'Tis better hope he is;
For his designs crave haste, his haste good hope.
'Tis better hope he is;
For his designs crave haste, his haste good hope.
Sweet flowers are slow and weeds make haste.
A thousand spleens bear her a thousand ways;
She treads the path that she untreads again;
Her more than haste is mated with delays,
Like the proceedings of a drunken brain,
Full of respects, yet nought at all respecting;
In hand with all things, nought at all effecting.
This said, she hasteth to a myrtle grove,
Musing the morning is so much o'erworn,
And yet she hears no tidings of her love:
She hearkens for his hounds and for his horn:
Anon she hears them chant it lustily,
And all in haste she coasteth to the cry.
Make haste; the hour of death is expiate.
Haste still pays haste, and leisure answers leisure; Like doth quit like, and Measure still for Measure.
Haste thee for thy life.
And brief, good mother; for I am in haste.
Haste me to know't, that I, with wings as swift
As meditation or the thoughts of love,
May sweep to my revenge.
Thy registers and thee I both defy,
Not wond'ring at the present, nor the past,
For thy records, and what we see doth lie,
Made more or less by thy continual haste:
This I do vow and this shall ever be:
I will be true despite thy scythe and thee.
© 2020 Inspirational Stories
© 2020 Inspirational Stories