glass no cement can redress. So beauty blemished. Once is forever lost. In spite of physics, painting, pain, and cost. End of Poem, this recording is placed in the public domain. Poem 14 of the Passionate Pilgrim by William Shakespeare. This is a LibriVox recording. Good night, good rest. Ah, neither be my share. She bade good night that kept my rest away. And daft me to a cabin hanged with care, to decant on the doubts of my decay. Farewell, crochet, and come again to-morrow. Farewell I could not, for I subbed with sorrow. Yet at my parting sweetly did she smile. In scorn or friendship knew I construe weather. It may be she joyed to jest at my exile. To may be again to make me wander thither. Wander a word for shadows like myself. As take the pain, but cannot pluck the pelt. End of Poem, this recording is in the public domain. Poem 15 of the Passionate Pilgrim, read by Caliban. This is a LibriVox recording. Lord, how mine eyes are gazes to the east. My heart doth charge the watch. The morning rise to cite each moving sense from idle rest, not daring trust the office of mine eyes. While Phyllomilla sits and sings, I sit and mark, and wish her lays were tuned like the lark. For she doth welcome daylight with her ditty, and drives away dark, dismal dreaming night. The night so packed I post unto my pretty. Heart hat is hope, and eyes their wish in sight. Sorrow changed to solace. Solace mixed with sorrow. For why, she sighed, and bade me come to-morrow. Were I with her, the night would post too soon, but now are minutes added to the hours. Despite me now, each minute seems a moon, yet not for me. Shine, sun, to succour flowers. Pack night. Peep day. Good day of night now, Borrow. Short night.