Говорите шепотом, вы же не хотите сорвать чаепитие белок
Shakespeare, sonnet 130



My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun,

Coral is far more red, than her lips red,

If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun:

If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head:

I have seen roses damasked, red and white,

But no such roses see I in her cheeks,

And in some perfumes is there more delight,

Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.

I love to hear her speak, yet well I know,

That music hath a far more pleasing sound:

I grant I never saw a goddess go,

My mistress when she walks treads on the ground.

And yet by heaven I think my love as rare,

As any she belied with false compare.



Sonnet 145



Those lips that Love’s own hand did make

Breathed forth the sound that said “I hate”

To me that languish’d for her sake;

But when she saw my woeful state,



Straight in her heart did mercy come,

Chiding that tongue that ever sweet

Was used in giving gentle doom,

And taught it thus anew to greet:



“I hate” she alter’d with an end,

That follow’d it as gentle day

Doth follow night, who like a fiend

From heaven to hell is flown away;



“I hate” from hate away she threw,

And saved my life, saying “not you”.

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