{"id":26,"date":"2013-02-22T22:38:35","date_gmt":"2013-02-22T22:38:35","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.passionatepilgrimrecords.dk\/?page_id=26"},"modified":"2013-03-24T15:15:49","modified_gmt":"2013-03-24T15:15:49","slug":"tekster","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/www.passionatepilgrimrecords.dk\/?page_id=26","title":{"rendered":"TEKSTER"},"content":{"rendered":"

Herunder kan du l\u00e6se den originale engelske udgave af teksterne p\u00e5 cd’en. \u00d8nsker du at l\u00e6se de danske overs\u00e6ttelser medf\u00f8lger de i cd’ens booklet. Alternativt kan du l\u00e6se dem alle i Line Kroghs overs\u00e6ttelse fra 2006 – bogen kan blandt andet k\u00f8bes ved at klikke her<\/a>.<\/p>\n

18<\/strong>:
\nShall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
\nThou art more lovely and more temperate:
\nRough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
\nAnd summer’s lease hath all too short a date:
\nSometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
\nAnd often is his gold complexion dimm’d;
\nAnd every fair from fair sometime declines,
\nBy chance or nature’s changing course untrimm’d;
\nBut thy eternal summer shall not fade
\nNor lose possession of that fair thou owest;
\nNor shall Death brag thou wander’st in his shade,
\nWhen in eternal lines to time thou growest:
\nSo long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
\nSo long lives this and this gives life to thee.<\/p>\n

27<\/strong>:
\nWeary with toil, I haste me to my bed,
\nThe dear repose for limbs with travel tired;
\nBut then begins a journey in my head,
\nTo work my mind, when body’s work’s expired:
\nFor then my thoughts, from far where I abide,
\nIntend a zealous pilgrimage to thee,
\nAnd keep my drooping eyelids open wide,
\nLooking on darkness which the blind do see
\nSave that my soul’s imaginary sight
\nPresents thy shadow to my sightless view,
\nWhich, like a jewel hung in ghastly night,
\nMakes black night beauteous and her old face new.
\nLo! thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind,
\nFor thee and for myself no quiet find.<\/p>\n

44-45<\/strong>:<\/p>\n

If the dull substance of my flesh were thought,
\nInjurious distance should not stop my way;
\nFor then despite of space I would be brought,
\nFrom limits far remote where thou dost stay.
\nNo matter then although my foot did stand
\nUpon the farthest earth removed from thee;
\nFor nimble thought can jump both sea and land
\nAs soon as think the place where he would be.
\nBut ah! thought kills me that I am not thought,
\nTo leap large lengths of miles when thou art gone,
\nBut that so much of earth and water wrought
\nI must attend time’s leisure with my moan,
\nReceiving nought by elements so slow
\nBut heavy tears, badges of either’s woe.<\/p>\n

The other two, slight air and purging fire,
\nAre both with thee, wherever I abide;
\nThe first my thought, the other my desire,
\nThese present-absent with swift motion slide.
\nFor when these quicker elements are gone
\nIn tender embassy of love to thee,
\nMy life, being made of four, with two alone
\nSinks down to death, oppress’d with melancholy;
\nUntil life’s composition be recured
\nBy those swift messengers return’d from thee,
\nWho even but now come back again, assured
\nOf thy fair health, recounting it to me:
\nThis told, I joy; but then no longer glad,
\nI send them back again and straight grow sad.<\/p>\n

12<\/strong>:
\nWhen I do count the clock that tells the time,
\nAnd see the brave day sunk in hideous night;
\nWhen I behold the violet past prime,
\nAnd sable curls all silver’d o’er with white;
\nWhen lofty trees I see barren of leaves
\nWhich erst from heat did canopy the herd,
\nAnd summer’s green all girded up in sheaves
\nBorne on the bier with white and bristly beard,
\nThen of thy beauty do I question make,
\nThat thou among the wastes of time must go,
\nSince sweets and beauties do themselves forsake
\nAnd die as fast as they see others grow;
\nAnd nothing ‘gainst Time’s scythe can make defence
\nSave breed, to brave him when he takes thee hence.<\/p>\n

145<\/strong>:
\nThose lips that Love’s own hand did make
\nBreathed forth the sound that said ‘I hate’
\nTo me that languish’d for her sake;
\nBut when she saw my woeful state,
\nStraight in her heart did mercy come,
\nChiding that tongue that ever sweet
\nWas used in giving gentle doom,
\nAnd taught it thus anew to greet:
\n‘I hate’ she alter’d with an end,
\nThat follow’d it as gentle day
\nDoth follow night, who like a fiend
\nFrom heaven to hell is flown away;
\n‘I hate’ from hate away she threw,
\nAnd saved my life, saying ‘not you.’<\/p>\n

71-72-74<\/strong>:<\/p>\n

No longer mourn for me when I am dead
\nThen you shall hear the surly sullen bell
\nGive warning to the world that I am fled
\nFrom this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell:
\nNay, if you read this line, remember not
\nThe hand that writ it; for I love you so
\nThat I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot
\nIf thinking on me then should make you woe.
\nO, if, I say, you look upon this verse
\nWhen I perhaps compounded am with clay,
\nDo not so much as my poor name rehearse.
\nBut let your love even with my life decay,
\nLest the wise world should look into your moan
\nAnd mock you with me after I am gone.<\/p>\n

O, lest the world should task you to recite
\nWhat merit lived in me, that you should love
\nAfter my death, dear love, forget me quite,
\nFor you in me can nothing worthy prove;
\nUnless you would devise some virtuous lie,
\nTo do more for me than mine own desert,
\nAnd hang more praise upon deceased I
\nThan niggard truth would willingly impart:
\nO, lest your true love may seem false in this,
\nThat you for love speak well of me untrue,
\nMy name be buried where my body is,
\nAnd live no more to shame nor me nor you.
\nFor I am shamed by that which I bring forth,
\nAnd so should you, to love things nothing worth.<\/p>\n

But be contented: when that fell arrest
\nWithout all bail shall carry me away,
\nMy life hath in this line some interest,
\nWhich for memorial still with thee shall stay.
\nWhen thou reviewest this, thou dost review
\nThe very part was consecrate to thee:
\nThe earth can have but earth, which is his due;
\nMy spirit is thine, the better part of me:
\nSo then thou hast but lost the dregs of life,
\nThe prey of worms, my body being dead,
\nThe coward conquest of a wretch’s knife,
\nToo base of thee to be remembered.
\nThe worth of that is that which it contains,
\nAnd that is this, and this with thee remains.<\/p>\n

130<\/strong>:
\nMy mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun;
\nCoral is far more red than her lips’ red;
\nIf snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
\nIf hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
\nI have seen roses damask’d, red and white,
\nBut no such roses see I in her cheeks;
\nAnd in some perfumes is there more delight
\nThan in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
\nI love to hear her speak, yet well I know
\nThat music hath a far more pleasing sound;
\nI grant I never saw a goddess go;
\nMy mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:
\nAnd yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
\nAs any she belied with false compare.<\/p>\n

147<\/strong>:
\nMy love is as a fever, longing still
\nFor that which longer nurseth the disease,
\nFeeding on that which doth preserve the ill,
\nThe uncertain sickly appetite to please.
\nMy reason, the physician to my love,
\nAngry that his prescriptions are not kept,
\nHath left me, and I desperate now approve
\nDesire is death, which physic did except.
\nPast cure I am, now reason is past care,
\nAnd frantic-mad with evermore unrest;
\nMy thoughts and my discourse as madmen’s are,
\nAt random from the truth vainly express’d;
\nFor I have sworn thee fair and thought thee bright,
\nWho art as black as hell, as dark as night.<\/p>\n

116<\/strong>:
\nLet me not to the marriage of true minds
\nAdmit impediments; love is not love
\nWhich alters when it alteration finds,
\nOr bends with the remover to remove.
\nO no, it is an ever-fixed mark,
\nThat looks on tempests and is never shaken;
\nIt is the star to every wand\u2019ring bark,
\nWhose worth\u2019s unknown, although his height be taken.
\nLove\u2019s not Time\u2019s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
\nWithin his bending sickle\u2019s compass come;
\nLove alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
\nBut bears it out even to the edge of doom.
\nIf this be error and upon me proved,
\nI never writ, nor no man ever loved.<\/p>\n

153-154<\/strong>:<\/p>\n

Cupid laid by his brand, and fell asleep:
\nA maid of Dian’s this advantage found,
\nAnd his love-kindling fire did quickly steep
\nIn a cold valley-fountain of that ground;
\nWhich borrow’d from this holy fire of Love
\nA dateless lively heat, still to endure,
\nAnd grew a seething bath, which yet men prove
\nAgainst strange maladies a sovereign cure.
\nBut at my mistress’ eye Love’s brand new-fired,
\nThe boy for trial needs would touch my breast;
\nI, sick withal, the help of bath desired,
\nAnd thither hied, a sad distemper’d guest,
\nBut found no cure: the bath for my help lies
\nWhere Cupid got new fire–my mistress’ eyes.<\/p>\n

The little Love-god lying once asleep
\nLaid by his side his heart-inflaming brand,
\nWhilst many nymphs that vow’d chaste life to keep
\nCame tripping by; but in her maiden hand
\nThe fairest votary took up that fire
\nWhich many legions of true hearts had warm’d;
\nAnd so the general of hot desire
\nWas sleeping by a virgin hand disarm’d.
\nThis brand she quenched in a cool well by,
\nWhich from Love’s fire took heat perpetual,
\nGrowing a bath and healthful remedy
\nFor men diseased; but I, my mistress’ thrall,
\nCame there for cure, and this by that I prove,
\nLove’s fire heats water, water cools not love.<\/div><\/p>\n

A Lovers Complaint<\/strong>:<\/p>\n

From off a hill whose concave womb reworded
\nA plaintful story from a sistering vale,
\nMy spirits to attend this double voice accorded,
\nAnd down I laid to list the sad-tuned tale;
\nEre long espied a fickle maid full pale,
\nTearing of papers, breaking rings a-twain,
\nStorming her world with sorrow’s wind and rain.<\/p>\n

Upon her head a platted hive of straw,
\nWhich fortified her visage from the sun,
\nWhereon the thought might think sometime it saw
\nThe carcass of beauty spent and done:
\nTime had not scythed all that youth begun,
\nNor youth all quit; but, spite of heaven’s fell rage,
\nSome beauty peep’d through lattice of sear’d age.<\/p>\n

Of folded schedules had she many a one,
\nWhich she perused, sigh’d, tore, and gave the flood;
\nCrack’d many a ring of posied gold and bone
\nBidding them find their sepulchres in mud;
\nFound yet moe letters sadly penn’d in blood,
\nWith sleided silk feat and affectedly
\nEnswathed, and seal’d to curious secrecy.<\/p>\n

These often bathed she in her fluxive eyes,
\nAnd often kiss’d, and often ‘gan to tear:
\nCried ‘O false blood, thou register of lies,
\nWhat unapproved witness dost thou bear!
\nInk would have seem’d more black and damned here!’
\nThis said, in top of rage the lines she rents,
\nBig discontent so breaking their contents.<\/p>\n

A reverend man that grazed his cattle nigh–
\nSometime a blusterer, that the ruffle knew
\nOf court, of city, and had let go by
\nThe swiftest hours, observed as they flew–
\nTowards this afflicted fancy fastly drew,
\nAnd, privileged by age, desires to know
\nIn brief the grounds and motives of her woe.<\/p>\n

‘Father,’ she says, ‘though in me you behold
\nThe injury of many a blasting hour,
\nLet it not tell your judgment I am old;
\nNot age, but sorrow, over me hath power:
\nI might as yet have been a spreading flower,
\nFresh to myself, If I had self-applied
\nLove to myself and to no love beside.<\/p>\n

‘But, woe is me! too early I attended
\nA youthful suit–it was to gain my grace–
\nOf one by nature’s outwards so commended,
\nThat maidens’ eyes stuck over all his face:
\nLove lack’d a dwelling, and made him her place;
\nAnd when in his fair parts she did abide,
\nShe was new lodged and newly deified.<\/p>\n

‘So many have, that never touch’d his hand,
\nSweetly supposed them mistress of his heart.
\nMy woeful self, that did in freedom stand,
\nAnd was my own fee-simple, not in part,
\nWhat with his art in youth, and youth in art,
\nThrew my affections in his charmed power,
\nReserved the stalk and gave him all my flower.<\/p>\n

‘Yet did I not, as some my equals did,
\nDemand of him, nor being desired yielded;
\nFinding myself in honour so forbid,
\nWith safest distance I mine honour shielded:
\nExperience for me many bulwarks builded
\nOf proofs new-bleeding, which remain’d the foil
\nOf this false jewel, and his amorous spoil.<\/p>\n

‘For further I could say ‘This man’s untrue,’
\nAnd knew the patterns of his foul beguiling;
\nHeard where his plants in others’ orchards grew,
\nSaw how deceits were gilded in his smiling;
\nKnew vows were ever brokers to defiling;
\nThought characters and words merely but art,
\nAnd bastards of his foul adulterate heart.<\/p>\n

‘And long upon these terms I held my city,
\nTill thus he gan besiege me: ‘Gentle maid,
\nHave of my suffering youth some feeling pity,
\nAnd be not of my holy vows afraid:
\nThat’s to ye sworn to none was ever said;
\nFor feasts of love I have been call’d unto,
\nTill now did ne’er invite, nor never woo.<\/p>\n

”Among the many that mine eyes have seen,
\nNot one whose flame my heart so much as warm’d,
\nOr my affection put to the smallest teen,
\nOr any of my leisures ever charm’d:
\nHarm have I done to them, but ne’er was harm’d;
\nKept hearts in liveries, but mine own was free,
\nAnd reign’d, commanding in his monarchy.<\/p>\n

”Look here, what tributes wounded fancies sent me,
\nOf paled pearls and rubies red as blood;
\nFiguring that they their passions likewise lent me
\nOf grief and blushes, aptly understood
\nIn bloodless white and the encrimson’d mood;
\nEffects of terror and dear modesty,
\nEncamp’d in hearts, but fighting outwardly.<\/p>\n

”And, lo, behold these talents of their hair,
\nWith twisted metal amorously impleach’d,
\nI have received from many a several fair,
\nTheir kind acceptance weepingly beseech’d,
\nWith the annexions of fair gems enrich’d,
\nAnd deep-brain’d sonnets that did amplify
\nEach stone’s dear nature, worth, and quality.<\/p>\n

”How mighty then you are, O, hear me tell!
\nThe broken bosoms that to me belong
\nHave emptied all their fountains in my well,
\nAnd mine I pour your ocean all among:
\nI strong o’er them, and you o’er me being strong,
\nMust for your victory us all congest,
\nAs compound love to physic your cold breast.<\/p>\n

”Now all these hearts that do on mine depend,
\nFeeling it break, with bleeding groans they pine;
\nAnd supplicant their sighs to you extend,
\nTo leave the battery that you make ‘gainst mine,
\nLending soft audience to my sweet design,
\nAnd credent soul to that strong-bonded oath
\nThat shall prefer and undertake my troth.’<\/p>\n

‘This said, his watery eyes he did dismount,
\nWhose sights till then were levell’d on my face;
\nEach cheek a river running from a fount
\nWith brinish current downward flow’d apace:
\nO, how the channel to the stream gave grace!
\nWho glazed with crystal gate the glowing roses
\nThat flame through water which their hue encloses.<\/p>\n

‘O father, what a hell of witchcraft lies
\nIn the small orb of one particular tear!
\nBut with the inundation of the eyes
\nWhat rocky heart to water will not wear?
\nWhat breast so cold that is not warmed here?
\nO cleft effect! cold modesty, hot wrath,
\nBoth fire from hence and chill extincture hath.<\/p>\n

‘For, lo, his passion, but an art of craft,
\nEven there resolved my reason into tears;
\nThere my white stole of chastity I daff’d,
\nShook off my sober guards and civil fears;
\nAppear to him, as he to me appears,
\nAll melting; though our drops this difference bore,
\nHis poison’d me, and mine did him restore.<\/p>\n

‘In him a plenitude of subtle matter,
\nApplied to cautels, all strange forms receives,
\nOf burning blushes, or of weeping water,
\nOr swooning paleness; and he takes and leaves,
\nIn either’s aptness, as it best deceives,
\nTo blush at speeches rank to weep at woes,
\nOr to turn white and swoon at tragic shows.<\/p>\n

‘That not a heart which in his level came
\nCould ‘scape the hail of his all-hurting aim,
\nShowing fair nature is both kind and tame;
\nAnd, veil’d in them, did win whom he would maim:
\nAgainst the thing he sought he would exclaim;
\nWhen he most burn’d in heart-wish’d luxury,
\nHe preach’d pure maid, and praised cold chastity.<\/p>\n

‘Thus merely with the garment of a Grace
\nThe naked and concealed fiend he cover’d;
\nThat th’ unexperient gave the tempter place,
\nWhich like a cherubin above them hover’d.
\nWho, young and simple, would not be so lover’d?
\nAy me! I fell; and yet do question make
\nWhat I should do again for such a sake.<\/p>\n

‘O, that infected moisture of his eye,
\nO, that false fire which in his cheek so glow’d,
\nO, that forced thunder from his heart did fly,
\nO, that sad breath his spongy lungs bestow’d,
\nO, all that borrow’d motion seeming owed,
\nWould yet again betray the fore-betray’d,
\nAnd new pervert a reconciled maid!’<\/div>

<\/div><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Herunder kan du l\u00e6se den originale engelske udgave af teksterne p\u00e5 cd’en. \u00d8nsker du at l\u00e6se de danske overs\u00e6ttelser medf\u00f8lger de i cd’ens booklet. Alternativt kan du l\u00e6se dem alle.. read more<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"parent":0,"menu_order":3,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","template":"page-fullwidth.php","meta":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.passionatepilgrimrecords.dk\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/26"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.passionatepilgrimrecords.dk\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.passionatepilgrimrecords.dk\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.passionatepilgrimrecords.dk\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.passionatepilgrimrecords.dk\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=26"}],"version-history":[{"count":7,"href":"https:\/\/www.passionatepilgrimrecords.dk\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/26\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":162,"href":"https:\/\/www.passionatepilgrimrecords.dk\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/26\/revisions\/162"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.passionatepilgrimrecords.dk\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=26"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}