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  • Title: Edward III (Quarto 1, 1596)
  • Editor: Sonia Massai

  • Copyright Sonia Massai. This text may be freely used for educational, non-profit purposes; for all other uses contact the Editor.
    Author: William Shakespeare
    Editor: Sonia Massai
    Not Peer Reviewed

    Edward III (Quarto 1, 1596)

    The Raigne of king
    But rather vertue sin, synne vertue deemd,
    Her hair far softor then the silke wormes twist,
    Like to a flattering glas doth make more faire,
    470The yelow Amber like a flattering glas,
    Comes in to soone: for writing of her eies,
    Ile say that like a glas they catch the sunne,
    And thence the hot reflection doth rebounde,
    Against my brest and burnes my hart within,
    475Ah what a world of descant makes my soule,
    Vpon this voluntarie ground of loue,
    Come Lodwick hast thou turnd thy inke to golde,
    If not, write but in letters Capitall my mistres name,
    And it wil guild thy paper, read Lorde, reade,
    480Fill thou the emptie hollowes of mine eares,
    With the sweete hearing of thy poetrie.
    Lo: I haue not to a period brought her praise.
    King: Her praise is as my loue, both infinit,
    Which apprehend such violent extremes,
    485That they disdaine an ending period.
    Her bewtie hath no match but my affection,
    Hers more then most, myne most, and more then more,
    Hers more to praise then tell the sea by drops,
    Nay more then drop the massie earth by sands,
    490And said, by said, print them in memorie,
    Then wherefore talkest thou of a period,
    To that which craues vnended admiration.
    Read let vs heare,
    Lo: More faire and chast then is the queen of shades:
    495King: That loue hath two falts grosse and palpable,
    Comparest thou her to the pale queene of night,
    Who being set in darke seemes therefore light,
    What is she, when the sunne lifts vp his head,
    But like a fading taper dym and dead.
    500My loue shall braue the ey of heauen at noon,
    And being vnmaskt outshine the golden sun,
    Lo: What is the other faulte, my soueraigne Lord,