William Shakespeare (1564–1616)

I THINK not on my father,

And these great tears grace his remembrance more

Than those I shed for him. What was he like?

I have forgot him: my imagination

Carries no favor in it, but Bertram’s.

I am undone: there is no living, none,

If Bertram be away. It were all one,

That I should love a bright, particular star,

And think to wed it, he is so above me:

In his bright radiance and collateral light

Must I be comforted, not in his sphere.

The ambition in my love thus plagues itself.

The hind that would be mated by the lion

Must die for love. ’Twas pretty, though a plague,

To see him every hour; to sit and draw

His archèd brows, his hawking eye, his curls,

In our heart’s table; heart, too capable

Of every line and trick of his sweet favor:

But now he’s gone, and my idolatrous fancy

Must sanctify his relics.