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0 | Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
| FROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
Pluck the keen teeth from the fierce tiger's jaws,
And shalt by fortune once more re-survey
O, that you were yourself! but, love, you are
For all that beauty that doth cover thee
Which, like a jewel hung in ghastly night,
But not to tell of good or evil luck,
I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,
Who lets so fair a house fall to decay,
Of his self-love, to stop posterity?
| [
{
"content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nPluck the keen teeth from the fierce tiger's jaws,\nAnd shalt by fortune once more re-survey\nO, that you were yourself! but, love, you are\nFor all that beauty that doth cover thee\nWhich, like a jewel hung in ghastly night,\nBut not to tell of good or evil luck,\nI sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,\nWho lets so fair a house fall to decay,\nOf his self-love, to stop posterity?\n",
"role": "user"
}
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] |
1 | Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
| FROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
And dost him grace when clouds do blot the heaven:
Now see what good turns eyes for eyes have done:
Despite of wrinkles this thy golden time.
Delights to peep, to gaze therein on thee;
But if thou live, remember'd not to be,
My body is the frame wherein 'tis held,
But that thou none lovest is most evident;
And see thy blood warm when thou feel'st it cold.
And sable curls all silver'd o'er with white;
Which though it alter not love's sole effect,
Haply I think on thee, and then my state,
yet mortal looks adore his beauty still,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest;
Make sweet some vial; treasure thou some place
O' let me, true in love, but truly write,
But flowers distill'd though they with winter meet,
They do but sweetly chide thee, who confounds
Which husbandry in honour might uphold
Save that my soul's imaginary sight
Hath dear religious love stol'n from mine eye
And kept unused, the user so destroys it.
Against the stormy gusts of winter's day
O, none but unthrifts! Dear my love, you know
yet mortal looks adore his beauty still,
By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd;
| [
{
"content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nAnd dost him grace when clouds do blot the heaven:\nNow see what good turns eyes for eyes have done:\nDespite of wrinkles this thy golden time.\nDelights to peep, to gaze therein on thee;\nBut if thou live, remember'd not to be,\nMy body is the frame wherein 'tis held,\nBut that thou none lovest is most evident;\nAnd see thy blood warm when thou feel'st it cold.\nAnd sable curls all silver'd o'er with white;\nWhich though it alter not love's sole effect,\nHaply I think on thee, and then my state,\nyet mortal looks adore his beauty still,\nNor lose possession of that fair thou owest;\nMake sweet some vial; treasure thou some place\nO' let me, true in love, but truly write,\nBut flowers distill'd though they with winter meet,\nThey do but sweetly chide thee, who confounds\nWhich husbandry in honour might uphold\nSave that my soul's imaginary sight\nHath dear religious love stol'n from mine eye\nAnd kept unused, the user so destroys it.\nAgainst the stormy gusts of winter's day\nO, none but unthrifts! Dear my love, you know\nyet mortal looks adore his beauty still,\nBy chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd;\n",
"role": "user"
}
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] |
2 | Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
| FROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
Which bounteous gift thou shouldst in bounty cherish:
A woman's face with Nature's own hand painted
Thou of thyself thy sweet self dost deceive.
Such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces.'
'Had my friend's Muse grown with this growing age,
Desiring this man's art and that man's scope,
When I behold the violet past prime,
To change your day of youth to sullied night;
Seeking that beauteous roof to ruinate
But do not so; I love thee in such sort
Reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme,
But were some child of yours alive that time,
Full many a glorious morning have I seen
O, none but unthrifts! Dear my love, you know
FROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
Which this, Time's pencil, or my pupil pen,
As an unperfect actor on the stage
As those gold candles fix'd in heaven's air:
Pointing to each his thunder, rain and wind,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Let them say more than like of hearsay well;
Making a famine where abundance lies,
A woman's face with Nature's own hand painted
And die as fast as they see others grow;
And die as fast as they see others grow;
Who all their parts of me to thee did give;
'Tis not enough that through the cloud thou break,
Resembling strong youth in his middle age,
Pluck the keen teeth from the fierce tiger's jaws,
Which I by lacking have supposed dead,
Points on me graciously with fair aspect
Presents thy shadow to my sightless view,
And every fair with his fair doth rehearse
That thou no form of thee hast left behind,
No more be grieved at that which thou hast done:
Nor draw no lines there with thine antique pen;
| [
{
"content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nWhich bounteous gift thou shouldst in bounty cherish:\nA woman's face with Nature's own hand painted\nThou of thyself thy sweet self dost deceive.\nSuch heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces.'\n'Had my friend's Muse grown with this growing age,\nDesiring this man's art and that man's scope,\nWhen I behold the violet past prime,\nTo change your day of youth to sullied night;\nSeeking that beauteous roof to ruinate\nBut do not so; I love thee in such sort\nReserve them for my love, not for their rhyme,\nBut were some child of yours alive that time,\nFull many a glorious morning have I seen\nO, none but unthrifts! Dear my love, you know\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nWhich this, Time's pencil, or my pupil pen,\nAs an unperfect actor on the stage\nAs those gold candles fix'd in heaven's air:\nPointing to each his thunder, rain and wind,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nLet them say more than like of hearsay well;\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nA woman's face with Nature's own hand painted\nAnd die as fast as they see others grow;\nAnd die as fast as they see others grow;\nWho all their parts of me to thee did give;\n'Tis not enough that through the cloud thou break,\nResembling strong youth in his middle age,\nPluck the keen teeth from the fierce tiger's jaws,\nWhich I by lacking have supposed dead,\nPoints on me graciously with fair aspect\nPresents thy shadow to my sightless view,\nAnd every fair with his fair doth rehearse\nThat thou no form of thee hast left behind,\nNo more be grieved at that which thou hast done:\nNor draw no lines there with thine antique pen;\n",
"role": "user"
}
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] |
3 | Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
| FROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
To see his active child do deeds of youth,
And your true rights be term'd a poet's rage
If all were minded so, the times should cease
Mine eyes have drawn thy shape, and thine for me
Or else of thee this I prognosticate:
When sparkling stars twire not thou gild'st the even.
Not from the stars do I my judgment pluck;
Beauty o'ersnow'd and bareness every where:
And summer's green all girded up in sheaves
And see the brave day sunk in hideous night;
And, constant stars, in them I read such art
The age to come would say 'This poet lies:
And in themselves their pride lies buried,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,
That heals the wound and cures not the disgrace:
For having traffic with thyself alone,
Thy unused beauty must be tomb'd with thee,
| [
{
"content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nTo see his active child do deeds of youth,\nAnd your true rights be term'd a poet's rage\nIf all were minded so, the times should cease\nMine eyes have drawn thy shape, and thine for me\nOr else of thee this I prognosticate:\nWhen sparkling stars twire not thou gild'st the even.\nNot from the stars do I my judgment pluck;\nBeauty o'ersnow'd and bareness every where:\nAnd summer's green all girded up in sheaves\nAnd see the brave day sunk in hideous night;\nAnd, constant stars, in them I read such art\nThe age to come would say 'This poet lies:\nAnd in themselves their pride lies buried,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nNor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,\nThat heals the wound and cures not the disgrace:\nFor having traffic with thyself alone,\nThy unused beauty must be tomb'd with thee,\n",
"role": "user"
}
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] |
4 | Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
| FROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
Pointing to each his thunder, rain and wind,
That hath his windows glazed with thine eyes.
Proving his beauty by succession thine!
Whose speechless song, being many, seeming one,
A woman's face with Nature's own hand painted
So is it not with me as with that Muse
Pointing to each his thunder, rain and wind,
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
Make thee another self, for love of me,
And fortify yourself in your decay
For to thy sensual fault I bring in sense--
Thou shouldst print more, not let that copy die.
That thou consumest thyself in single life?
By children's eyes her husband's shape in mind.
Whereon the stars in secret influence comment;
Or who is he so fond will be the tomb
Anon permit the basest clouds to ride
Hast thou, the master-mistress of my passion;
Unlook'd on diest, unless thou get a son.
And keep my drooping eyelids open wide,
O, let my books be then the eloquence
And perspective it is the painter's art.
| [
{
"content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nPointing to each his thunder, rain and wind,\nThat hath his windows glazed with thine eyes.\nProving his beauty by succession thine!\nWhose speechless song, being many, seeming one,\nA woman's face with Nature's own hand painted\nSo is it not with me as with that Muse\nPointing to each his thunder, rain and wind,\nSo long as men can breathe or eyes can see,\nMake thee another self, for love of me,\nAnd fortify yourself in your decay\nFor to thy sensual fault I bring in sense--\nThou shouldst print more, not let that copy die.\nThat thou consumest thyself in single life?\nBy children's eyes her husband's shape in mind.\nWhereon the stars in secret influence comment;\nOr who is he so fond will be the tomb\nAnon permit the basest clouds to ride\nHast thou, the master-mistress of my passion;\nUnlook'd on diest, unless thou get a son.\nAnd keep my drooping eyelids open wide,\nO, let my books be then the eloquence\nAnd perspective it is the painter's art.\n",
"role": "user"
}
] | [
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] |
5 | Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
| FROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
And thou, all they, hast all the all of me.
Till whatsoever star that guides my moving
To hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit.
Die single, and thine image dies with thee.
How much more praise deserved thy beauty's use,
Hast thou, the master-mistress of my passion;
Sings this to thee: 'thou single wilt prove none.'
Or any of these all, or all, or more,
Pointing to each his thunder, rain and wind,
O' let me, true in love, but truly write,
I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,
Though yet, heaven knows, it is but as a tomb
Their images I loved I view in thee,
All losses are restored and sorrows end.
| [
{
"content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nAnd thou, all they, hast all the all of me.\nTill whatsoever star that guides my moving\nTo hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit.\nDie single, and thine image dies with thee.\nHow much more praise deserved thy beauty's use,\nHast thou, the master-mistress of my passion;\nSings this to thee: 'thou single wilt prove none.'\nOr any of these all, or all, or more,\nPointing to each his thunder, rain and wind,\nO' let me, true in love, but truly write,\nI sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,\nThough yet, heaven knows, it is but as a tomb\nTheir images I loved I view in thee,\nAll losses are restored and sorrows end.\n",
"role": "user"
}
] | [
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] |
6 | Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
| FROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
For shame! deny that thou bear'st love to any,
Upon thyself thy beauty's legacy?
And being frank she lends to those are free.
To give away yourself keeps yourself still,
And fortify yourself in your decay
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
Hath dear religious love stol'n from mine eye
A woman's gentle heart, but not acquainted
So long lives this and this gives life to thee.
Sweets with sweets war not, joy delights in joy.
Doth homage to his new-appearing sight,
Lifts up his burning head, each under eye
The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan,
Borne on the bier with white and bristly beard,
O, that you were yourself! but, love, you are
Be not self-will'd, for thou art much too fair
And night doth nightly make grief's strength seem stronger.
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
Thy bosom is endeared with all hearts,
But since he died and poets better prove,
And perspective it is the painter's art.
Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell,
That this huge stage presenteth nought but shows
For having traffic with thyself alone,
Make thee another self, for love of me,
But flowers distill'd though they with winter meet,
In singleness the parts that thou shouldst bear.
Holds in perfection but a little moment,
Why lovest thou that which thou receivest not gladly,
Hast thou, the master-mistress of my passion;
Making a couplement of proud compare,
And moan the expense of many a vanish'd sight:
For where is she so fair whose unear'd womb
And by addition me of thee defeated,
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
Yet doth it steal sweet hours from love's delight.
| [
{
"content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nFor shame! deny that thou bear'st love to any,\nUpon thyself thy beauty's legacy?\nAnd being frank she lends to those are free.\nTo give away yourself keeps yourself still,\nAnd fortify yourself in your decay\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nHath dear religious love stol'n from mine eye\nA woman's gentle heart, but not acquainted\nSo long lives this and this gives life to thee.\nSweets with sweets war not, joy delights in joy.\nDoth homage to his new-appearing sight,\nLifts up his burning head, each under eye\nThe sad account of fore-bemoaned moan,\nBorne on the bier with white and bristly beard,\nO, that you were yourself! but, love, you are\nBe not self-will'd, for thou art much too fair\nAnd night doth nightly make grief's strength seem stronger.\nYet in these thoughts myself almost despising,\nThy bosom is endeared with all hearts,\nBut since he died and poets better prove,\nAnd perspective it is the painter's art.\nNor can I fortune to brief minutes tell,\nThat this huge stage presenteth nought but shows\nFor having traffic with thyself alone,\nMake thee another self, for love of me,\nBut flowers distill'd though they with winter meet,\nIn singleness the parts that thou shouldst bear.\nHolds in perfection but a little moment,\nWhy lovest thou that which thou receivest not gladly,\nHast thou, the master-mistress of my passion;\nMaking a couplement of proud compare,\nAnd moan the expense of many a vanish'd sight:\nFor where is she so fair whose unear'd womb\nAnd by addition me of thee defeated,\nRough winds do shake the darling buds of May,\nYet doth it steal sweet hours from love's delight.\n",
"role": "user"
}
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13,
29979,
300,
297,
1438,
13133,
6142,
4359,
553,
3334,
292,
29892,
13,
1349,
29891,
13601,
290,
338,
19981,
1965,
411,
599,
26490,
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13,
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1951,
540,
6423,
322,
772,
1691,
2253,
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13,
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18520,
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278,
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29879,
15319,
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518,
29914,
25580,
29962
] |
7 | Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
| FROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
Nor it nor no remembrance what it was:
That use is not forbidden usury,
| [
{
"content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nNor it nor no remembrance what it was:\nThat use is not forbidden usury,\n",
"role": "user"
}
] | [
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366,
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13,
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342,
907,
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304,
266,
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5076,
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671,
338,
451,
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518,
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] |
8 | Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
| FROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
That's for thyself to breed another thee,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
After a thousand victories once foil'd,
Against this coming end you should prepare,
They do but sweetly chide thee, who confounds
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate;
By oft predict that I in heaven find:
But as the marigold at the sun's eye,
O, then vouchsafe me but this loving thought:
That I in thy abundance am sufficed
Gilding the object whereupon it gazeth;
And see the brave day sunk in hideous night;
Authorizing thy trespass with compare,
That I an accessary needs must be
That due of many now is thine alone:
Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow,
By unions married, do offend thine ear,
When I behold the violet past prime,
The lovely gaze where every eye doth dwell,
If the true concord of well-tuned sounds,
That I an accessary needs must be
And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;
So long lives this and this gives life to thee.
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Despite of wrinkles this thy golden time.
To let base clouds o'ertake me in my way,
| [
{
"content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nThat's for thyself to breed another thee,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nAfter a thousand victories once foil'd,\nAgainst this coming end you should prepare,\nThey do but sweetly chide thee, who confounds\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nFrom sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate;\nBy oft predict that I in heaven find:\nBut as the marigold at the sun's eye,\nO, then vouchsafe me but this loving thought:\nThat I in thy abundance am sufficed\nGilding the object whereupon it gazeth;\nAnd see the brave day sunk in hideous night;\nAuthorizing thy trespass with compare,\nThat I an accessary needs must be\nThat due of many now is thine alone:\nThen can I drown an eye, unused to flow,\nBy unions married, do offend thine ear,\nWhen I behold the violet past prime,\nThe lovely gaze where every eye doth dwell,\nIf the true concord of well-tuned sounds,\nThat I an accessary needs must be\nAnd often is his gold complexion dimm'd;\nSo long lives this and this gives life to thee.\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nDespite of wrinkles this thy golden time.\nTo let base clouds o'ertake me in my way,\n",
"role": "user"
}
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541,
445,
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29962
] |
9 | Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
| FROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
When every private widow well may keep
Harsh featureless and rude, barrenly perish:
And barren rage of death's eternal cold?
Nature's bequest gives nothing but doth lend,
What acceptable audit canst thou leave?
Duty so great, which wit so poor as mine
Pluck the keen teeth from the fierce tiger's jaws,
They draw but what they see, know not the heart.
As tender nurse her babe from faring ill.
Presume not on thy heart when mine is slain;
A liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass,
With means more blessed than my barren rhyme?
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
Is from the book of honour razed quite,
With all triumphant splendor on my brow;
As I, not for myself, but for thee will;
Whilst I, whom fortune of such triumph bars,
But from thine eyes my knowledge I derive,
And summer's green all girded up in sheaves
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Is it for fear to wet a widow's eye
As he takes from you, I engraft you new.
May make seem bare, in wanting words to show it,
But that thou none lovest is most evident;
Making a couplement of proud compare,
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
With virtuous wish would bear your living flowers,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
So should my papers yellow'd with their age
O, none but unthrifts! Dear my love, you know
Who with his fear is put besides his part,
And, constant stars, in them I read such art
Who heaven itself for ornament doth use
And burn the long-lived phoenix in her blood;
As fast as thou shalt wane, so fast thou growest
Delights to peep, to gaze therein on thee;
Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,
| [
{
"content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nWhen every private widow well may keep\nHarsh featureless and rude, barrenly perish:\nAnd barren rage of death's eternal cold?\nNature's bequest gives nothing but doth lend,\nWhat acceptable audit canst thou leave?\nDuty so great, which wit so poor as mine\nPluck the keen teeth from the fierce tiger's jaws,\nThey draw but what they see, know not the heart.\nAs tender nurse her babe from faring ill.\nPresume not on thy heart when mine is slain;\nA liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass,\nWith means more blessed than my barren rhyme?\nAnd every fair from fair sometime declines,\nIs from the book of honour razed quite,\nWith all triumphant splendor on my brow;\nAs I, not for myself, but for thee will;\nWhilst I, whom fortune of such triumph bars,\nBut from thine eyes my knowledge I derive,\nAnd summer's green all girded up in sheaves\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nIs it for fear to wet a widow's eye\nAs he takes from you, I engraft you new.\nMay make seem bare, in wanting words to show it,\nBut that thou none lovest is most evident;\nMaking a couplement of proud compare,\nRough winds do shake the darling buds of May,\nWith virtuous wish would bear your living flowers,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nSo should my papers yellow'd with their age\nO, none but unthrifts! Dear my love, you know\nWho with his fear is put besides his part,\nAnd, constant stars, in them I read such art\nWho heaven itself for ornament doth use\nAnd burn the long-lived phoenix in her blood;\nAs fast as thou shalt wane, so fast thou growest\nDelights to peep, to gaze therein on thee;\nNor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,\n",
"role": "user"
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] |
10 | Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
| FROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
Lifts up his burning head, each under eye
So should my papers yellow'd with their age
Leaving thee living in posterity?
That 'gainst thyself thou stick'st not to conspire.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
Sap cheque'd with frost and lusty leaves quite gone,
And trouble deal heaven with my bootless cries
| [
{
"content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nLifts up his burning head, each under eye\nSo should my papers yellow'd with their age\nLeaving thee living in posterity?\nThat 'gainst thyself thou stick'st not to conspire.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nSap cheque'd with frost and lusty leaves quite gone,\nAnd trouble deal heaven with my bootless cries\n",
"role": "user"
}
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] |
11 | Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
| FROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
And your sweet semblance to some other give.
So I, made lame by fortune's dearest spite,
Let those whom Nature hath not made for store,
This were to be new made when thou art old,
Sets you most rich in youth before my sight,
Nor can thy shame give physic to my grief;
Thou of thyself thy sweet self dost deceive.
| [
{
"content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nAnd your sweet semblance to some other give.\nSo I, made lame by fortune's dearest spite,\nLet those whom Nature hath not made for store,\nThis were to be new made when thou art old,\nSets you most rich in youth before my sight,\nNor can thy shame give physic to my grief;\nThou of thyself thy sweet self dost deceive.\n",
"role": "user"
}
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] |
12 | Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
| FROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
That use is not forbidden usury,
Or else of thee this I prognosticate:
And from the forlorn world his visage hide,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
Hiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke?
But things removed that hidden in thee lie!
But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,
The painful warrior famoused for fight,
Mine eye hath play'd the painter and hath stell'd
And barren rage of death's eternal cold?
In thy soul's thought, all naked, will bestow it;
I summon up remembrance of things past,
That am debarr'd the benefit of rest?
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest;
Lifts up his burning head, each under eye
But as the marigold at the sun's eye,
O, none but unthrifts! Dear my love, you know
Whose fresh repair if now thou not renewest,
With means more blessed than my barren rhyme?
| [
{
"content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nThat use is not forbidden usury,\nOr else of thee this I prognosticate:\nAnd from the forlorn world his visage hide,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nHiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke?\nBut things removed that hidden in thee lie!\nBut if the while I think on thee, dear friend,\nThe painful warrior famoused for fight,\nMine eye hath play'd the painter and hath stell'd\nAnd barren rage of death's eternal cold?\nIn thy soul's thought, all naked, will bestow it;\nI summon up remembrance of things past,\nThat am debarr'd the benefit of rest?\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nNor lose possession of that fair thou owest;\nLifts up his burning head, each under eye\nBut as the marigold at the sun's eye,\nO, none but unthrifts! Dear my love, you know\nWhose fresh repair if now thou not renewest,\nWith means more blessed than my barren rhyme?\n",
"role": "user"
}
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] |
13 | Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
| FROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
Then, were not summer's distillation left,
Look, what an unthrift in the world doth spend
Presents thy shadow to my sightless view,
With virtuous wish would bear your living flowers,
| [
{
"content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nThen, were not summer's distillation left,\nLook, what an unthrift in the world doth spend\nPresents thy shadow to my sightless view,\nWith virtuous wish would bear your living flowers,\n",
"role": "user"
}
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518,
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25580,
29962
] |
14 | Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
| FROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
Thou mayst call thine when thou from youth convertest.
O, let my books be then the eloquence
Excusing thy sins more than thy sins are;
That 'gainst thyself thou stick'st not to conspire.
To change your day of youth to sullied night;
Of plagues, of dearths, or seasons' quality;
Such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces.'
His tender heir might bear his memory:
She carved thee for her seal, and meant thereby
'Tis not enough that through the cloud thou break,
O, change thy thought, that I may change my mind!
Thy end is truth's and beauty's doom and date.
This were to be new made when thou art old,
Can make you live yourself in eyes of men.
For to thy sensual fault I bring in sense--
Are windows to my breast, where-through the sun
With beauty's treasure, ere it be self-kill'd.
| [
{
"content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nThou mayst call thine when thou from youth convertest.\nO, let my books be then the eloquence\nExcusing thy sins more than thy sins are;\nThat 'gainst thyself thou stick'st not to conspire.\nTo change your day of youth to sullied night;\nOf plagues, of dearths, or seasons' quality;\nSuch heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces.'\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nShe carved thee for her seal, and meant thereby\n'Tis not enough that through the cloud thou break,\nO, change thy thought, that I may change my mind!\nThy end is truth's and beauty's doom and date.\nThis were to be new made when thou art old,\nCan make you live yourself in eyes of men.\nFor to thy sensual fault I bring in sense--\nAre windows to my breast, where-through the sun\nWith beauty's treasure, ere it be self-kill'd.\n",
"role": "user"
}
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13,
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29891,
12397,
29915,
29879,
22314,
619,
1201,
29892,
577,
12642,
287,
373,
1286,
29892,
13,
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367,
263,
260,
2620,
29915,
29881,
591,
287,
29892,
310,
2319,
7088,
4934,
29901,
13,
1349,
283,
1122,
303,
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] |
15 | Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
| FROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
For no man well of such a salve can speak
So then I am not lame, poor, nor despised,
And moan the expense of many a vanish'd sight:
To hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit.
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
My love shall in my verse ever live young.
Or any of these all, or all, or more,
Makes black night beauteous and her old face new.
I make my love engrafted to this store:
When day's oppression is not eased by night,
Cheered and cheque'd even by the self-same sky,
Despite of wrinkles this thy golden time.
O, that you were yourself! but, love, you are
And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;
That this huge stage presenteth nought but shows
Not from the stars do I my judgment pluck;
Presents thy shadow to my sightless view,
But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,
And in fresh numbers number all your graces,
O'ercharged with burden of mine own love's might.
In thy soul's thought, all naked, will bestow it;
If I could write the beauty of your eyes
With shifting change, as is false women's fashion;
Save breed, to brave him when he takes thee hence.
And all the rest forgot for which he toil'd:
Cheered and cheque'd even by the self-same sky,
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.
Sings this to thee: 'thou single wilt prove none.'
From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate;
Whose strength's abundance weakens his own heart.
With virtuous wish would bear your living flowers,
But since she prick'd thee out for women's pleasure,
As a decrepit father takes delight
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
You had a father: let your son say so.
Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow,
| [
{
"content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nFor no man well of such a salve can speak\nSo then I am not lame, poor, nor despised,\nAnd moan the expense of many a vanish'd sight:\nTo hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit.\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nMy love shall in my verse ever live young.\nOr any of these all, or all, or more,\nMakes black night beauteous and her old face new.\nI make my love engrafted to this store:\nWhen day's oppression is not eased by night,\nCheered and cheque'd even by the self-same sky,\nDespite of wrinkles this thy golden time.\nO, that you were yourself! but, love, you are\nAnd often is his gold complexion dimm'd;\nThat this huge stage presenteth nought but shows\nNot from the stars do I my judgment pluck;\nPresents thy shadow to my sightless view,\nBut if the while I think on thee, dear friend,\nAnd in fresh numbers number all your graces,\nO'ercharged with burden of mine own love's might.\nIn thy soul's thought, all naked, will bestow it;\nIf I could write the beauty of your eyes\nWith shifting change, as is false women's fashion;\nSave breed, to brave him when he takes thee hence.\nAnd all the rest forgot for which he toil'd:\nCheered and cheque'd even by the self-same sky,\nThat then I scorn to change my state with kings.\nSings this to thee: 'thou single wilt prove none.'\nFrom sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate;\nWhose strength's abundance weakens his own heart.\nWith virtuous wish would bear your living flowers,\nBut since she prick'd thee out for women's pleasure,\nAs a decrepit father takes delight\nYet in these thoughts myself almost despising,\nYou had a father: let your son say so.\nThen can I drown an eye, unused to flow,\n",
"role": "user"
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] |
16 | Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
| FROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
For having traffic with thyself alone,
Hiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke?
O, then vouchsafe me but this loving thought:
But do not so; I love thee in such sort
Find no determination: then you were
But as the riper should by time decease,
Which husbandry in honour might uphold
As any mother's child, though not so bright
yet mortal looks adore his beauty still,
Now is the time that face should form another;
Which in my bosom's shop is hanging still,
To show me worthy of thy sweet respect:
For shame! deny that thou bear'st love to any,
So shall those blots that do with me remain
A dearer birth than this his love had brought,
For where is she so fair whose unear'd womb
When that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover,
Thy unused beauty must be tomb'd with thee,
Unlook'd on diest, unless thou get a son.
With April's first-born flowers, and all things rare
For through the painter must you see his skill,
Not from the stars do I my judgment pluck;
Who plead for love and look for recompense
Who all in one, one pleasing note do sing:
Of plagues, of dearths, or seasons' quality;
With April's first-born flowers, and all things rare
Who lets so fair a house fall to decay,
So great a sum of sums, yet canst not live?
The lovely gaze where every eye doth dwell,
Then, beauteous niggard, why dost thou abuse
And do whate'er thou wilt, swift-footed Time,
| [
{
"content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nFor having traffic with thyself alone,\nHiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke?\nO, then vouchsafe me but this loving thought:\nBut do not so; I love thee in such sort\nFind no determination: then you were\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nWhich husbandry in honour might uphold\nAs any mother's child, though not so bright\nyet mortal looks adore his beauty still,\nNow is the time that face should form another;\nWhich in my bosom's shop is hanging still,\nTo show me worthy of thy sweet respect:\nFor shame! deny that thou bear'st love to any,\nSo shall those blots that do with me remain\nA dearer birth than this his love had brought,\nFor where is she so fair whose unear'd womb\nWhen that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover,\nThy unused beauty must be tomb'd with thee,\nUnlook'd on diest, unless thou get a son.\nWith April's first-born flowers, and all things rare\nFor through the painter must you see his skill,\nNot from the stars do I my judgment pluck;\nWho plead for love and look for recompense\nWho all in one, one pleasing note do sing:\nOf plagues, of dearths, or seasons' quality;\nWith April's first-born flowers, and all things rare\nWho lets so fair a house fall to decay,\nSo great a sum of sums, yet canst not live?\nThe lovely gaze where every eye doth dwell,\nThen, beauteous niggard, why dost thou abuse\nAnd do whate'er thou wilt, swift-footed Time,\n",
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] |
17 | Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
| FROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
The dear repose for limbs with travel tired;
And barren rage of death's eternal cold?
Vaunt in their youthful sap, at height decrease,
Though yet, heaven knows, it is but as a tomb
With beauty's treasure, ere it be self-kill'd.
Till Nature, as she wrought thee, fell a-doting,
Hiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke?
Stirr'd by a painted beauty to his verse,
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.
Who all in one, one pleasing note do sing:
Thy adverse party is thy advocate--
And having climb'd the steep-up heavenly hill,
With virtuous wish would bear your living flowers,
And wear their brave state out of memory;
Attending on his golden pilgrimage;
Featured like him, like him with friends possess'd,
Then the conceit of this inconstant stay
To that sweet thief which sourly robs from me.
I summon up remembrance of things past,
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
And by addition me of thee defeated,
Beauty's effect with beauty were bereft,
A woman's gentle heart, but not acquainted
When sparkling stars twire not thou gild'st the even.
With virtuous wish would bear your living flowers,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
O'ercharged with burden of mine own love's might.
That thou consumest thyself in single life?
By unions married, do offend thine ear,
| [
{
"content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nThe dear repose for limbs with travel tired;\nAnd barren rage of death's eternal cold?\nVaunt in their youthful sap, at height decrease,\nThough yet, heaven knows, it is but as a tomb\nWith beauty's treasure, ere it be self-kill'd.\nTill Nature, as she wrought thee, fell a-doting,\nHiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke?\nStirr'd by a painted beauty to his verse,\nThat then I scorn to change my state with kings.\nWho all in one, one pleasing note do sing:\nThy adverse party is thy advocate--\nAnd having climb'd the steep-up heavenly hill,\nWith virtuous wish would bear your living flowers,\nAnd wear their brave state out of memory;\nAttending on his golden pilgrimage;\nFeatured like him, like him with friends possess'd,\nThen the conceit of this inconstant stay\nTo that sweet thief which sourly robs from me.\nI summon up remembrance of things past,\nAnd every fair from fair sometime declines,\nAnd by addition me of thee defeated,\nBeauty's effect with beauty were bereft,\nA woman's gentle heart, but not acquainted\nWhen sparkling stars twire not thou gild'st the even.\nWith virtuous wish would bear your living flowers,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nO'ercharged with burden of mine own love's might.\nThat thou consumest thyself in single life?\nBy unions married, do offend thine ear,\n",
"role": "user"
}
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] |
18 | Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
| FROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
For at a frown they in their glory die.
Of public honour and proud titles boast,
Who all their parts of me to thee did give;
As I, not for myself, but for thee will;
To let base clouds o'ertake me in my way,
Shall hate be fairer lodged than gentle love?
That I an accessary needs must be
Whilst that this shadow doth such substance give
Mine be thy love and thy love's use their treasure.
But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,
Make sweet some vial; treasure thou some place
Who will believe my verse in time to come,
But then begins a journey in my head,
| [
{
"content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nFor at a frown they in their glory die.\nOf public honour and proud titles boast,\nWho all their parts of me to thee did give;\nAs I, not for myself, but for thee will;\nTo let base clouds o'ertake me in my way,\nShall hate be fairer lodged than gentle love?\nThat I an accessary needs must be\nWhilst that this shadow doth such substance give\nMine be thy love and thy love's use their treasure.\nBut if the while I think on thee, dear friend,\nMake sweet some vial; treasure thou some place\nWho will believe my verse in time to come,\nBut then begins a journey in my head,\n",
"role": "user"
}
] | [
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769,
16410,
263,
16342,
297,
590,
2343,
29892,
518,
29914,
25580,
29962
] |
19 | Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
| FROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell,
Leaving thee living in posterity?
Then let not winter's ragged hand deface
For no man well of such a salve can speak
For whether beauty, birth, or wealth, or wit,
Take all my comfort of thy worth and truth.
As any mother's child, though not so bright
If the true concord of well-tuned sounds,
I will not praise that purpose not to sell.
And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste:
And by addition me of thee defeated,
So great a sum of sums, yet canst not live?
Save breed, to brave him when he takes thee hence.
By oft predict that I in heaven find:
For all that beauty that doth cover thee
| [
{
"content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nNor can I fortune to brief minutes tell,\nLeaving thee living in posterity?\nThen let not winter's ragged hand deface\nFor no man well of such a salve can speak\nFor whether beauty, birth, or wealth, or wit,\nTake all my comfort of thy worth and truth.\nAs any mother's child, though not so bright\nIf the true concord of well-tuned sounds,\nI will not praise that purpose not to sell.\nAnd with old woes new wail my dear time's waste:\nAnd by addition me of thee defeated,\nSo great a sum of sums, yet canst not live?\nSave breed, to brave him when he takes thee hence.\nBy oft predict that I in heaven find:\nFor all that beauty that doth cover thee\n",
"role": "user"
}
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393,
270,
720,
4612,
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518,
29914,
25580,
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] |
20 | Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
| FROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
And wear their brave state out of memory;
And having climb'd the steep-up heavenly hill,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
| [
{
"content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nAnd wear their brave state out of memory;\nAnd having climb'd the steep-up heavenly hill,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\n",
"role": "user"
}
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13,
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287,
373,
1286,
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518,
29914,
25580,
29962
] |
21 | Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
| FROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
More than that tongue that more hath more express'd.
When sparkling stars twire not thou gild'st the even.
Who plead for love and look for recompense
Pluck the keen teeth from the fierce tiger's jaws,
If all were minded so, the times should cease
No love toward others in that bosom sits
And summer's lease hath all too short a date:
Much liker than your painted counterfeit:
O, learn to read what silent love hath writ:
Then may I dare to boast how I do love thee;
May make seem bare, in wanting words to show it,
Which erst from heat did canopy the herd,
O, let my books be then the eloquence
Or ten times happier, be it ten for one;
Which I by lacking have supposed dead,
And wear their brave state out of memory;
But then begins a journey in my head,
To work my mind, when body's work's expired:
And summer's lease hath all too short a date:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,
Who plead for love and look for recompense
Since sweets and beauties do themselves forsake
Cheered and cheque'd even by the self-same sky,
Shall sum my count and make my old excuse,'
Then look I death my days should expiate.
But as the marigold at the sun's eye,
And make the earth devour her own sweet brood;
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
I will not praise that purpose not to sell.
But I forbid thee one most heinous crime:
For to thy sensual fault I bring in sense--
As I, not for myself, but for thee will;
Profitless usurer, why dost thou use
| [
{
"content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nMore than that tongue that more hath more express'd.\nWhen sparkling stars twire not thou gild'st the even.\nWho plead for love and look for recompense\nPluck the keen teeth from the fierce tiger's jaws,\nIf all were minded so, the times should cease\nNo love toward others in that bosom sits\nAnd summer's lease hath all too short a date:\nMuch liker than your painted counterfeit:\nO, learn to read what silent love hath writ:\nThen may I dare to boast how I do love thee;\nMay make seem bare, in wanting words to show it,\nWhich erst from heat did canopy the herd,\nO, let my books be then the eloquence\nOr ten times happier, be it ten for one;\nWhich I by lacking have supposed dead,\nAnd wear their brave state out of memory;\nBut then begins a journey in my head,\nTo work my mind, when body's work's expired:\nAnd summer's lease hath all too short a date:\nRough winds do shake the darling buds of May,\nNor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,\nWho plead for love and look for recompense\nSince sweets and beauties do themselves forsake\nCheered and cheque'd even by the self-same sky,\nShall sum my count and make my old excuse,'\nThen look I death my days should expiate.\nBut as the marigold at the sun's eye,\nAnd make the earth devour her own sweet brood;\nYet in these thoughts myself almost despising,\nI will not praise that purpose not to sell.\nBut I forbid thee one most heinous crime:\nFor to thy sensual fault I bring in sense--\nAs I, not for myself, but for thee will;\nProfitless usurer, why dost thou use\n",
"role": "user"
}
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] |
22 | Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
| FROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
The painful warrior famoused for fight,
Or ten times happier, be it ten for one;
Kissing with golden face the meadows green,
For shame! deny that thou bear'st love to any,
Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage,
Though yet, heaven knows, it is but as a tomb
Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed,
Authorizing thy trespass with compare,
From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate;
That 'gainst thyself thou stick'st not to conspire.
But if thou live, remember'd not to be,
'Tis not enough that through the cloud thou break,
With virtuous wish would bear your living flowers,
If thou couldst answer 'This fair child of mine
The one by toil, the other to complain
As those gold candles fix'd in heaven's air:
Be not self-will'd, for thou art much too fair
FROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
Theirs for their style I'll read, his for his love.'
Then, were not summer's distillation left,
To witness duty, not to show my wit:
And 'gainst myself a lawful plea commence:
The offender's sorrow lends but weak relief
But flowers distill'd though they with winter meet,
Nor draw no lines there with thine antique pen;
And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;
The region cloud hath mask'd him from me now.
But thy eternal summer shall not fade
Suns of the world may stain when heaven's sun staineth.
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
To show me worthy of thy sweet respect:
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
| [
{
"content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nThe painful warrior famoused for fight,\nOr ten times happier, be it ten for one;\nKissing with golden face the meadows green,\nFor shame! deny that thou bear'st love to any,\nOr some fierce thing replete with too much rage,\nThough yet, heaven knows, it is but as a tomb\nWeary with toil, I haste me to my bed,\nAuthorizing thy trespass with compare,\nFrom sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate;\nThat 'gainst thyself thou stick'st not to conspire.\nBut if thou live, remember'd not to be,\n'Tis not enough that through the cloud thou break,\nWith virtuous wish would bear your living flowers,\nIf thou couldst answer 'This fair child of mine\nThe one by toil, the other to complain\nAs those gold candles fix'd in heaven's air:\nBe not self-will'd, for thou art much too fair\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nTheirs for their style I'll read, his for his love.'\nThen, were not summer's distillation left,\nTo witness duty, not to show my wit:\nAnd 'gainst myself a lawful plea commence:\nThe offender's sorrow lends but weak relief\nBut flowers distill'd though they with winter meet,\nNor draw no lines there with thine antique pen;\nAnd often is his gold complexion dimm'd;\nThe region cloud hath mask'd him from me now.\nBut thy eternal summer shall not fade\nSuns of the world may stain when heaven's sun staineth.\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nTo show me worthy of thy sweet respect:\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\n",
"role": "user"
}
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] |
23 | Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
| FROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
O, let my books be then the eloquence
Now is the time that face should form another;
This wish I have; then ten times happy me!
Thy beauty's form in table of my heart;
And summer's green all girded up in sheaves
Though yet, heaven knows, it is but as a tomb
Presents thy shadow to my sightless view,
When I behold the violet past prime,
If ten of thine ten times refigured thee:
Theirs for their style I'll read, his for his love.'
| [
{
"content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nO, let my books be then the eloquence\nNow is the time that face should form another;\nThis wish I have; then ten times happy me!\nThy beauty's form in table of my heart;\nAnd summer's green all girded up in sheaves\nThough yet, heaven knows, it is but as a tomb\nPresents thy shadow to my sightless view,\nWhen I behold the violet past prime,\nIf ten of thine ten times refigured thee:\nTheirs for their style I'll read, his for his love.'\n",
"role": "user"
}
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289,
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2793,
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521,
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2136,
342,
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297,
302,
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] |
24 | Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
| FROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
I will not praise that purpose not to sell.
As I, not for myself, but for thee will;
Is it for fear to wet a widow's eye
The dear repose for limbs with travel tired;
Great princes' favourites their fair leaves spread
My body is the frame wherein 'tis held,
To him that bears the strong offence's cross.
Much steals men's eyes and women's souls amazeth.
Though thou repent, yet I have still the loss:
And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er
Looking on darkness which the blind do see
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And wear their brave state out of memory;
To march in ranks of better equipage:
The one by toil, the other to complain
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
For through the painter must you see his skill,
Entitled in thy parts do crowned sit,
The world will be thy widow and still weep
For to thy sensual fault I bring in sense--
Pointing to each his thunder, rain and wind,
As any mother's child, though not so bright
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
| [
{
"content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nI will not praise that purpose not to sell.\nAs I, not for myself, but for thee will;\nIs it for fear to wet a widow's eye\nThe dear repose for limbs with travel tired;\nGreat princes' favourites their fair leaves spread\nMy body is the frame wherein 'tis held,\nTo him that bears the strong offence's cross.\nMuch steals men's eyes and women's souls amazeth.\nThough thou repent, yet I have still the loss:\nAnd heavily from woe to woe tell o'er\nLooking on darkness which the blind do see\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd wear their brave state out of memory;\nTo march in ranks of better equipage:\nThe one by toil, the other to complain\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nFor through the painter must you see his skill,\nEntitled in thy parts do crowned sit,\nThe world will be thy widow and still weep\nFor to thy sensual fault I bring in sense--\nPointing to each his thunder, rain and wind,\nAs any mother's child, though not so bright\nWishing me like to one more rich in hope,\n",
"role": "user"
}
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] |
25 | Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
| FROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
Upon thyself thy beauty's legacy?
And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er
Or who is he so fond will be the tomb
That this huge stage presenteth nought but shows
Full many a glorious morning have I seen
And see thy blood warm when thou feel'st it cold.
And yet methinks I have astronomy,
FROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
Nor it nor no remembrance what it was:
Thy bosom is endeared with all hearts,
That on himself such murderous shame commits.
So shall those blots that do with me remain
Herein lives wisdom, beauty and increase:
As truth and beauty shall together thrive,
Thou mayst call thine when thou from youth convertest.
Featured like him, like him with friends possess'd,
But wherefore do not you a mightier way
Hath dear religious love stol'n from mine eye
Pluck the keen teeth from the fierce tiger's jaws,
Whereon the stars in secret influence comment;
Ah! if thou issueless shalt hap to die.
So I, made lame by fortune's dearest spite,
If all were minded so, the times should cease
Who with his fear is put besides his part,
When I do count the clock that tells the time,
No love toward others in that bosom sits
If all were minded so, the times should cease
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell,
Whereon the stars in secret influence comment;
Which in thy breast doth live, as thine in me:
But then begins a journey in my head,
From his low tract and look another way:
Strikes each in each by mutual ordering,
As truth and beauty shall together thrive,
If the true concord of well-tuned sounds,
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
yet mortal looks adore his beauty still,
| [
{
"content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nUpon thyself thy beauty's legacy?\nAnd heavily from woe to woe tell o'er\nOr who is he so fond will be the tomb\nThat this huge stage presenteth nought but shows\nFull many a glorious morning have I seen\nAnd see thy blood warm when thou feel'st it cold.\nAnd yet methinks I have astronomy,\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nNor it nor no remembrance what it was:\nThy bosom is endeared with all hearts,\nThat on himself such murderous shame commits.\nSo shall those blots that do with me remain\nHerein lives wisdom, beauty and increase:\nAs truth and beauty shall together thrive,\nThou mayst call thine when thou from youth convertest.\nFeatured like him, like him with friends possess'd,\nBut wherefore do not you a mightier way\nHath dear religious love stol'n from mine eye\nPluck the keen teeth from the fierce tiger's jaws,\nWhereon the stars in secret influence comment;\nAh! if thou issueless shalt hap to die.\nSo I, made lame by fortune's dearest spite,\nIf all were minded so, the times should cease\nWho with his fear is put besides his part,\nWhen I do count the clock that tells the time,\nNo love toward others in that bosom sits\nIf all were minded so, the times should cease\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nNor can I fortune to brief minutes tell,\nWhereon the stars in secret influence comment;\nWhich in thy breast doth live, as thine in me:\nBut then begins a journey in my head,\nFrom his low tract and look another way:\nStrikes each in each by mutual ordering,\nAs truth and beauty shall together thrive,\nIf the true concord of well-tuned sounds,\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nyet mortal looks adore his beauty still,\n",
"role": "user"
}
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278,
28430,
25287,
515,
278,
21334,
346,
260,
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284,
3430,
594,
487,
670,
15409,
1603,
29892,
518,
29914,
25580,
29962
] |
26 | Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
| FROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
The dear repose for limbs with travel tired;
Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy;
When that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover,
For all that beauty that doth cover thee
Nature's bequest gives nothing but doth lend,
And trouble deal heaven with my bootless cries
For where is she so fair whose unear'd womb
She carved thee for her seal, and meant thereby
And kept unused, the user so destroys it.
The lovely gaze where every eye doth dwell,
Excusing thy sins more than thy sins are;
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
| [
{
"content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nThe dear repose for limbs with travel tired;\nGilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy;\nWhen that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover,\nFor all that beauty that doth cover thee\nNature's bequest gives nothing but doth lend,\nAnd trouble deal heaven with my bootless cries\nFor where is she so fair whose unear'd womb\nShe carved thee for her seal, and meant thereby\nAnd kept unused, the user so destroys it.\nThe lovely gaze where every eye doth dwell,\nExcusing thy sins more than thy sins are;\nThou art more lovely and more temperate:\n",
"role": "user"
}
] | [
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873,
322,
901,
6238,
403,
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518,
29914,
25580,
29962
] |
27 | Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
| FROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.
Whose speechless song, being many, seeming one,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date:
Excusing thy sins more than thy sins are;
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.
And being frank she lends to those are free.
As fast as thou shalt wane, so fast thou growest
The world will wail thee, like a makeless wife;
To let base clouds o'ertake me in my way,
Then, were not summer's distillation left,
Let those whom Nature hath not made for store,
Where I may not remove nor be removed.
Against the stormy gusts of winter's day
Yet eyes this cunning want to grace their art;
Where wasteful Time debateth with Decay,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
To work my mind, when body's work's expired:
Hast thou, the master-mistress of my passion;
Doth homage to his new-appearing sight,
Sets you most rich in youth before my sight,
And nothing 'gainst Time's scythe can make defence
Which in thy breast doth live, as thine in me:
Be not self-will'd, for thou art much too fair
Although our undivided loves are one:
And make me travel forth without my cloak,
Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day,
Is but the seemly raiment of my heart,
Whose fresh repair if now thou not renewest,
Be not self-will'd, for thou art much too fair
| [
{
"content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nThat then I scorn to change my state with kings.\nWhose speechless song, being many, seeming one,\nAnd summer's lease hath all too short a date:\nExcusing thy sins more than thy sins are;\nThat then I scorn to change my state with kings.\nAnd being frank she lends to those are free.\nAs fast as thou shalt wane, so fast thou growest\nThe world will wail thee, like a makeless wife;\nTo let base clouds o'ertake me in my way,\nThen, were not summer's distillation left,\nLet those whom Nature hath not made for store,\nWhere I may not remove nor be removed.\nAgainst the stormy gusts of winter's day\nYet eyes this cunning want to grace their art;\nWhere wasteful Time debateth with Decay,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nTo work my mind, when body's work's expired:\nHast thou, the master-mistress of my passion;\nDoth homage to his new-appearing sight,\nSets you most rich in youth before my sight,\nAnd nothing 'gainst Time's scythe can make defence\nWhich in thy breast doth live, as thine in me:\nBe not self-will'd, for thou art much too fair\nAlthough our undivided loves are one:\nAnd make me travel forth without my cloak,\nWhy didst thou promise such a beauteous day,\nIs but the seemly raiment of my heart,\nWhose fresh repair if now thou not renewest,\nBe not self-will'd, for thou art much too fair\n",
"role": "user"
}
] | [
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29962,
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408,
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366,
508,
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13,
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591,
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330,
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274,
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1616,
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13,
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304,
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391,
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310,
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29881,
29892,
363,
12595,
1616,
1568,
2086,
6534,
518,
29914,
25580,
29962
] |
28 | Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
| FROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
Lest my bewailed guilt should do thee shame,
And many maiden gardens yet unset
Then what could death do, if thou shouldst depart,
Lo! thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind,
With beauty's treasure, ere it be self-kill'd.
And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er
Were an all-eating shame and thriftless praise.
Then, beauteous niggard, why dost thou abuse
Thou art thy mother's glass, and she in thee
Who lets so fair a house fall to decay,
For no man well of such a salve can speak
| [
{
"content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nLest my bewailed guilt should do thee shame,\nAnd many maiden gardens yet unset\nThen what could death do, if thou shouldst depart,\nLo! thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind,\nWith beauty's treasure, ere it be self-kill'd.\nAnd heavily from woe to woe tell o'er\nWere an all-eating shame and thriftless praise.\nThen, beauteous niggard, why dost thou abuse\nThou art thy mother's glass, and she in thee\nWho lets so fair a house fall to decay,\nFor no man well of such a salve can speak\n",
"role": "user"
}
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] |
29 | Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
| FROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
Lo! thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind,
Make sweet some vial; treasure thou some place
To him that bears the strong offence's cross.
Like to the lark at break of day arising
After a thousand victories once foil'd,
With April's first-born flowers, and all things rare
Then being ask'd where all thy beauty lies,
Making a couplement of proud compare,
O'ercharged with burden of mine own love's might.
Look, whom she best endow'd she gave the more;
Till then not show my head where thou mayst prove me.
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Make thee another self, for love of me,
With shifting change, as is false women's fashion;
She carved thee for her seal, and meant thereby
As, thou being mine, mine is thy good report.
O' let me, true in love, but truly write,
And your sweet semblance to some other give.
Hiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke?
But thy eternal summer shall not fade
So flatter I the swart-complexion'd night,
Then, beauteous niggard, why dost thou abuse
But flowers distill'd though they with winter meet,
Why lovest thou that which thou receivest not gladly,
Look, what an unthrift in the world doth spend
From his low tract and look another way:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
Bearing thy heart, which I will keep so chary
Which though it alter not love's sole effect,
So I, for fear of trust, forget to say
Shall sum my count and make my old excuse,'
O, that you were yourself! but, love, you are
O, let my books be then the eloquence
The eyes, 'fore duteous, now converted are
| [
{
"content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nLo! thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind,\nMake sweet some vial; treasure thou some place\nTo him that bears the strong offence's cross.\nLike to the lark at break of day arising\nAfter a thousand victories once foil'd,\nWith April's first-born flowers, and all things rare\nThen being ask'd where all thy beauty lies,\nMaking a couplement of proud compare,\nO'ercharged with burden of mine own love's might.\nLook, whom she best endow'd she gave the more;\nTill then not show my head where thou mayst prove me.\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nMake thee another self, for love of me,\nWith shifting change, as is false women's fashion;\nShe carved thee for her seal, and meant thereby\nAs, thou being mine, mine is thy good report.\nO' let me, true in love, but truly write,\nAnd your sweet semblance to some other give.\nHiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke?\nBut thy eternal summer shall not fade\nSo flatter I the swart-complexion'd night,\nThen, beauteous niggard, why dost thou abuse\nBut flowers distill'd though they with winter meet,\nWhy lovest thou that which thou receivest not gladly,\nLook, what an unthrift in the world doth spend\nFrom his low tract and look another way:\nRough winds do shake the darling buds of May,\nBearing thy heart, which I will keep so chary\nWhich though it alter not love's sole effect,\nSo I, for fear of trust, forget to say\nShall sum my count and make my old excuse,'\nO, that you were yourself! but, love, you are\nO, let my books be then the eloquence\nThe eyes, 'fore duteous, now converted are\n",
"role": "user"
}
] | [
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270,
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681,
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1286,
11543,
526,
518,
29914,
25580,
29962
] |
30 | Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
| FROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
Featured like him, like him with friends possess'd,
Thou shouldst print more, not let that copy die.
And thou, all they, hast all the all of me.
Let those who are in favour with their stars
Which this, Time's pencil, or my pupil pen,
Who for thyself art so unprovident.
Who heaven itself for ornament doth use
With all triumphant splendor on my brow;
Nor can thy shame give physic to my grief;
She carved thee for her seal, and meant thereby
But thy eternal summer shall not fade
And your sweet semblance to some other give.
Against this coming end you should prepare,
Lifts up his burning head, each under eye
But thy eternal summer shall not fade
When lofty trees I see barren of leaves
Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell,
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
That this huge stage presenteth nought but shows
Haply I think on thee, and then my state,
Who heaven itself for ornament doth use
Make war upon this bloody tyrant, Time?
Whilst that this shadow doth such substance give
And shalt by fortune once more re-survey
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
Which in my bosom's shop is hanging still,
Which happies those that pay the willing loan;
Where wasteful Time debateth with Decay,
I may not evermore acknowledge thee,
And die as fast as they see others grow;
By adding one thing to my purpose nothing.
And summer's lease hath all too short a date:
Look, what an unthrift in the world doth spend
Shifts but his place, for still the world enjoys it;
Then happy I, that love and am beloved
Then how, when nature calls thee to be gone,
But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,
| [
{
"content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nFeatured like him, like him with friends possess'd,\nThou shouldst print more, not let that copy die.\nAnd thou, all they, hast all the all of me.\nLet those who are in favour with their stars\nWhich this, Time's pencil, or my pupil pen,\nWho for thyself art so unprovident.\nWho heaven itself for ornament doth use\nWith all triumphant splendor on my brow;\nNor can thy shame give physic to my grief;\nShe carved thee for her seal, and meant thereby\nBut thy eternal summer shall not fade\nAnd your sweet semblance to some other give.\nAgainst this coming end you should prepare,\nLifts up his burning head, each under eye\nBut thy eternal summer shall not fade\nWhen lofty trees I see barren of leaves\nNor can I fortune to brief minutes tell,\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nThat this huge stage presenteth nought but shows\nHaply I think on thee, and then my state,\nWho heaven itself for ornament doth use\nMake war upon this bloody tyrant, Time?\nWhilst that this shadow doth such substance give\nAnd shalt by fortune once more re-survey\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nWhich in my bosom's shop is hanging still,\nWhich happies those that pay the willing loan;\nWhere wasteful Time debateth with Decay,\nI may not evermore acknowledge thee,\nAnd die as fast as they see others grow;\nBy adding one thing to my purpose nothing.\nAnd summer's lease hath all too short a date:\nLook, what an unthrift in the world doth spend\nShifts but his place, for still the world enjoys it;\nThen happy I, that love and am beloved\nThen how, when nature calls thee to be gone,\nBut if the while I think on thee, dear friend,\n",
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] |
31 | Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
| FROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
The world will wail thee, like a makeless wife;
And all those friends which I thought buried.
But that I hope some good conceit of thine
When day's oppression is not eased by night,
Lifts up his burning head, each under eye
If thou couldst answer 'This fair child of mine
Roses have thorns, and silver fountains mud;
Stealing unseen to west with this disgrace:
Let me confess that we two must be twain,
Till Nature, as she wrought thee, fell a-doting,
My body is the frame wherein 'tis held,
And your true rights be term'd a poet's rage
Which I by lacking have supposed dead,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
For thou art so possess'd with murderous hate
O' let me, true in love, but truly write,
Thy unused beauty must be tomb'd with thee,
Such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces.'
So then I am not lame, poor, nor despised,
So should that beauty which you hold in lease
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Yourself again after yourself's decease,
But day by night, and night by day, oppress'd?
| [
{
"content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nThe world will wail thee, like a makeless wife;\nAnd all those friends which I thought buried.\nBut that I hope some good conceit of thine\nWhen day's oppression is not eased by night,\nLifts up his burning head, each under eye\nIf thou couldst answer 'This fair child of mine\nRoses have thorns, and silver fountains mud;\nStealing unseen to west with this disgrace:\nLet me confess that we two must be twain,\nTill Nature, as she wrought thee, fell a-doting,\nMy body is the frame wherein 'tis held,\nAnd your true rights be term'd a poet's rage\nWhich I by lacking have supposed dead,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nFor thou art so possess'd with murderous hate\nO' let me, true in love, but truly write,\nThy unused beauty must be tomb'd with thee,\nSuch heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces.'\nSo then I am not lame, poor, nor despised,\nSo should that beauty which you hold in lease\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nYourself again after yourself's decease,\nBut day by night, and night by day, oppress'd?\n",
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491,
2462,
29892,
4575,
1253,
29915,
29881,
29973,
518,
29914,
25580,
29962
] |
32 | Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
| FROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
Let them say more than like of hearsay well;
Makes black night beauteous and her old face new.
By unions married, do offend thine ear,
Profitless usurer, why dost thou use
But since he died and poets better prove,
Make war upon this bloody tyrant, Time?
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings
Which hides your life and shows not half your parts.
When that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover,
That hath his windows glazed with thine eyes.
Desiring this man's art and that man's scope,
So I, for fear of trust, forget to say
The eyes, 'fore duteous, now converted are
But if thou live, remember'd not to be,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
And in fresh numbers number all your graces,
Seeking that beauteous roof to ruinate
A dearer birth than this his love had brought,
And sable curls all silver'd o'er with white;
How far I toil, still farther off from thee.
Points on me graciously with fair aspect
With virtuous wish would bear your living flowers,
Bearing thy heart, which I will keep so chary
Hung with the trophies of my lovers gone,
Thy merit hath my duty strongly knit,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Clouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun,
Which husbandry in honour might uphold
My glass shall not persuade me I am old,
But since he died and poets better prove,
| [
{
"content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nLet them say more than like of hearsay well;\nMakes black night beauteous and her old face new.\nBy unions married, do offend thine ear,\nProfitless usurer, why dost thou use\nBut since he died and poets better prove,\nMake war upon this bloody tyrant, Time?\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nFor thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings\nWhich hides your life and shows not half your parts.\nWhen that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover,\nThat hath his windows glazed with thine eyes.\nDesiring this man's art and that man's scope,\nSo I, for fear of trust, forget to say\nThe eyes, 'fore duteous, now converted are\nBut if thou live, remember'd not to be,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nAnd in fresh numbers number all your graces,\nSeeking that beauteous roof to ruinate\nA dearer birth than this his love had brought,\nAnd sable curls all silver'd o'er with white;\nHow far I toil, still farther off from thee.\nPoints on me graciously with fair aspect\nWith virtuous wish would bear your living flowers,\nBearing thy heart, which I will keep so chary\nHung with the trophies of my lovers gone,\nThy merit hath my duty strongly knit,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nClouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun,\nWhich husbandry in honour might uphold\nMy glass shall not persuade me I am old,\nBut since he died and poets better prove,\n",
"role": "user"
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] |
33 | Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
| FROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
Lest my bewailed guilt should do thee shame,
Thou art thy mother's glass, and she in thee
Then look I death my days should expiate.
Who heaven itself for ornament doth use
Clouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun,
And from the forlorn world his visage hide,
If thou couldst answer 'This fair child of mine
For having traffic with thyself alone,
And stretched metre of an antique song:
Compare them with the bettering of the time,
Though yet, heaven knows, it is but as a tomb
That use is not forbidden usury,
Who all in one, one pleasing note do sing:
No longer yours than you yourself here live:
I will not praise that purpose not to sell.
But flowers distill'd though they with winter meet,
Leaving thee living in posterity?
Featured like him, like him with friends possess'd,
Not from the stars do I my judgment pluck;
The world will be thy widow and still weep
By unions married, do offend thine ear,
For shame! deny that thou bear'st love to any,
And keep my drooping eyelids open wide,
That beauty still may live in thine or thee.
But out, alack! he was but one hour mine;
Thou gavest me thine, not to give back again.
Although our undivided loves are one:
Suns of the world may stain when heaven's sun staineth.
For whether beauty, birth, or wealth, or wit,
And 'gainst myself a lawful plea commence:
To thee I send this written embassage,
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
So flatter I the swart-complexion'd night,
And moan the expense of many a vanish'd sight:
Who all their parts of me to thee did give;
But things removed that hidden in thee lie!
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.
That I an accessary needs must be
| [
{
"content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nLest my bewailed guilt should do thee shame,\nThou art thy mother's glass, and she in thee\nThen look I death my days should expiate.\nWho heaven itself for ornament doth use\nClouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun,\nAnd from the forlorn world his visage hide,\nIf thou couldst answer 'This fair child of mine\nFor having traffic with thyself alone,\nAnd stretched metre of an antique song:\nCompare them with the bettering of the time,\nThough yet, heaven knows, it is but as a tomb\nThat use is not forbidden usury,\nWho all in one, one pleasing note do sing:\nNo longer yours than you yourself here live:\nI will not praise that purpose not to sell.\nBut flowers distill'd though they with winter meet,\nLeaving thee living in posterity?\nFeatured like him, like him with friends possess'd,\nNot from the stars do I my judgment pluck;\nThe world will be thy widow and still weep\nBy unions married, do offend thine ear,\nFor shame! deny that thou bear'st love to any,\nAnd keep my drooping eyelids open wide,\nThat beauty still may live in thine or thee.\nBut out, alack! he was but one hour mine;\nThou gavest me thine, not to give back again.\nAlthough our undivided loves are one:\nSuns of the world may stain when heaven's sun staineth.\nFor whether beauty, birth, or wealth, or wit,\nAnd 'gainst myself a lawful plea commence:\nTo thee I send this written embassage,\nWishing me like to one more rich in hope,\nSo flatter I the swart-complexion'd night,\nAnd moan the expense of many a vanish'd sight:\nWho all their parts of me to thee did give;\nBut things removed that hidden in thee lie!\nThat then I scorn to change my state with kings.\nThat I an accessary needs must be\n",
"role": "user"
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287,
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276,
310,
385,
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330,
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385,
2130,
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4225,
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] |
34 | Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
| FROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
A woman's face with Nature's own hand painted
And in mine own love's strength seem to decay,
For never-resting time leads summer on
By children's eyes her husband's shape in mind.
Now is the time that face should form another;
Or who is he so fond will be the tomb
Beauty's effect with beauty were bereft,
Serving with looks his sacred majesty;
But as the riper should by time decease,
Hast thou, the master-mistress of my passion;
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
Sap cheque'd with frost and lusty leaves quite gone,
By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd;
I all alone beweep my outcast state
Hiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke?
If all were minded so, the times should cease
That this huge stage presenteth nought but shows
That beauty still may live in thine or thee.
And puts apparel on my tatter'd loving,
Thy bosom is endeared with all hearts,
Thou art thy mother's glass, and she in thee
Thou of thyself thy sweet self dost deceive.
Against this coming end you should prepare,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Thou of thyself thy sweet self dost deceive.
Leaving thee living in posterity?
Make glad and sorry seasons as thou fleets,
Stealing unseen to west with this disgrace:
Thy end is truth's and beauty's doom and date.
To witness duty, not to show my wit:
Then may I dare to boast how I do love thee;
| [
{
"content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nA woman's face with Nature's own hand painted\nAnd in mine own love's strength seem to decay,\nFor never-resting time leads summer on\nBy children's eyes her husband's shape in mind.\nNow is the time that face should form another;\nOr who is he so fond will be the tomb\nBeauty's effect with beauty were bereft,\nServing with looks his sacred majesty;\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHast thou, the master-mistress of my passion;\nYet in these thoughts myself almost despising,\nSap cheque'd with frost and lusty leaves quite gone,\nBy chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd;\nI all alone beweep my outcast state\nHiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke?\nIf all were minded so, the times should cease\nThat this huge stage presenteth nought but shows\nThat beauty still may live in thine or thee.\nAnd puts apparel on my tatter'd loving,\nThy bosom is endeared with all hearts,\nThou art thy mother's glass, and she in thee\nThou of thyself thy sweet self dost deceive.\nAgainst this coming end you should prepare,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nThou of thyself thy sweet self dost deceive.\nLeaving thee living in posterity?\nMake glad and sorry seasons as thou fleets,\nStealing unseen to west with this disgrace:\nThy end is truth's and beauty's doom and date.\nTo witness duty, not to show my wit:\nThen may I dare to boast how I do love thee;\n",
"role": "user"
}
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] |
35 | Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
| FROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
Featured like him, like him with friends possess'd,
Then look I death my days should expiate.
Thy merit hath my duty strongly knit,
Grant, if thou wilt, thou art beloved of many,
Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,
And having climb'd the steep-up heavenly hill,
For shame! deny that thou bear'st love to any,
Roses have thorns, and silver fountains mud;
That due of many now is thine alone:
And your sweet semblance to some other give.
For at a frown they in their glory die.
Yet him for this my love no whit disdaineth;
From his low tract and look another way:
Kissing with golden face the meadows green,
In thy soul's thought, all naked, will bestow it;
For no man well of such a salve can speak
Then, beauteous niggard, why dost thou abuse
For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings
Yourself again after yourself's decease,
And, constant stars, in them I read such art
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
Let those whom Nature hath not made for store,
Which though it alter not love's sole effect,
| [
{
"content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nFeatured like him, like him with friends possess'd,\nThen look I death my days should expiate.\nThy merit hath my duty strongly knit,\nGrant, if thou wilt, thou art beloved of many,\nThen can I grieve at grievances foregone,\nAnd having climb'd the steep-up heavenly hill,\nFor shame! deny that thou bear'st love to any,\nRoses have thorns, and silver fountains mud;\nThat due of many now is thine alone:\nAnd your sweet semblance to some other give.\nFor at a frown they in their glory die.\nYet him for this my love no whit disdaineth;\nFrom his low tract and look another way:\nKissing with golden face the meadows green,\nIn thy soul's thought, all naked, will bestow it;\nFor no man well of such a salve can speak\nThen, beauteous niggard, why dost thou abuse\nFor thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings\nYourself again after yourself's decease,\nAnd, constant stars, in them I read such art\nYet in these thoughts myself almost despising,\nLet those whom Nature hath not made for store,\nWhich though it alter not love's sole effect,\n",
"role": "user"
}
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472,
263,
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377,
277,
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621,
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670,
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322,
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13,
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790,
292,
411,
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3700,
278,
592,
23626,
7933,
29892,
13,
797,
13874,
10752,
29915,
29879,
2714,
29892,
599,
302,
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29892,
674,
1900,
340,
372,
29936,
13,
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694,
767,
1532,
310,
1316,
263,
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345,
508,
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13,
11760,
29892,
367,
29874,
1082,
681,
302,
22817,
538,
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2020,
27113,
12595,
633,
1509,
13,
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5360,
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29881,
1316,
17173,
23522,
13,
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1311,
1449,
1156,
7535,
29915,
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] |
36 | Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
| FROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
Or else of thee this I prognosticate:
I will not praise that purpose not to sell.
When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
And do whate'er thou wilt, swift-footed Time,
Him in thy course untainted do allow
That on himself such murderous shame commits.
Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,
So should that beauty which you hold in lease
Duty so great, which wit so poor as mine
And that fresh blood which youngly thou bestowest
Who all their parts of me to thee did give;
A woman's face with Nature's own hand painted
Though yet, heaven knows, it is but as a tomb
Then what could death do, if thou shouldst depart,
When I consider every thing that grows
Which this, Time's pencil, or my pupil pen,
When I behold the violet past prime,
And many maiden gardens yet unset
For thee and for myself no quiet find.
Then being ask'd where all thy beauty lies,
For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings
That on himself such murderous shame commits.
And trouble deal heaven with my bootless cries
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
A dearer birth than this his love had brought,
Mine eye hath play'd the painter and hath stell'd
And loathsome canker lives in sweetest bud.
And many maiden gardens yet unset
To march in ranks of better equipage:
Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,
That thou among the wastes of time must go,
But since he died and poets better prove,
As he takes from you, I engraft you new.
After a thousand victories once foil'd,
Which happies those that pay the willing loan;
For thee and for myself no quiet find.
Thou art thy mother's glass, and she in thee
| [
{
"content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nOr else of thee this I prognosticate:\nI will not praise that purpose not to sell.\nWhen to the sessions of sweet silent thought\nAnd do whate'er thou wilt, swift-footed Time,\nHim in thy course untainted do allow\nThat on himself such murderous shame commits.\nThen can I grieve at grievances foregone,\nSo should that beauty which you hold in lease\nDuty so great, which wit so poor as mine\nAnd that fresh blood which youngly thou bestowest\nWho all their parts of me to thee did give;\nA woman's face with Nature's own hand painted\nThough yet, heaven knows, it is but as a tomb\nThen what could death do, if thou shouldst depart,\nWhen I consider every thing that grows\nWhich this, Time's pencil, or my pupil pen,\nWhen I behold the violet past prime,\nAnd many maiden gardens yet unset\nFor thee and for myself no quiet find.\nThen being ask'd where all thy beauty lies,\nFor thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings\nThat on himself such murderous shame commits.\nAnd trouble deal heaven with my bootless cries\nAnd every fair from fair sometime declines,\nA dearer birth than this his love had brought,\nMine eye hath play'd the painter and hath stell'd\nAnd loathsome canker lives in sweetest bud.\nAnd many maiden gardens yet unset\nTo march in ranks of better equipage:\nNor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,\nThat thou among the wastes of time must go,\nBut since he died and poets better prove,\nAs he takes from you, I engraft you new.\nAfter a thousand victories once foil'd,\nWhich happies those that pay the willing loan;\nFor thee and for myself no quiet find.\nThou art thy mother's glass, and she in thee\n",
"role": "user"
}
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] |
37 | Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
| FROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
Leese but their show; their substance still lives sweet.
And stretched metre of an antique song:
And keep my drooping eyelids open wide,
For whether beauty, birth, or wealth, or wit,
Or to thyself at least kind-hearted prove:
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
You should live twice; in it and in my rhyme.
And summer's green all girded up in sheaves
Serving with looks his sacred majesty;
And weep afresh love's long since cancell'd woe,
Thou of thyself thy sweet self dost deceive.
And all in war with Time for love of you,
O'ercharged with burden of mine own love's might.
Lo! in the orient when the gracious light
Of his self-love, to stop posterity?
As truth and beauty shall together thrive,
A liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass,
Suns of the world may stain when heaven's sun staineth.
Roses have thorns, and silver fountains mud;
Beauty's effect with beauty were bereft,
As any mother's child, though not so bright
She carved thee for her seal, and meant thereby
To let base clouds o'ertake me in my way,
Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,
And there reigns love and all love's loving parts,
| [
{
"content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nLeese but their show; their substance still lives sweet.\nAnd stretched metre of an antique song:\nAnd keep my drooping eyelids open wide,\nFor whether beauty, birth, or wealth, or wit,\nOr to thyself at least kind-hearted prove:\nWishing me like to one more rich in hope,\nYou should live twice; in it and in my rhyme.\nAnd summer's green all girded up in sheaves\nServing with looks his sacred majesty;\nAnd weep afresh love's long since cancell'd woe,\nThou of thyself thy sweet self dost deceive.\nAnd all in war with Time for love of you,\nO'ercharged with burden of mine own love's might.\nLo! in the orient when the gracious light\nOf his self-love, to stop posterity?\nAs truth and beauty shall together thrive,\nA liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass,\nSuns of the world may stain when heaven's sun staineth.\nRoses have thorns, and silver fountains mud;\nBeauty's effect with beauty were bereft,\nAs any mother's child, though not so bright\nShe carved thee for her seal, and meant thereby\nTo let base clouds o'ertake me in my way,\nThen can I grieve at grievances foregone,\nAnd there reigns love and all love's loving parts,\n",
"role": "user"
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297,
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670,
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29936,
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1951,
508,
3729,
29915,
29881,
281,
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13,
1349,
283,
310,
266,
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761,
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573,
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670,
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345,
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304,
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10368,
537,
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13,
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8760,
322,
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4091,
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12355,
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] |
38 | Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
| FROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
Thou shouldst print more, not let that copy die.
I tell the day, to please them thou art bright
And all the rest forgot for which he toil'd:
Then, were not summer's distillation left,
Is but the seemly raiment of my heart,
Such civil war is in my love and hate
Yourself again after yourself's decease,
To the wide world and all her fading sweets;
And they are rich and ransom all ill deeds.
So great a sum of sums, yet canst not live?
So I, for fear of trust, forget to say
Beauty's effect with beauty were bereft,
So thou through windows of thine age shall see
My body is the frame wherein 'tis held,
Presents thy shadow to my sightless view,
If all were minded so, the times should cease
For thee and for myself no quiet find.
Thou mayst call thine when thou from youth convertest.
And in mine own love's strength seem to decay,
No love toward others in that bosom sits
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
And make the earth devour her own sweet brood;
| [
{
"content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nThou shouldst print more, not let that copy die.\nI tell the day, to please them thou art bright\nAnd all the rest forgot for which he toil'd:\nThen, were not summer's distillation left,\nIs but the seemly raiment of my heart,\nSuch civil war is in my love and hate\nYourself again after yourself's decease,\nTo the wide world and all her fading sweets;\nAnd they are rich and ransom all ill deeds.\nSo great a sum of sums, yet canst not live?\nSo I, for fear of trust, forget to say\nBeauty's effect with beauty were bereft,\nSo thou through windows of thine age shall see\nMy body is the frame wherein 'tis held,\nPresents thy shadow to my sightless view,\nIf all were minded so, the times should cease\nFor thee and for myself no quiet find.\nThou mayst call thine when thou from youth convertest.\nAnd in mine own love's strength seem to decay,\nNo love toward others in that bosom sits\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nAnd make the earth devour her own sweet brood;\n",
"role": "user"
}
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] |
39 | Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
| FROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
Why lovest thou that which thou receivest not gladly,
Let those who are in favour with their stars
Excusing thy sins more than thy sins are;
And summer's lease hath all too short a date:
Points on me graciously with fair aspect
As those gold candles fix'd in heaven's air:
Lo! thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind,
That thou among the wastes of time must go,
And nothing 'gainst Time's scythe can make defence
As an unperfect actor on the stage
Shifts but his place, for still the world enjoys it;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan,
Nature's bequest gives nothing but doth lend,
But I forbid thee one most heinous crime:
I may not evermore acknowledge thee,
With all triumphant splendor on my brow;
And do whate'er thou wilt, swift-footed Time,
Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother.
Make thee another self, for love of me,
Compare them with the bettering of the time,
In thee thy summer, ere thou be distill'd:
Then may I dare to boast how I do love thee;
So thou through windows of thine age shall see
And see the brave day sunk in hideous night;
These poor rude lines of thy deceased lover,
So should my papers yellow'd with their age
Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,
Though yet, heaven knows, it is but as a tomb
Or else receivest with pleasure thine annoy?
That hath his windows glazed with thine eyes.
And each, though enemies to either's reign,
| [
{
"content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nWhy lovest thou that which thou receivest not gladly,\nLet those who are in favour with their stars\nExcusing thy sins more than thy sins are;\nAnd summer's lease hath all too short a date:\nPoints on me graciously with fair aspect\nAs those gold candles fix'd in heaven's air:\nLo! thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind,\nThat thou among the wastes of time must go,\nAnd nothing 'gainst Time's scythe can make defence\nAs an unperfect actor on the stage\nShifts but his place, for still the world enjoys it;\nAnd every fair from fair sometime declines,\nThe sad account of fore-bemoaned moan,\nNature's bequest gives nothing but doth lend,\nBut I forbid thee one most heinous crime:\nI may not evermore acknowledge thee,\nWith all triumphant splendor on my brow;\nAnd do whate'er thou wilt, swift-footed Time,\nThou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother.\nMake thee another self, for love of me,\nCompare them with the bettering of the time,\nIn thee thy summer, ere thou be distill'd:\nThen may I dare to boast how I do love thee;\nSo thou through windows of thine age shall see\nAnd see the brave day sunk in hideous night;\nThese poor rude lines of thy deceased lover,\nSo should my papers yellow'd with their age\nNor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,\nThough yet, heaven knows, it is but as a tomb\nOr else receivest with pleasure thine annoy?\nThat hath his windows glazed with thine eyes.\nAnd each, though enemies to either's reign,\n",
"role": "user"
}
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283,
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1812,
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488,
278,
3186,
29892,
443,
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404,
777,
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13,
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1790,
1583,
29892,
363,
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310,
592,
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13,
6843,
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963,
411,
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453,
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13,
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1122,
306,
23222,
304,
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306,
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29936,
13,
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12595,
1549,
5417,
310,
266,
457,
5046,
4091,
1074,
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20913,
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518,
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25580,
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] |
40 | Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
| FROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
And from the forlorn world his visage hide,
When every private widow well may keep
And thou, all they, hast all the all of me.
So flatter I the swart-complexion'd night,
To show me worthy of thy sweet respect:
I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,
For all that beauty that doth cover thee
Who all their parts of me to thee did give;
So long as youth and thou are of one date;
As tender nurse her babe from faring ill.
Thy unused beauty must be tomb'd with thee,
Thou shouldst print more, not let that copy die.
And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er
And summer's lease hath all too short a date:
That am debarr'd the benefit of rest?
And all in war with Time for love of you,
And kept unused, the user so destroys it.
Save breed, to brave him when he takes thee hence.
When I perceive that men as plants increase,
To change your day of youth to sullied night;
How much more praise deserved thy beauty's use,
If the true concord of well-tuned sounds,
Grant, if thou wilt, thou art beloved of many,
| [
{
"content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nAnd from the forlorn world his visage hide,\nWhen every private widow well may keep\nAnd thou, all they, hast all the all of me.\nSo flatter I the swart-complexion'd night,\nTo show me worthy of thy sweet respect:\nI sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,\nFor all that beauty that doth cover thee\nWho all their parts of me to thee did give;\nSo long as youth and thou are of one date;\nAs tender nurse her babe from faring ill.\nThy unused beauty must be tomb'd with thee,\nThou shouldst print more, not let that copy die.\nAnd heavily from woe to woe tell o'er\nAnd summer's lease hath all too short a date:\nThat am debarr'd the benefit of rest?\nAnd all in war with Time for love of you,\nAnd kept unused, the user so destroys it.\nSave breed, to brave him when he takes thee hence.\nWhen I perceive that men as plants increase,\nTo change your day of youth to sullied night;\nHow much more praise deserved thy beauty's use,\nIf the true concord of well-tuned sounds,\nGrant, if thou wilt, thou art beloved of many,\n",
"role": "user"
}
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310,
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518,
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] |
41 | Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
| FROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
For shame! deny that thou bear'st love to any,
And in mine own love's strength seem to decay,
Who plead for love and look for recompense
For at a frown they in their glory die.
The region cloud hath mask'd him from me now.
To dry the rain on my storm-beaten face,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
By oft predict that I in heaven find:
A woman's face with Nature's own hand painted
And in themselves their pride lies buried,
How can I then return in happy plight,
The dear repose for limbs with travel tired;
Theirs for their style I'll read, his for his love.'
And fortify yourself in your decay
Sap cheque'd with frost and lusty leaves quite gone,
But as the riper should by time decease,
To hideous winter and confounds him there;
Then look I death my days should expiate.
And in fresh numbers number all your graces,
And dost him grace when clouds do blot the heaven:
Theirs for their style I'll read, his for his love.'
But when in thee time's furrows I behold,
| [
{
"content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nFor shame! deny that thou bear'st love to any,\nAnd in mine own love's strength seem to decay,\nWho plead for love and look for recompense\nFor at a frown they in their glory die.\nThe region cloud hath mask'd him from me now.\nTo dry the rain on my storm-beaten face,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nBy oft predict that I in heaven find:\nA woman's face with Nature's own hand painted\nAnd in themselves their pride lies buried,\nHow can I then return in happy plight,\nThe dear repose for limbs with travel tired;\nTheirs for their style I'll read, his for his love.'\nAnd fortify yourself in your decay\nSap cheque'd with frost and lusty leaves quite gone,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nTo hideous winter and confounds him there;\nThen look I death my days should expiate.\nAnd in fresh numbers number all your graces,\nAnd dost him grace when clouds do blot the heaven:\nTheirs for their style I'll read, his for his love.'\nBut when in thee time's furrows I behold,\n",
"role": "user"
}
] | [
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25580,
29962,
23868,
408,
1784,
3454,
408,
366,
508,
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3454,
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342,
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591,
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2360,
762,
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13,
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408,
278,
10107,
546,
881,
491,
931,
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275,
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540,
381,
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670,
3370,
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13,
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8078,
287,
304,
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3578,
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420,
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424,
616,
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1746,
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22314,
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592,
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373,
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13,
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445,
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367,
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393,
306,
297,
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13,
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1361,
23139,
13,
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297,
6053,
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18550,
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508,
306,
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297,
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931,
29915,
29879,
3261,
5727,
306,
2306,
1025,
29892,
518,
29914,
25580,
29962
] |
42 | Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
| FROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
That use is not forbidden usury,
Mine eyes have drawn thy shape, and thine for me
Presents thy shadow to my sightless view,
Then look I death my days should expiate.
For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings
Who lets so fair a house fall to decay,
As those gold candles fix'd in heaven's air:
Hiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke?
Till Nature, as she wrought thee, fell a-doting,
Pointing to each his thunder, rain and wind,
That am debarr'd the benefit of rest?
For shame! deny that thou bear'st love to any,
Attending on his golden pilgrimage;
But do not so; I love thee in such sort
Proving his beauty by succession thine!
The one by toil, the other to complain
To show me worthy of thy sweet respect:
For never-resting time leads summer on
Nor thou with public kindness honour me,
But day doth daily draw my sorrows longer
Then, were not summer's distillation left,
That thou no form of thee hast left behind,
And barren rage of death's eternal cold?
And puts apparel on my tatter'd loving,
By adding one thing to my purpose nothing.
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
How can I then be elder than thou art?
For shame! deny that thou bear'st love to any,
Take all my comfort of thy worth and truth.
| [
{
"content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nThat use is not forbidden usury,\nMine eyes have drawn thy shape, and thine for me\nPresents thy shadow to my sightless view,\nThen look I death my days should expiate.\nFor thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings\nWho lets so fair a house fall to decay,\nAs those gold candles fix'd in heaven's air:\nHiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke?\nTill Nature, as she wrought thee, fell a-doting,\nPointing to each his thunder, rain and wind,\nThat am debarr'd the benefit of rest?\nFor shame! deny that thou bear'st love to any,\nAttending on his golden pilgrimage;\nBut do not so; I love thee in such sort\nProving his beauty by succession thine!\nThe one by toil, the other to complain\nTo show me worthy of thy sweet respect:\nFor never-resting time leads summer on\nNor thou with public kindness honour me,\nBut day doth daily draw my sorrows longer\nThen, were not summer's distillation left,\nThat thou no form of thee hast left behind,\nAnd barren rage of death's eternal cold?\nAnd puts apparel on my tatter'd loving,\nBy adding one thing to my purpose nothing.\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nHow can I then be elder than thou art?\nFor shame! deny that thou bear'st love to any,\nTake all my comfort of thy worth and truth.\n",
"role": "user"
}
] | [
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] |
43 | Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
| FROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
Not from the stars do I my judgment pluck;
Then happy I, that love and am beloved
And perspective it is the painter's art.
That thou consumest thyself in single life?
FROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
Attending on his golden pilgrimage;
My body is the frame wherein 'tis held,
How many a holy and obsequious tear
No longer yours than you yourself here live:
Lest my bewailed guilt should do thee shame,
And that unfair which fairly doth excel:
If ten of thine ten times refigured thee:
Without this, folly, age and cold decay:
And see the brave day sunk in hideous night;
Without thy help by me be borne alone.
And weep afresh love's long since cancell'd woe,
Or say with princes if it shall go well,
Where wasteful Time debateth with Decay,
Whilst I, whom fortune of such triumph bars,
The region cloud hath mask'd him from me now.
And there reigns love and all love's loving parts,
Ah! if thou issueless shalt hap to die.
Thou art thy mother's glass, and she in thee
By adding one thing to my purpose nothing.
| [
{
"content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nNot from the stars do I my judgment pluck;\nThen happy I, that love and am beloved\nAnd perspective it is the painter's art.\nThat thou consumest thyself in single life?\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nAttending on his golden pilgrimage;\nMy body is the frame wherein 'tis held,\nHow many a holy and obsequious tear\nNo longer yours than you yourself here live:\nLest my bewailed guilt should do thee shame,\nAnd that unfair which fairly doth excel:\nIf ten of thine ten times refigured thee:\nWithout this, folly, age and cold decay:\nAnd see the brave day sunk in hideous night;\nWithout thy help by me be borne alone.\nAnd weep afresh love's long since cancell'd woe,\nOr say with princes if it shall go well,\nWhere wasteful Time debateth with Decay,\nWhilst I, whom fortune of such triumph bars,\nThe region cloud hath mask'd him from me now.\nAnd there reigns love and all love's loving parts,\nAh! if thou issueless shalt hap to die.\nThou art thy mother's glass, and she in thee\nBy adding one thing to my purpose nothing.\n",
"role": "user"
}
] | [
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697,
2655,
304,
590,
6437,
3078,
29889,
518,
29914,
25580,
29962
] |
44 | Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
| FROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
Like feeble age, he reeleth from the day,
This were to be new made when thou art old,
And weep afresh love's long since cancell'd woe,
Theirs for their style I'll read, his for his love.'
Clouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun,
Do in consent shake hands to torture me;
And you must live, drawn by your own sweet skill.
Look, what an unthrift in the world doth spend
And loathsome canker lives in sweetest bud.
Gilding the object whereupon it gazeth;
So I, made lame by fortune's dearest spite,
Those hours, that with gentle work did frame
Whose strength's abundance weakens his own heart.
Disdains the tillage of thy husbandry?
So great a sum of sums, yet canst not live?
Nor can thy shame give physic to my grief;
And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste:
Yourself again after yourself's decease,
So is it not with me as with that Muse
Despite of wrinkles this thy golden time.
Such civil war is in my love and hate
You should live twice; in it and in my rhyme.
Proving his beauty by succession thine!
Pointing to each his thunder, rain and wind,
Attending on his golden pilgrimage;
Of plagues, of dearths, or seasons' quality;
For having traffic with thyself alone,
But if thou live, remember'd not to be,
And 'gainst myself a lawful plea commence:
Or ten times happier, be it ten for one;
The age to come would say 'This poet lies:
| [
{
"content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nLike feeble age, he reeleth from the day,\nThis were to be new made when thou art old,\nAnd weep afresh love's long since cancell'd woe,\nTheirs for their style I'll read, his for his love.'\nClouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun,\nDo in consent shake hands to torture me;\nAnd you must live, drawn by your own sweet skill.\nLook, what an unthrift in the world doth spend\nAnd loathsome canker lives in sweetest bud.\nGilding the object whereupon it gazeth;\nSo I, made lame by fortune's dearest spite,\nThose hours, that with gentle work did frame\nWhose strength's abundance weakens his own heart.\nDisdains the tillage of thy husbandry?\nSo great a sum of sums, yet canst not live?\nNor can thy shame give physic to my grief;\nAnd with old woes new wail my dear time's waste:\nYourself again after yourself's decease,\nSo is it not with me as with that Muse\nDespite of wrinkles this thy golden time.\nSuch civil war is in my love and hate\nYou should live twice; in it and in my rhyme.\nProving his beauty by succession thine!\nPointing to each his thunder, rain and wind,\nAttending on his golden pilgrimage;\nOf plagues, of dearths, or seasons' quality;\nFor having traffic with thyself alone,\nBut if thou live, remember'd not to be,\nAnd 'gainst myself a lawful plea commence:\nOr ten times happier, be it ten for one;\nThe age to come would say 'This poet lies:\n",
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] |
45 | Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
| FROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
Nor it nor no remembrance what it was:
Who heaven itself for ornament doth use
Shall sum my count and make my old excuse,'
When I do count the clock that tells the time,
Thou art the grave where buried love doth live,
If thou survive my well-contented day,
O, carve not with thy hours my love's fair brow,
For at a frown they in their glory die.
Which happies those that pay the willing loan;
After a thousand victories once foil'd,
Gilding the object whereupon it gazeth;
And every fair with his fair doth rehearse
Reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme,
When every private widow well may keep
O, that you were yourself! but, love, you are
Let those who are in favour with their stars
That thou no form of thee hast left behind,
I will not praise that purpose not to sell.
Such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces.'
Look, what an unthrift in the world doth spend
When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,
So I, for fear of trust, forget to say
Save breed, to brave him when he takes thee hence.
How far I toil, still farther off from thee.
And moan the expense of many a vanish'd sight:
Nor draw no lines there with thine antique pen;
Or else receivest with pleasure thine annoy?
As fast as thou shalt wane, so fast thou growest
To work my mind, when body's work's expired:
To hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit.
I tell the day, to please them thou art bright
And trouble deal heaven with my bootless cries
But then begins a journey in my head,
Him in thy course untainted do allow
Though in our lives a separable spite,
They draw but what they see, know not the heart.
Were an all-eating shame and thriftless praise.
| [
{
"content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nNor it nor no remembrance what it was:\nWho heaven itself for ornament doth use\nShall sum my count and make my old excuse,'\nWhen I do count the clock that tells the time,\nThou art the grave where buried love doth live,\nIf thou survive my well-contented day,\nO, carve not with thy hours my love's fair brow,\nFor at a frown they in their glory die.\nWhich happies those that pay the willing loan;\nAfter a thousand victories once foil'd,\nGilding the object whereupon it gazeth;\nAnd every fair with his fair doth rehearse\nReserve them for my love, not for their rhyme,\nWhen every private widow well may keep\nO, that you were yourself! but, love, you are\nLet those who are in favour with their stars\nThat thou no form of thee hast left behind,\nI will not praise that purpose not to sell.\nSuch heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces.'\nLook, what an unthrift in the world doth spend\nWhen, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,\nSo I, for fear of trust, forget to say\nSave breed, to brave him when he takes thee hence.\nHow far I toil, still farther off from thee.\nAnd moan the expense of many a vanish'd sight:\nNor draw no lines there with thine antique pen;\nOr else receivest with pleasure thine annoy?\nAs fast as thou shalt wane, so fast thou growest\nTo work my mind, when body's work's expired:\nTo hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit.\nI tell the day, to please them thou art bright\nAnd trouble deal heaven with my bootless cries\nBut then begins a journey in my head,\nHim in thy course untainted do allow\nThough in our lives a separable spite,\nThey draw but what they see, know not the heart.\nWere an all-eating shame and thriftless praise.\n",
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] |
46 | Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
| FROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
Till Nature, as she wrought thee, fell a-doting,
They do but sweetly chide thee, who confounds
By adding one thing to my purpose nothing.
Thy unused beauty must be tomb'd with thee,
And night doth nightly make grief's strength seem stronger.
When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
But thy eternal summer shall not fade
Whose strength's abundance weakens his own heart.
To show me worthy of thy sweet respect:
If it were fill'd with your most high deserts?
Thy merit hath my duty strongly knit,
And many maiden gardens yet unset
All losses are restored and sorrows end.
From his low tract and look another way:
But as the riper should by time decease,
Presents thy shadow to my sightless view,
But that I hope some good conceit of thine
That I in thy abundance am sufficed
With all triumphant splendor on my brow;
Which I new pay as if not paid before.
Who will believe my verse in time to come,
Leese but their show; their substance still lives sweet.
If I could write the beauty of your eyes
And see the brave day sunk in hideous night;
And sable curls all silver'd o'er with white;
Is from the book of honour razed quite,
By oft predict that I in heaven find:
| [
{
"content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nTill Nature, as she wrought thee, fell a-doting,\nThey do but sweetly chide thee, who confounds\nBy adding one thing to my purpose nothing.\nThy unused beauty must be tomb'd with thee,\nAnd night doth nightly make grief's strength seem stronger.\nWhen to the sessions of sweet silent thought\nBut thy eternal summer shall not fade\nWhose strength's abundance weakens his own heart.\nTo show me worthy of thy sweet respect:\nIf it were fill'd with your most high deserts?\nThy merit hath my duty strongly knit,\nAnd many maiden gardens yet unset\nAll losses are restored and sorrows end.\nFrom his low tract and look another way:\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nPresents thy shadow to my sightless view,\nBut that I hope some good conceit of thine\nThat I in thy abundance am sufficed\nWith all triumphant splendor on my brow;\nWhich I new pay as if not paid before.\nWho will believe my verse in time to come,\nLeese but their show; their substance still lives sweet.\nIf I could write the beauty of your eyes\nAnd see the brave day sunk in hideous night;\nAnd sable curls all silver'd o'er with white;\nIs from the book of honour razed quite,\nBy oft predict that I in heaven find:\n",
"role": "user"
}
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] |
47 | Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
| FROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
That this huge stage presenteth nought but shows
Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Unlook'd on diest, unless thou get a son.
And in mine own love's strength seem to decay,
Doth homage to his new-appearing sight,
Then, were not summer's distillation left,
That's for thyself to breed another thee,
And all in war with Time for love of you,
Now stand you on the top of happy hours,
And make the earth devour her own sweet brood;
I will not praise that purpose not to sell.
Shall sum my count and make my old excuse,'
Thy end is truth's and beauty's doom and date.
For where is she so fair whose unear'd womb
So long lives this and this gives life to thee.
Presume not on thy heart when mine is slain;
By adding one thing to my purpose nothing.
And for a woman wert thou first created;
As tender nurse her babe from faring ill.
Strikes each in each by mutual ordering,
But from thine eyes my knowledge I derive,
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er
A woman's gentle heart, but not acquainted
With means more blessed than my barren rhyme?
Who will believe my verse in time to come,
Shall hate be fairer lodged than gentle love?
And though they be outstripp'd by every pen,
So should the lines of life that life repair,
Compare them with the bettering of the time,
I may not evermore acknowledge thee,
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
Devouring Time, blunt thou the lion's paws,
When in eternal lines to time thou growest:
And many maiden gardens yet unset
Yourself again after yourself's decease,
Shifts but his place, for still the world enjoys it;
But from thine eyes my knowledge I derive,
| [
{
"content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nThat this huge stage presenteth nought but shows\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nUnlook'd on diest, unless thou get a son.\nAnd in mine own love's strength seem to decay,\nDoth homage to his new-appearing sight,\nThen, were not summer's distillation left,\nThat's for thyself to breed another thee,\nAnd all in war with Time for love of you,\nNow stand you on the top of happy hours,\nAnd make the earth devour her own sweet brood;\nI will not praise that purpose not to sell.\nShall sum my count and make my old excuse,'\nThy end is truth's and beauty's doom and date.\nFor where is she so fair whose unear'd womb\nSo long lives this and this gives life to thee.\nPresume not on thy heart when mine is slain;\nBy adding one thing to my purpose nothing.\nAnd for a woman wert thou first created;\nAs tender nurse her babe from faring ill.\nStrikes each in each by mutual ordering,\nBut from thine eyes my knowledge I derive,\nSo long as men can breathe or eyes can see,\nAnd heavily from woe to woe tell o'er\nA woman's gentle heart, but not acquainted\nWith means more blessed than my barren rhyme?\nWho will believe my verse in time to come,\nShall hate be fairer lodged than gentle love?\nAnd though they be outstripp'd by every pen,\nSo should the lines of life that life repair,\nCompare them with the bettering of the time,\nI may not evermore acknowledge thee,\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nDevouring Time, blunt thou the lion's paws,\nWhen in eternal lines to time thou growest:\nAnd many maiden gardens yet unset\nYourself again after yourself's decease,\nShifts but his place, for still the world enjoys it;\nBut from thine eyes my knowledge I derive,\n",
"role": "user"
}
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281,
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13,
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373,
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746,
7903,
338,
269,
7420,
29936,
13,
2059,
4417,
697,
2655,
304,
590,
6437,
3078,
29889,
13,
2855,
363,
263,
6114,
281,
814,
12595,
937,
2825,
29936,
13,
2887,
22707,
5595,
344,
902,
289,
4302,
515,
2215,
292,
4486,
29889,
13,
855,
5357,
267,
1269,
297,
1269,
491,
5478,
950,
20520,
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13,
6246,
515,
266,
457,
5076,
590,
7134,
306,
21340,
29892,
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304,
281,
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2649,
288,
29915,
261,
13,
29909,
6114,
29915,
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] |
48 | Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
| FROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
That 'gainst thyself thou stick'st not to conspire.
With April's first-born flowers, and all things rare
And dost him grace when clouds do blot the heaven:
Which happies those that pay the willing loan;
O, none but unthrifts! Dear my love, you know
'Had my friend's Muse grown with this growing age,
Disdains the tillage of thy husbandry?
If thou couldst answer 'This fair child of mine
For shame! deny that thou bear'st love to any,
FROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
Hiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke?
Against this coming end you should prepare,
Holds in perfection but a little moment,
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
By oft predict that I in heaven find:
And see the brave day sunk in hideous night;
Much liker than your painted counterfeit:
And your sweet semblance to some other give.
Which though it alter not love's sole effect,
And 'gainst myself a lawful plea commence:
Now is the time that face should form another;
And though they be outstripp'd by every pen,
Look, what an unthrift in the world doth spend
Devouring Time, blunt thou the lion's paws,
For never-resting time leads summer on
And trouble deal heaven with my bootless cries
Pointing to each his thunder, rain and wind,
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
Nor draw no lines there with thine antique pen;
And by addition me of thee defeated,
Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,
For never-resting time leads summer on
The lovely gaze where every eye doth dwell,
So then I am not lame, poor, nor despised,
| [
{
"content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nThat 'gainst thyself thou stick'st not to conspire.\nWith April's first-born flowers, and all things rare\nAnd dost him grace when clouds do blot the heaven:\nWhich happies those that pay the willing loan;\nO, none but unthrifts! Dear my love, you know\n'Had my friend's Muse grown with this growing age,\nDisdains the tillage of thy husbandry?\nIf thou couldst answer 'This fair child of mine\nFor shame! deny that thou bear'st love to any,\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nHiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke?\nAgainst this coming end you should prepare,\nHolds in perfection but a little moment,\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nBy oft predict that I in heaven find:\nAnd see the brave day sunk in hideous night;\nMuch liker than your painted counterfeit:\nAnd your sweet semblance to some other give.\nWhich though it alter not love's sole effect,\nAnd 'gainst myself a lawful plea commence:\nNow is the time that face should form another;\nAnd though they be outstripp'd by every pen,\nLook, what an unthrift in the world doth spend\nDevouring Time, blunt thou the lion's paws,\nFor never-resting time leads summer on\nAnd trouble deal heaven with my bootless cries\nPointing to each his thunder, rain and wind,\nRough winds do shake the darling buds of May,\nNor draw no lines there with thine antique pen;\nAnd by addition me of thee defeated,\nNor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,\nFor never-resting time leads summer on\nThe lovely gaze where every eye doth dwell,\nSo then I am not lame, poor, nor despised,\n",
"role": "user"
}
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] |
49 | Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
| FROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
In our two loves there is but one respect,
The world will wail thee, like a makeless wife;
Points on me graciously with fair aspect
Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother.
Profitless usurer, why dost thou use
'Had my friend's Muse grown with this growing age,
For all that beauty that doth cover thee
That thou among the wastes of time must go,
Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy;
Grant, if thou wilt, thou art beloved of many,
The perfect ceremony of love's rite,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
Entitled in thy parts do crowned sit,
They draw but what they see, know not the heart.
For all that beauty that doth cover thee
And shalt by fortune once more re-survey
So I, made lame by fortune's dearest spite,
Looking on darkness which the blind do see
Those hours, that with gentle work did frame
The lovely gaze where every eye doth dwell,
The one by toil, the other to complain
Thou of thyself thy sweet self dost deceive.
Make sweet some vial; treasure thou some place
To let base clouds o'ertake me in my way,
So should the lines of life that life repair,
But as the riper should by time decease,
And being frank she lends to those are free.
Disdains the tillage of thy husbandry?
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
Without thy help by me be borne alone.
Presume not on thy heart when mine is slain;
So should that beauty which you hold in lease
To find where your true image pictured lies;
To let base clouds o'ertake me in my way,
| [
{
"content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nIn our two loves there is but one respect,\nThe world will wail thee, like a makeless wife;\nPoints on me graciously with fair aspect\nThou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother.\nProfitless usurer, why dost thou use\n'Had my friend's Muse grown with this growing age,\nFor all that beauty that doth cover thee\nThat thou among the wastes of time must go,\nGilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy;\nGrant, if thou wilt, thou art beloved of many,\nThe perfect ceremony of love's rite,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nEntitled in thy parts do crowned sit,\nThey draw but what they see, know not the heart.\nFor all that beauty that doth cover thee\nAnd shalt by fortune once more re-survey\nSo I, made lame by fortune's dearest spite,\nLooking on darkness which the blind do see\nThose hours, that with gentle work did frame\nThe lovely gaze where every eye doth dwell,\nThe one by toil, the other to complain\nThou of thyself thy sweet self dost deceive.\nMake sweet some vial; treasure thou some place\nTo let base clouds o'ertake me in my way,\nSo should the lines of life that life repair,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nAnd being frank she lends to those are free.\nDisdains the tillage of thy husbandry?\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nWithout thy help by me be borne alone.\nPresume not on thy heart when mine is slain;\nSo should that beauty which you hold in lease\nTo find where your true image pictured lies;\nTo let base clouds o'ertake me in my way,\n",
"role": "user"
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518,
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25580,
29962
] |
50 | Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
| FROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
Let those who are in favour with their stars
So shall those blots that do with me remain
Without this, folly, age and cold decay:
Thou mayst call thine when thou from youth convertest.
Where all the treasure of thy lusty days,
Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Whose speechless song, being many, seeming one,
Sweets with sweets war not, joy delights in joy.
But as the riper should by time decease,
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
And puts apparel on my tatter'd loving,
O'ercharged with burden of mine own love's might.
Sets you most rich in youth before my sight,
| [
{
"content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nLet those who are in favour with their stars\nSo shall those blots that do with me remain\nWithout this, folly, age and cold decay:\nThou mayst call thine when thou from youth convertest.\nWhere all the treasure of thy lusty days,\nThen can I drown an eye, unused to flow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nWhose speechless song, being many, seeming one,\nSweets with sweets war not, joy delights in joy.\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nAnd every fair from fair sometime declines,\nAnd puts apparel on my tatter'd loving,\nO'ercharged with burden of mine own love's might.\nSets you most rich in youth before my sight,\n",
"role": "user"
}
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] |
51 | Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
| FROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
With what I most enjoy contented least;
And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Myself corrupting, salving thy amiss,
O, that you were yourself! but, love, you are
But since he died and poets better prove,
Like to the lark at break of day arising
And you must live, drawn by your own sweet skill.
Profitless usurer, why dost thou use
The region cloud hath mask'd him from me now.
That due of many now is thine alone:
To show me worthy of thy sweet respect:
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
By oft predict that I in heaven find:
Not from the stars do I my judgment pluck;
Which though it alter not love's sole effect,
That on himself such murderous shame commits.
To witness duty, not to show my wit:
Lo! in the orient when the gracious light
Devouring Time, blunt thou the lion's paws,
Of public honour and proud titles boast,
With sun and moon, with earth and sea's rich gems,
As interest of the dead, which now appear
Nor thou with public kindness honour me,
I all alone beweep my outcast state
When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,
To thee I send this written embassage,
And threescore year would make the world away.
O, carve not with thy hours my love's fair brow,
Lo! thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind,
Thy merit hath my duty strongly knit,
'Had my friend's Muse grown with this growing age,
My glass shall not persuade me I am old,
| [
{
"content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nWith what I most enjoy contented least;\nAnd often is his gold complexion dimm'd;\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nMyself corrupting, salving thy amiss,\nO, that you were yourself! but, love, you are\nBut since he died and poets better prove,\nLike to the lark at break of day arising\nAnd you must live, drawn by your own sweet skill.\nProfitless usurer, why dost thou use\nThe region cloud hath mask'd him from me now.\nThat due of many now is thine alone:\nTo show me worthy of thy sweet respect:\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nBy oft predict that I in heaven find:\nNot from the stars do I my judgment pluck;\nWhich though it alter not love's sole effect,\nThat on himself such murderous shame commits.\nTo witness duty, not to show my wit:\nLo! in the orient when the gracious light\nDevouring Time, blunt thou the lion's paws,\nOf public honour and proud titles boast,\nWith sun and moon, with earth and sea's rich gems,\nAs interest of the dead, which now appear\nNor thou with public kindness honour me,\nI all alone beweep my outcast state\nWhen, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,\nTo thee I send this written embassage,\nAnd threescore year would make the world away.\nO, carve not with thy hours my love's fair brow,\nLo! thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind,\nThy merit hath my duty strongly knit,\n'Had my friend's Muse grown with this growing age,\nMy glass shall not persuade me I am old,\n",
"role": "user"
}
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] |
52 | Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
| FROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
So thou, thyself out-going in thy noon,
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
Mine eyes have drawn thy shape, and thine for me
Without thy help by me be borne alone.
For all that beauty that doth cover thee
And perspective it is the painter's art.
And for a woman wert thou first created;
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
Such civil war is in my love and hate
Making a famine where abundance lies,
For where is she so fair whose unear'd womb
Like feeble age, he reeleth from the day,
| [
{
"content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nSo thou, thyself out-going in thy noon,\nAnd every fair from fair sometime declines,\nMine eyes have drawn thy shape, and thine for me\nWithout thy help by me be borne alone.\nFor all that beauty that doth cover thee\nAnd perspective it is the painter's art.\nAnd for a woman wert thou first created;\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nSuch civil war is in my love and hate\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nFor where is she so fair whose unear'd womb\nLike feeble age, he reeleth from the day,\n",
"role": "user"
}
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] |
53 | Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
| FROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
To give away yourself keeps yourself still,
Serving with looks his sacred majesty;
So shall those blots that do with me remain
Devouring Time, blunt thou the lion's paws,
When that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover,
And 'gainst myself a lawful plea commence:
So thou, thyself out-going in thy noon,
Which, used, lives th' executor to be.
Or any of these all, or all, or more,
'Had my friend's Muse grown with this growing age,
To the wide world and all her fading sweets;
Who will believe my verse in time to come,
And see the brave day sunk in hideous night;
Where wasteful Time debateth with Decay,
No longer yours than you yourself here live:
With what I most enjoy contented least;
With all triumphant splendor on my brow;
And shalt by fortune once more re-survey
You should live twice; in it and in my rhyme.
Myself corrupting, salving thy amiss,
And nothing 'gainst Time's scythe can make defence
O, let my books be then the eloquence
Now see what good turns eyes for eyes have done:
Whose fresh repair if now thou not renewest,
Mark how one string, sweet husband to another,
O, that you were yourself! but, love, you are
The eyes, 'fore duteous, now converted are
So flatter I the swart-complexion'd night,
For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings
Or else receivest with pleasure thine annoy?
Will play the tyrants to the very same
Or say with princes if it shall go well,
If I could write the beauty of your eyes
When that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover,
To let base clouds o'ertake me in my way,
Till Nature, as she wrought thee, fell a-doting,
And in mine own love's strength seem to decay,
Beauty o'ersnow'd and bareness every where:
| [
{
"content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nTo give away yourself keeps yourself still,\nServing with looks his sacred majesty;\nSo shall those blots that do with me remain\nDevouring Time, blunt thou the lion's paws,\nWhen that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover,\nAnd 'gainst myself a lawful plea commence:\nSo thou, thyself out-going in thy noon,\nWhich, used, lives th' executor to be.\nOr any of these all, or all, or more,\n'Had my friend's Muse grown with this growing age,\nTo the wide world and all her fading sweets;\nWho will believe my verse in time to come,\nAnd see the brave day sunk in hideous night;\nWhere wasteful Time debateth with Decay,\nNo longer yours than you yourself here live:\nWith what I most enjoy contented least;\nWith all triumphant splendor on my brow;\nAnd shalt by fortune once more re-survey\nYou should live twice; in it and in my rhyme.\nMyself corrupting, salving thy amiss,\nAnd nothing 'gainst Time's scythe can make defence\nO, let my books be then the eloquence\nNow see what good turns eyes for eyes have done:\nWhose fresh repair if now thou not renewest,\nMark how one string, sweet husband to another,\nO, that you were yourself! but, love, you are\nThe eyes, 'fore duteous, now converted are\nSo flatter I the swart-complexion'd night,\nFor thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings\nOr else receivest with pleasure thine annoy?\nWill play the tyrants to the very same\nOr say with princes if it shall go well,\nIf I could write the beauty of your eyes\nWhen that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover,\nTo let base clouds o'ertake me in my way,\nTill Nature, as she wrought thee, fell a-doting,\nAnd in mine own love's strength seem to decay,\nBeauty o'ersnow'd and bareness every where:\n",
"role": "user"
}
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] |
54 | Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
| FROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
yet mortal looks adore his beauty still,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest;
Or who is he so fond will be the tomb
And make the earth devour her own sweet brood;
A man in hue, all 'hues' in his controlling,
Leaving thee living in posterity?
As, thou being mine, mine is thy good report.
Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother.
For beauty's pattern to succeeding men.
And make the earth devour her own sweet brood;
With shifting change, as is false women's fashion;
When lofty trees I see barren of leaves
Then, beauteous niggard, why dost thou abuse
Lord of my love, to whom in vassalage
Who for thyself art so unprovident.
But I forbid thee one most heinous crime:
More than that tongue that more hath more express'd.
To him that bears the strong offence's cross.
| [
{
"content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nyet mortal looks adore his beauty still,\nNor lose possession of that fair thou owest;\nOr who is he so fond will be the tomb\nAnd make the earth devour her own sweet brood;\nA man in hue, all 'hues' in his controlling,\nLeaving thee living in posterity?\nAs, thou being mine, mine is thy good report.\nThou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother.\nFor beauty's pattern to succeeding men.\nAnd make the earth devour her own sweet brood;\nWith shifting change, as is false women's fashion;\nWhen lofty trees I see barren of leaves\nThen, beauteous niggard, why dost thou abuse\nLord of my love, to whom in vassalage\nWho for thyself art so unprovident.\nBut I forbid thee one most heinous crime:\nMore than that tongue that more hath more express'd.\nTo him that bears the strong offence's cross.\n",
"role": "user"
}
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] |
55 | Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
| FROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
Great princes' favourites their fair leaves spread
That I in thy abundance am sufficed
O, carve not with thy hours my love's fair brow,
But when in thee time's furrows I behold,
Seeking that beauteous roof to ruinate
Mine eye hath play'd the painter and hath stell'd
| [
{
"content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nGreat princes' favourites their fair leaves spread\nThat I in thy abundance am sufficed\nO, carve not with thy hours my love's fair brow,\nBut when in thee time's furrows I behold,\nSeeking that beauteous roof to ruinate\nMine eye hath play'd the painter and hath stell'd\n",
"role": "user"
}
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] |
56 | Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
| FROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
So I, for fear of trust, forget to say
Delights to peep, to gaze therein on thee;
Yet, do thy worst, old Time: despite thy wrong,
How much more praise deserved thy beauty's use,
And make me travel forth without my cloak,
O, let my books be then the eloquence
And all the rest forgot for which he toil'd:
If thou survive my well-contented day,
By adding one thing to my purpose nothing.
O, let my books be then the eloquence
To that sweet thief which sourly robs from me.
Who lets so fair a house fall to decay,
So thou through windows of thine age shall see
I may not evermore acknowledge thee,
That I an accessary needs must be
Doth homage to his new-appearing sight,
Of plagues, of dearths, or seasons' quality;
The dear repose for limbs with travel tired;
Full many a glorious morning have I seen
As tender nurse her babe from faring ill.
| [
{
"content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nSo I, for fear of trust, forget to say\nDelights to peep, to gaze therein on thee;\nYet, do thy worst, old Time: despite thy wrong,\nHow much more praise deserved thy beauty's use,\nAnd make me travel forth without my cloak,\nO, let my books be then the eloquence\nAnd all the rest forgot for which he toil'd:\nIf thou survive my well-contented day,\nBy adding one thing to my purpose nothing.\nO, let my books be then the eloquence\nTo that sweet thief which sourly robs from me.\nWho lets so fair a house fall to decay,\nSo thou through windows of thine age shall see\nI may not evermore acknowledge thee,\nThat I an accessary needs must be\nDoth homage to his new-appearing sight,\nOf plagues, of dearths, or seasons' quality;\nThe dear repose for limbs with travel tired;\nFull many a glorious morning have I seen\nAs tender nurse her babe from faring ill.\n",
"role": "user"
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] |
57 | Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
| FROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Or ten times happier, be it ten for one;
To find where your true image pictured lies;
How many a holy and obsequious tear
Delights to peep, to gaze therein on thee;
When I do count the clock that tells the time,
Whose strength's abundance weakens his own heart.
My glass shall not persuade me I am old,
To say, within thine own deep-sunken eyes,
Strikes each in each by mutual ordering,
Ten times thyself were happier than thou art,
Delights to peep, to gaze therein on thee;
But when from highmost pitch, with weary car,
Will play the tyrants to the very same
Of his self-love, to stop posterity?
Then may I dare to boast how I do love thee;
But since he died and poets better prove,
As fast as thou shalt wane, so fast thou growest
A woman's face with Nature's own hand painted
And weep afresh love's long since cancell'd woe,
She carved thee for her seal, and meant thereby
Which husbandry in honour might uphold
Reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme,
Then being ask'd where all thy beauty lies,
Are windows to my breast, where-through the sun
Now is the time that face should form another;
Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell,
And you must live, drawn by your own sweet skill.
O, that you were yourself! but, love, you are
And your sweet semblance to some other give.
Nor thou with public kindness honour me,
| [
{
"content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nOr ten times happier, be it ten for one;\nTo find where your true image pictured lies;\nHow many a holy and obsequious tear\nDelights to peep, to gaze therein on thee;\nWhen I do count the clock that tells the time,\nWhose strength's abundance weakens his own heart.\nMy glass shall not persuade me I am old,\nTo say, within thine own deep-sunken eyes,\nStrikes each in each by mutual ordering,\nTen times thyself were happier than thou art,\nDelights to peep, to gaze therein on thee;\nBut when from highmost pitch, with weary car,\nWill play the tyrants to the very same\nOf his self-love, to stop posterity?\nThen may I dare to boast how I do love thee;\nBut since he died and poets better prove,\nAs fast as thou shalt wane, so fast thou growest\nA woman's face with Nature's own hand painted\nAnd weep afresh love's long since cancell'd woe,\nShe carved thee for her seal, and meant thereby\nWhich husbandry in honour might uphold\nReserve them for my love, not for their rhyme,\nThen being ask'd where all thy beauty lies,\nAre windows to my breast, where-through the sun\nNow is the time that face should form another;\nNor can I fortune to brief minutes tell,\nAnd you must live, drawn by your own sweet skill.\nO, that you were yourself! but, love, you are\nAnd your sweet semblance to some other give.\nNor thou with public kindness honour me,\n",
"role": "user"
}
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518,
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] |
58 | Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
| FROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
Hiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke?
Now stand you on the top of happy hours,
Which husbandry in honour might uphold
And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste:
| [
{
"content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nHiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke?\nNow stand you on the top of happy hours,\nWhich husbandry in honour might uphold\nAnd with old woes new wail my dear time's waste:\n",
"role": "user"
}
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19863,
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518,
29914,
25580,
29962
] |
59 | Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
| FROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
Who with his fear is put besides his part,
For having traffic with thyself alone,
Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,
'Tis not enough that through the cloud thou break,
Upon thyself thy beauty's legacy?
With beauty's treasure, ere it be self-kill'd.
And fortify yourself in your decay
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
| [
{
"content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nWho with his fear is put besides his part,\nFor having traffic with thyself alone,\nNor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,\n'Tis not enough that through the cloud thou break,\nUpon thyself thy beauty's legacy?\nWith beauty's treasure, ere it be self-kill'd.\nAnd fortify yourself in your decay\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWishing me like to one more rich in hope,\n",
"role": "user"
}
] | [
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13,
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342,
907,
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591,
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7910,
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] |
60 | Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
| FROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
yet mortal looks adore his beauty still,
Make thee another self, for love of me,
If thou survive my well-contented day,
Such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces.'
yet mortal looks adore his beauty still,
That am debarr'd the benefit of rest?
I make my love engrafted to this store:
His tender heir might bear his memory:
His tender heir might bear his memory:
Are windows to my breast, where-through the sun
Which, used, lives th' executor to be.
Clouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun,
FROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
May make seem bare, in wanting words to show it,
In our two loves there is but one respect,
Let those whom Nature hath not made for store,
My body is the frame wherein 'tis held,
When I behold the violet past prime,
Who plead for love and look for recompense
Yourself again after yourself's decease,
Resembling sire and child and happy mother
But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,
Compare them with the bettering of the time,
Featured like him, like him with friends possess'd,
| [
{
"content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nyet mortal looks adore his beauty still,\nMake thee another self, for love of me,\nIf thou survive my well-contented day,\nSuch heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces.'\nyet mortal looks adore his beauty still,\nThat am debarr'd the benefit of rest?\nI make my love engrafted to this store:\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nAre windows to my breast, where-through the sun\nWhich, used, lives th' executor to be.\nClouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun,\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nMay make seem bare, in wanting words to show it,\nIn our two loves there is but one respect,\nLet those whom Nature hath not made for store,\nMy body is the frame wherein 'tis held,\nWhen I behold the violet past prime,\nWho plead for love and look for recompense\nYourself again after yourself's decease,\nResembling sire and child and happy mother\nBut if the while I think on thee, dear friend,\nCompare them with the bettering of the time,\nFeatured like him, like him with friends possess'd,\n",
"role": "user"
}
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29962
] |
61 | Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
| FROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
Leaving thee living in posterity?
Gilding the object whereupon it gazeth;
And shalt by fortune once more re-survey
Looking on darkness which the blind do see
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
I make my love engrafted to this store:
I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,
Make war upon this bloody tyrant, Time?
Find no determination: then you were
That this huge stage presenteth nought but shows
| [
{
"content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nLeaving thee living in posterity?\nGilding the object whereupon it gazeth;\nAnd shalt by fortune once more re-survey\nLooking on darkness which the blind do see\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nI make my love engrafted to this store:\nI sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,\nMake war upon this bloody tyrant, Time?\nFind no determination: then you were\nThat this huge stage presenteth nought but shows\n",
"role": "user"
}
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518,
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25580,
29962
] |
62 | Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
| FROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
Making a couplement of proud compare,
But from thine eyes my knowledge I derive,
Whose fresh repair if now thou not renewest,
Of plagues, of dearths, or seasons' quality;
Which erst from heat did canopy the herd,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
As he takes from you, I engraft you new.
Such civil war is in my love and hate
Leaving thee living in posterity?
And barren rage of death's eternal cold?
Even so my sun one early morn did shine
But that I hope some good conceit of thine
Do in consent shake hands to torture me;
The one by toil, the other to complain
Now stand you on the top of happy hours,
To hideous winter and confounds him there;
That hath his windows glazed with thine eyes.
Thy bosom is endeared with all hearts,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
To find where your true image pictured lies;
The painful warrior famoused for fight,
And burn the long-lived phoenix in her blood;
| [
{
"content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nMaking a couplement of proud compare,\nBut from thine eyes my knowledge I derive,\nWhose fresh repair if now thou not renewest,\nOf plagues, of dearths, or seasons' quality;\nWhich erst from heat did canopy the herd,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nAs he takes from you, I engraft you new.\nSuch civil war is in my love and hate\nLeaving thee living in posterity?\nAnd barren rage of death's eternal cold?\nEven so my sun one early morn did shine\nBut that I hope some good conceit of thine\nDo in consent shake hands to torture me;\nThe one by toil, the other to complain\nNow stand you on the top of happy hours,\nTo hideous winter and confounds him there;\nThat hath his windows glazed with thine eyes.\nThy bosom is endeared with all hearts,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nTo find where your true image pictured lies;\nThe painful warrior famoused for fight,\nAnd burn the long-lived phoenix in her blood;\n",
"role": "user"
}
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] |
63 | Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
| FROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
The perfect ceremony of love's rite,
That thou among the wastes of time must go,
O, therefore, love, be of thyself so wary
Theirs for their style I'll read, his for his love.'
After a thousand victories once foil'd,
When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
Featured like him, like him with friends possess'd,
When day's oppression is not eased by night,
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
Thy unused beauty must be tomb'd with thee,
With virtuous wish would bear your living flowers,
Which to repair should be thy chief desire.
Even so my sun one early morn did shine
Cheered and cheque'd even by the self-same sky,
| [
{
"content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nThe perfect ceremony of love's rite,\nThat thou among the wastes of time must go,\nO, therefore, love, be of thyself so wary\nTheirs for their style I'll read, his for his love.'\nAfter a thousand victories once foil'd,\nWhen to the sessions of sweet silent thought\nFeatured like him, like him with friends possess'd,\nWhen day's oppression is not eased by night,\nAnd every fair from fair sometime declines,\nThy unused beauty must be tomb'd with thee,\nWith virtuous wish would bear your living flowers,\nWhich to repair should be thy chief desire.\nEven so my sun one early morn did shine\nCheered and cheque'd even by the self-same sky,\n",
"role": "user"
}
] | [
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] |
64 | Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
| FROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
That beauty still may live in thine or thee.
And moan the expense of many a vanish'd sight:
Nature's bequest gives nothing but doth lend,
Hiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke?
Their images I loved I view in thee,
With all triumphant splendor on my brow;
I summon up remembrance of things past,
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.
Kissing with golden face the meadows green,
Such civil war is in my love and hate
For thee and for myself no quiet find.
Disdains the tillage of thy husbandry?
Upon thyself thy beauty's legacy?
Hung with the trophies of my lovers gone,
Him in thy course untainted do allow
| [
{
"content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nThat beauty still may live in thine or thee.\nAnd moan the expense of many a vanish'd sight:\nNature's bequest gives nothing but doth lend,\nHiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke?\nTheir images I loved I view in thee,\nWith all triumphant splendor on my brow;\nI summon up remembrance of things past,\nThat then I scorn to change my state with kings.\nKissing with golden face the meadows green,\nSuch civil war is in my love and hate\nFor thee and for myself no quiet find.\nDisdains the tillage of thy husbandry?\nUpon thyself thy beauty's legacy?\nHung with the trophies of my lovers gone,\nHim in thy course untainted do allow\n",
"role": "user"
}
] | [
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] |
65 | Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
| FROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
Desiring this man's art and that man's scope,
When I perceive that men as plants increase,
Seeking that beauteous roof to ruinate
O' let me, true in love, but truly write,
And in themselves their pride lies buried,
Harsh featureless and rude, barrenly perish:
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
So then I am not lame, poor, nor despised,
I tell the day, to please them thou art bright
To march in ranks of better equipage:
This were to be new made when thou art old,
And from the forlorn world his visage hide,
Entitled in thy parts do crowned sit,
The one by toil, the other to complain
Without thy help by me be borne alone.
Thy adverse party is thy advocate--
Sings this to thee: 'thou single wilt prove none.'
| [
{
"content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nDesiring this man's art and that man's scope,\nWhen I perceive that men as plants increase,\nSeeking that beauteous roof to ruinate\nO' let me, true in love, but truly write,\nAnd in themselves their pride lies buried,\nHarsh featureless and rude, barrenly perish:\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nSo then I am not lame, poor, nor despised,\nI tell the day, to please them thou art bright\nTo march in ranks of better equipage:\nThis were to be new made when thou art old,\nAnd from the forlorn world his visage hide,\nEntitled in thy parts do crowned sit,\nThe one by toil, the other to complain\nWithout thy help by me be borne alone.\nThy adverse party is thy advocate--\nSings this to thee: 'thou single wilt prove none.'\n",
"role": "user"
}
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] |
66 | Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
| FROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
Shifts but his place, for still the world enjoys it;
O, change thy thought, that I may change my mind!
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Which to repair should be thy chief desire.
Make sweet some vial; treasure thou some place
But if thou live, remember'd not to be,
Which in my bosom's shop is hanging still,
In thy soul's thought, all naked, will bestow it;
Mark how one string, sweet husband to another,
Without thy help by me be borne alone.
If it were fill'd with your most high deserts?
Exceeded by the height of happier men.
And burn the long-lived phoenix in her blood;
Yourself again after yourself's decease,
That thou no form of thee hast left behind,
As any mother's child, though not so bright
For then my thoughts, from far where I abide,
The region cloud hath mask'd him from me now.
As an unperfect actor on the stage
Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy;
Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,
Look, what an unthrift in the world doth spend
Then the conceit of this inconstant stay
Then look I death my days should expiate.
Is it for fear to wet a widow's eye
And all in war with Time for love of you,
Thy adverse party is thy advocate--
By children's eyes her husband's shape in mind.
Let me confess that we two must be twain,
And threescore year would make the world away.
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Yet him for this my love no whit disdaineth;
To change your day of youth to sullied night;
Entitled in thy parts do crowned sit,
| [
{
"content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nShifts but his place, for still the world enjoys it;\nO, change thy thought, that I may change my mind!\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nWhich to repair should be thy chief desire.\nMake sweet some vial; treasure thou some place\nBut if thou live, remember'd not to be,\nWhich in my bosom's shop is hanging still,\nIn thy soul's thought, all naked, will bestow it;\nMark how one string, sweet husband to another,\nWithout thy help by me be borne alone.\nIf it were fill'd with your most high deserts?\nExceeded by the height of happier men.\nAnd burn the long-lived phoenix in her blood;\nYourself again after yourself's decease,\nThat thou no form of thee hast left behind,\nAs any mother's child, though not so bright\nFor then my thoughts, from far where I abide,\nThe region cloud hath mask'd him from me now.\nAs an unperfect actor on the stage\nGilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy;\nThen can I grieve at grievances foregone,\nLook, what an unthrift in the world doth spend\nThen the conceit of this inconstant stay\nThen look I death my days should expiate.\nIs it for fear to wet a widow's eye\nAnd all in war with Time for love of you,\nThy adverse party is thy advocate--\nBy children's eyes her husband's shape in mind.\nLet me confess that we two must be twain,\nAnd threescore year would make the world away.\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nYet him for this my love no whit disdaineth;\nTo change your day of youth to sullied night;\nEntitled in thy parts do crowned sit,\n",
"role": "user"
}
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300,
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445,
590,
5360,
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377,
277,
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475,
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29936,
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1735,
596,
2462,
310,
12397,
304,
5394,
2957,
4646,
29936,
13,
5292,
17707,
297,
13874,
5633,
437,
20844,
287,
7845,
29892,
518,
29914,
25580,
29962
] |
67 | Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
| FROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate;
Hath dear religious love stol'n from mine eye
Unthrifty loveliness, why dost thou spend
And they are rich and ransom all ill deeds.
As an unperfect actor on the stage
Suns of the world may stain when heaven's sun staineth.
When your sweet issue your sweet form should bear.
How can I then be elder than thou art?
Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Entitled in thy parts do crowned sit,
| [
{
"content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nFrom sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate;\nHath dear religious love stol'n from mine eye\nUnthrifty loveliness, why dost thou spend\nAnd they are rich and ransom all ill deeds.\nAs an unperfect actor on the stage\nSuns of the world may stain when heaven's sun staineth.\nWhen your sweet issue your sweet form should bear.\nHow can I then be elder than thou art?\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nEntitled in thy parts do crowned sit,\n",
"role": "user"
}
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437,
20844,
287,
7845,
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518,
29914,
25580,
29962
] |
68 | Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
| FROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
To that sweet thief which sourly robs from me.
If all were minded so, the times should cease
Attending on his golden pilgrimage;
That's for thyself to breed another thee,
And thou, all they, hast all the all of me.
When sparkling stars twire not thou gild'st the even.
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Though yet, heaven knows, it is but as a tomb
They draw but what they see, know not the heart.
For no man well of such a salve can speak
No longer yours than you yourself here live:
Against the stormy gusts of winter's day
Without this, folly, age and cold decay:
Clouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun,
Then of thy beauty do I question make,
O, none but unthrifts! Dear my love, you know
And threescore year would make the world away.
As interest of the dead, which now appear
Or else of thee this I prognosticate:
With April's first-born flowers, and all things rare
How can I then be elder than thou art?
Reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme,
Find no determination: then you were
With virtuous wish would bear your living flowers,
Let those who are in favour with their stars
And fortify yourself in your decay
Making a couplement of proud compare,
And for a woman wert thou first created;
Make war upon this bloody tyrant, Time?
My love shall in my verse ever live young.
Whereon the stars in secret influence comment;
All losses are restored and sorrows end.
To see his active child do deeds of youth,
Which hides your life and shows not half your parts.
And barren rage of death's eternal cold?
How many a holy and obsequious tear
But were some child of yours alive that time,
| [
{
"content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nTo that sweet thief which sourly robs from me.\nIf all were minded so, the times should cease\nAttending on his golden pilgrimage;\nThat's for thyself to breed another thee,\nAnd thou, all they, hast all the all of me.\nWhen sparkling stars twire not thou gild'st the even.\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThough yet, heaven knows, it is but as a tomb\nThey draw but what they see, know not the heart.\nFor no man well of such a salve can speak\nNo longer yours than you yourself here live:\nAgainst the stormy gusts of winter's day\nWithout this, folly, age and cold decay:\nClouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun,\nThen of thy beauty do I question make,\nO, none but unthrifts! Dear my love, you know\nAnd threescore year would make the world away.\nAs interest of the dead, which now appear\nOr else of thee this I prognosticate:\nWith April's first-born flowers, and all things rare\nHow can I then be elder than thou art?\nReserve them for my love, not for their rhyme,\nFind no determination: then you were\nWith virtuous wish would bear your living flowers,\nLet those who are in favour with their stars\nAnd fortify yourself in your decay\nMaking a couplement of proud compare,\nAnd for a woman wert thou first created;\nMake war upon this bloody tyrant, Time?\nMy love shall in my verse ever live young.\nWhereon the stars in secret influence comment;\nAll losses are restored and sorrows end.\nTo see his active child do deeds of youth,\nWhich hides your life and shows not half your parts.\nAnd barren rage of death's eternal cold?\nHow many a holy and obsequious tear\nBut were some child of yours alive that time,\n",
"role": "user"
}
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518,
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25580,
29962
] |
69 | Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
| FROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
That on himself such murderous shame commits.
And fortify yourself in your decay
The dear repose for limbs with travel tired;
With virtuous wish would bear your living flowers,
Yet eyes this cunning want to grace their art;
Herein lives wisdom, beauty and increase:
Thou mayst call thine when thou from youth convertest.
Yet doth it steal sweet hours from love's delight.
If the true concord of well-tuned sounds,
Were an all-eating shame and thriftless praise.
That on himself such murderous shame commits.
Which, like a jewel hung in ghastly night,
Which I new pay as if not paid before.
Against this coming end you should prepare,
Hath dear religious love stol'n from mine eye
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
Then, beauteous niggard, why dost thou abuse
Save breed, to brave him when he takes thee hence.
But I forbid thee one most heinous crime:
Then, were not summer's distillation left,
| [
{
"content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nThat on himself such murderous shame commits.\nAnd fortify yourself in your decay\nThe dear repose for limbs with travel tired;\nWith virtuous wish would bear your living flowers,\nYet eyes this cunning want to grace their art;\nHerein lives wisdom, beauty and increase:\nThou mayst call thine when thou from youth convertest.\nYet doth it steal sweet hours from love's delight.\nIf the true concord of well-tuned sounds,\nWere an all-eating shame and thriftless praise.\nThat on himself such murderous shame commits.\nWhich, like a jewel hung in ghastly night,\nWhich I new pay as if not paid before.\nAgainst this coming end you should prepare,\nHath dear religious love stol'n from mine eye\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nThen, beauteous niggard, why dost thou abuse\nSave breed, to brave him when he takes thee hence.\nBut I forbid thee one most heinous crime:\nThen, were not summer's distillation left,\n",
"role": "user"
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] |
70 | Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
| FROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
Points on me graciously with fair aspect
Yet him for this my love no whit disdaineth;
Seeking that beauteous roof to ruinate
Harsh featureless and rude, barrenly perish:
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
The world will wail thee, like a makeless wife;
So should my papers yellow'd with their age
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
To say, within thine own deep-sunken eyes,
Though in our lives a separable spite,
Roses have thorns, and silver fountains mud;
So should my papers yellow'd with their age
And many maiden gardens yet unset
Unlook'd on diest, unless thou get a son.
Yourself again after yourself's decease,
To find where your true image pictured lies;
O, learn to read what silent love hath writ:
O' let me, true in love, but truly write,
The bounteous largess given thee to give?
And being frank she lends to those are free.
| [
{
"content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nPoints on me graciously with fair aspect\nYet him for this my love no whit disdaineth;\nSeeking that beauteous roof to ruinate\nHarsh featureless and rude, barrenly perish:\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nThe world will wail thee, like a makeless wife;\nSo should my papers yellow'd with their age\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nTo say, within thine own deep-sunken eyes,\nThough in our lives a separable spite,\nRoses have thorns, and silver fountains mud;\nSo should my papers yellow'd with their age\nAnd many maiden gardens yet unset\nUnlook'd on diest, unless thou get a son.\nYourself again after yourself's decease,\nTo find where your true image pictured lies;\nO, learn to read what silent love hath writ:\nO' let me, true in love, but truly write,\nThe bounteous largess given thee to give?\nAnd being frank she lends to those are free.\n",
"role": "user"
}
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] |
71 | Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
| FROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother.
But from thine eyes my knowledge I derive,
And, constant stars, in them I read such art
Thou art thy mother's glass, and she in thee
Him in thy course untainted do allow
And that fresh blood which youngly thou bestowest
| [
{
"content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nThou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother.\nBut from thine eyes my knowledge I derive,\nAnd, constant stars, in them I read such art\nThou art thy mother's glass, and she in thee\nHim in thy course untainted do allow\nAnd that fresh blood which youngly thou bestowest\n",
"role": "user"
}
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607,
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368,
12595,
1900,
340,
342,
518,
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25580,
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] |
72 | Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
| FROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
For having traffic with thyself alone,
Compare them with the bettering of the time,
Nor can thy shame give physic to my grief;
| [
{
"content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nFor having traffic with thyself alone,\nCompare them with the bettering of the time,\nNor can thy shame give physic to my grief;\n",
"role": "user"
}
] | [
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2367,
4824,
293,
304,
590,
867,
2575,
29936,
518,
29914,
25580,
29962
] |
73 | Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
| FROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
Ten times thyself were happier than thou art,
For never-resting time leads summer on
Borne on the bier with white and bristly beard,
| [
{
"content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nTen times thyself were happier than thou art,\nFor never-resting time leads summer on\nBorne on the bier with white and bristly beard,\n",
"role": "user"
}
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411,
4796,
322,
1506,
391,
368,
367,
538,
29892,
518,
29914,
25580,
29962
] |
74 | Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
| FROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
The world will wail thee, like a makeless wife;
Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,
Can make you live yourself in eyes of men.
Make sweet some vial; treasure thou some place
So thou through windows of thine age shall see
| [
{
"content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nThe world will wail thee, like a makeless wife;\nThen can I grieve at grievances foregone,\nCan make you live yourself in eyes of men.\nMake sweet some vial; treasure thou some place\nSo thou through windows of thine age shall see\n",
"role": "user"
}
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5417,
310,
266,
457,
5046,
4091,
1074,
518,
29914,
25580,
29962
] |
75 | Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
| FROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
If all were minded so, the times should cease
Which this, Time's pencil, or my pupil pen,
Reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme,
Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed,
Upon thyself thy beauty's legacy?
And each, though enemies to either's reign,
Seeking that beauteous roof to ruinate
That beauty still may live in thine or thee.
But if thou live, remember'd not to be,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Save that my soul's imaginary sight
Then happy I, that love and am beloved
If I could write the beauty of your eyes
For then my thoughts, from far where I abide,
When I do count the clock that tells the time,
Which this, Time's pencil, or my pupil pen,
Till then not show my head where thou mayst prove me.
Be, as thy presence is, gracious and kind,
Be not self-will'd, for thou art much too fair
That thou among the wastes of time must go,
Which, used, lives th' executor to be.
Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy;
Look in thy glass, and tell the face thou viewest
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Duty so great, which wit so poor as mine
Look in thy glass, and tell the face thou viewest
Lord of my love, to whom in vassalage
Hast thou, the master-mistress of my passion;
And make me travel forth without my cloak,
Shall sum my count and make my old excuse,'
Is from the book of honour razed quite,
Nor draw no lines there with thine antique pen;
| [
{
"content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nIf all were minded so, the times should cease\nWhich this, Time's pencil, or my pupil pen,\nReserve them for my love, not for their rhyme,\nWeary with toil, I haste me to my bed,\nUpon thyself thy beauty's legacy?\nAnd each, though enemies to either's reign,\nSeeking that beauteous roof to ruinate\nThat beauty still may live in thine or thee.\nBut if thou live, remember'd not to be,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nSave that my soul's imaginary sight\nThen happy I, that love and am beloved\nIf I could write the beauty of your eyes\nFor then my thoughts, from far where I abide,\nWhen I do count the clock that tells the time,\nWhich this, Time's pencil, or my pupil pen,\nTill then not show my head where thou mayst prove me.\nBe, as thy presence is, gracious and kind,\nBe not self-will'd, for thou art much too fair\nThat thou among the wastes of time must go,\nWhich, used, lives th' executor to be.\nGilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy;\nLook in thy glass, and tell the face thou viewest\nWishing me like to one more rich in hope,\nDuty so great, which wit so poor as mine\nLook in thy glass, and tell the face thou viewest\nLord of my love, to whom in vassalage\nHast thou, the master-mistress of my passion;\nAnd make me travel forth without my cloak,\nShall sum my count and make my old excuse,'\nIs from the book of honour razed quite,\nNor draw no lines there with thine antique pen;\n",
"role": "user"
}
] | [
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13,
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342,
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591,
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13,
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27999,
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29915,
29879,
11492,
1795,
2360,
762,
29892,
13,
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408,
278,
10107,
546,
881,
491,
931,
23332,
559,
29892,
13,
29950,
275,
22707,
540,
381,
1795,
11460,
670,
3370,
29901,
13,
6246,
12595,
29892,
8078,
287,
304,
266,
457,
1914,
11785,
5076,
29892,
13,
29737,
29915,
303,
13874,
3578,
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303,
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420,
411,
1583,
29899,
22492,
424,
616,
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13,
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263,
5216,
457,
988,
18666,
749,
12185,
29892,
13,
1349,
952,
761,
13874,
1701,
29872,
29892,
304,
13874,
14225,
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] |
76 | Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
| FROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
Whereon the stars in secret influence comment;
Which, like a jewel hung in ghastly night,
Is it for fear to wet a widow's eye
Look, whom she best endow'd she gave the more;
Who plead for love and look for recompense
Seeking that beauteous roof to ruinate
Such civil war is in my love and hate
Whilst that this shadow doth such substance give
To change your day of youth to sullied night;
No longer yours than you yourself here live:
I make my love engrafted to this store:
And nothing 'gainst Time's scythe can make defence
Delights to peep, to gaze therein on thee;
Who for thyself art so unprovident.
Mine eyes have drawn thy shape, and thine for me
Mine be thy love and thy love's use their treasure.
| [
{
"content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nWhereon the stars in secret influence comment;\nWhich, like a jewel hung in ghastly night,\nIs it for fear to wet a widow's eye\nLook, whom she best endow'd she gave the more;\nWho plead for love and look for recompense\nSeeking that beauteous roof to ruinate\nSuch civil war is in my love and hate\nWhilst that this shadow doth such substance give\nTo change your day of youth to sullied night;\nNo longer yours than you yourself here live:\nI make my love engrafted to this store:\nAnd nothing 'gainst Time's scythe can make defence\nDelights to peep, to gaze therein on thee;\nWho for thyself art so unprovident.\nMine eyes have drawn thy shape, and thine for me\nMine be thy love and thy love's use their treasure.\n",
"role": "user"
}
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] |
77 | Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
| FROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
'Had my friend's Muse grown with this growing age,
And many maiden gardens yet unset
Look, what is best, that best I wish in thee:
Against the stormy gusts of winter's day
Ah! if thou issueless shalt hap to die.
But were some child of yours alive that time,
That's for thyself to breed another thee,
Harsh featureless and rude, barrenly perish:
Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,
Is it for fear to wet a widow's eye
So then I am not lame, poor, nor despised,
A woman's gentle heart, but not acquainted
Yourself again after yourself's decease,
For thou art so possess'd with murderous hate
| [
{
"content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\n'Had my friend's Muse grown with this growing age,\nAnd many maiden gardens yet unset\nLook, what is best, that best I wish in thee:\nAgainst the stormy gusts of winter's day\nAh! if thou issueless shalt hap to die.\nBut were some child of yours alive that time,\nThat's for thyself to breed another thee,\nHarsh featureless and rude, barrenly perish:\nNor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,\nIs it for fear to wet a widow's eye\nSo then I am not lame, poor, nor despised,\nA woman's gentle heart, but not acquainted\nYourself again after yourself's decease,\nFor thou art so possess'd with murderous hate\n",
"role": "user"
}
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29915,
29881,
411,
13406,
681,
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518,
29914,
25580,
29962
] |
78 | Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
| FROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
If from thyself to store thou wouldst convert;
Whose fresh repair if now thou not renewest,
If the true concord of well-tuned sounds,
But were some child of yours alive that time,
But things removed that hidden in thee lie!
My glass shall not persuade me I am old,
Disdains the tillage of thy husbandry?
Neither in inward worth nor outward fair,
Or any of these all, or all, or more,
O, therefore, love, be of thyself so wary
| [
{
"content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nIf from thyself to store thou wouldst convert;\nWhose fresh repair if now thou not renewest,\nIf the true concord of well-tuned sounds,\nBut were some child of yours alive that time,\nBut things removed that hidden in thee lie!\nMy glass shall not persuade me I am old,\nDisdains the tillage of thy husbandry?\nNeither in inward worth nor outward fair,\nOr any of these all, or all, or more,\nO, therefore, love, be of thyself so wary\n",
"role": "user"
}
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] |
79 | Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
| FROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
Like to the lark at break of day arising
Nature's bequest gives nothing but doth lend,
O, carve not with thy hours my love's fair brow,
For to thy sensual fault I bring in sense--
Be, as thy presence is, gracious and kind,
Reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme,
Since sweets and beauties do themselves forsake
The age to come would say 'This poet lies:
Clouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
Look, whom she best endow'd she gave the more;
Strikes each in each by mutual ordering,
As those gold candles fix'd in heaven's air:
I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,
For no man well of such a salve can speak
When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
To be death's conquest and make worms thine heir.
As an unperfect actor on the stage
When every private widow well may keep
Reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme,
Lo! in the orient when the gracious light
And fortify yourself in your decay
By unions married, do offend thine ear,
Stealing unseen to west with this disgrace:
And your sweet semblance to some other give.
| [
{
"content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nLike to the lark at break of day arising\nNature's bequest gives nothing but doth lend,\nO, carve not with thy hours my love's fair brow,\nFor to thy sensual fault I bring in sense--\nBe, as thy presence is, gracious and kind,\nReserve them for my love, not for their rhyme,\nSince sweets and beauties do themselves forsake\nThe age to come would say 'This poet lies:\nClouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nLook, whom she best endow'd she gave the more;\nStrikes each in each by mutual ordering,\nAs those gold candles fix'd in heaven's air:\nI sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,\nFor no man well of such a salve can speak\nWhen to the sessions of sweet silent thought\nTo be death's conquest and make worms thine heir.\nAs an unperfect actor on the stage\nWhen every private widow well may keep\nReserve them for my love, not for their rhyme,\nLo! in the orient when the gracious light\nAnd fortify yourself in your decay\nBy unions married, do offend thine ear,\nStealing unseen to west with this disgrace:\nAnd your sweet semblance to some other give.\n",
"role": "user"
}
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518,
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25580,
29962
] |
80 | Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
| FROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
Let them say more than like of hearsay well;
His tender heir might bear his memory:
Let those whom Nature hath not made for store,
More than that tongue that more hath more express'd.
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
And you must live, drawn by your own sweet skill.
Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,
Devouring Time, blunt thou the lion's paws,
By oft predict that I in heaven find:
For never-resting time leads summer on
To see his active child do deeds of youth,
Mine eyes have drawn thy shape, and thine for me
A woman's gentle heart, but not acquainted
That hath his windows glazed with thine eyes.
To dry the rain on my storm-beaten face,
And from the forlorn world his visage hide,
Grant, if thou wilt, thou art beloved of many,
And keep my drooping eyelids open wide,
Holds in perfection but a little moment,
Resembling sire and child and happy mother
For where is she so fair whose unear'd womb
Pointing to each his thunder, rain and wind,
Ah! if thou issueless shalt hap to die.
Will play the tyrants to the very same
The world will wail thee, like a makeless wife;
So flatter I the swart-complexion'd night,
So is it not with me as with that Muse
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
And nothing 'gainst Time's scythe can make defence
If ten of thine ten times refigured thee:
Or who is he so fond will be the tomb
If the true concord of well-tuned sounds,
Shall hate be fairer lodged than gentle love?
And being frank she lends to those are free.
To thee I send this written embassage,
What acceptable audit canst thou leave?
For beauty's pattern to succeeding men.
| [
{
"content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nLet them say more than like of hearsay well;\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nLet those whom Nature hath not made for store,\nMore than that tongue that more hath more express'd.\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nAnd you must live, drawn by your own sweet skill.\nThen can I grieve at grievances foregone,\nDevouring Time, blunt thou the lion's paws,\nBy oft predict that I in heaven find:\nFor never-resting time leads summer on\nTo see his active child do deeds of youth,\nMine eyes have drawn thy shape, and thine for me\nA woman's gentle heart, but not acquainted\nThat hath his windows glazed with thine eyes.\nTo dry the rain on my storm-beaten face,\nAnd from the forlorn world his visage hide,\nGrant, if thou wilt, thou art beloved of many,\nAnd keep my drooping eyelids open wide,\nHolds in perfection but a little moment,\nResembling sire and child and happy mother\nFor where is she so fair whose unear'd womb\nPointing to each his thunder, rain and wind,\nAh! if thou issueless shalt hap to die.\nWill play the tyrants to the very same\nThe world will wail thee, like a makeless wife;\nSo flatter I the swart-complexion'd night,\nSo is it not with me as with that Muse\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nAnd nothing 'gainst Time's scythe can make defence\nIf ten of thine ten times refigured thee:\nOr who is he so fond will be the tomb\nIf the true concord of well-tuned sounds,\nShall hate be fairer lodged than gentle love?\nAnd being frank she lends to those are free.\nTo thee I send this written embassage,\nWhat acceptable audit canst thou leave?\nFor beauty's pattern to succeeding men.\n",
"role": "user"
}
] | [
1,
518,
25580,
29962,
23868,
408,
1784,
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] |
81 | Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
| FROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
And all the rest forgot for which he toil'd:
Yourself again after yourself's decease,
In thy soul's thought, all naked, will bestow it;
And all the rest forgot for which he toil'd:
And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er
| [
{
"content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nAnd all the rest forgot for which he toil'd:\nYourself again after yourself's decease,\nIn thy soul's thought, all naked, will bestow it;\nAnd all the rest forgot for which he toil'd:\nAnd heavily from woe to woe tell o'er\n",
"role": "user"
}
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] |
82 | Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
| FROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
But when in thee time's furrows I behold,
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
Seeking that beauteous roof to ruinate
And dost him grace when clouds do blot the heaven:
Those hours, that with gentle work did frame
| [
{
"content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nBut when in thee time's furrows I behold,\nAnd every fair from fair sometime declines,\nSeeking that beauteous roof to ruinate\nAnd dost him grace when clouds do blot the heaven:\nThose hours, that with gentle work did frame\n",
"role": "user"
}
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] |
83 | Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
| FROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
Yet eyes this cunning want to grace their art;
Presume not on thy heart when mine is slain;
Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy;
In one of thine, from that which thou departest;
When lofty trees I see barren of leaves
But were some child of yours alive that time,
Yourself again after yourself's decease,
And, constant stars, in them I read such art
And sable curls all silver'd o'er with white;
Myself corrupting, salving thy amiss,
Then of thy beauty do I question make,
Shall sum my count and make my old excuse,'
And dumb presagers of my speaking breast,
And all the rest forgot for which he toil'd:
And make me travel forth without my cloak,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
As any mother's child, though not so bright
Stirr'd by a painted beauty to his verse,
For to thy sensual fault I bring in sense--
My love shall in my verse ever live young.
Sweets with sweets war not, joy delights in joy.
As, thou being mine, mine is thy good report.
Ten times thyself were happier than thou art,
Now is the time that face should form another;
So shall those blots that do with me remain
For to thy sensual fault I bring in sense--
A woman's gentle heart, but not acquainted
And weep afresh love's long since cancell'd woe,
And kept unused, the user so destroys it.
The region cloud hath mask'd him from me now.
But wherefore do not you a mightier way
For beauty's pattern to succeeding men.
The one by toil, the other to complain
| [
{
"content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nYet eyes this cunning want to grace their art;\nPresume not on thy heart when mine is slain;\nGilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy;\nIn one of thine, from that which thou departest;\nWhen lofty trees I see barren of leaves\nBut were some child of yours alive that time,\nYourself again after yourself's decease,\nAnd, constant stars, in them I read such art\nAnd sable curls all silver'd o'er with white;\nMyself corrupting, salving thy amiss,\nThen of thy beauty do I question make,\nShall sum my count and make my old excuse,'\nAnd dumb presagers of my speaking breast,\nAnd all the rest forgot for which he toil'd:\nAnd make me travel forth without my cloak,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nAs any mother's child, though not so bright\nStirr'd by a painted beauty to his verse,\nFor to thy sensual fault I bring in sense--\nMy love shall in my verse ever live young.\nSweets with sweets war not, joy delights in joy.\nAs, thou being mine, mine is thy good report.\nTen times thyself were happier than thou art,\nNow is the time that face should form another;\nSo shall those blots that do with me remain\nFor to thy sensual fault I bring in sense--\nA woman's gentle heart, but not acquainted\nAnd weep afresh love's long since cancell'd woe,\nAnd kept unused, the user so destroys it.\nThe region cloud hath mask'd him from me now.\nBut wherefore do not you a mightier way\nFor beauty's pattern to succeeding men.\nThe one by toil, the other to complain\n",
"role": "user"
}
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] |
84 | Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
| FROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
And shalt by fortune once more re-survey
Who all in one, one pleasing note do sing:
For then my thoughts, from far where I abide,
But day doth daily draw my sorrows longer
Then what could death do, if thou shouldst depart,
Like to the lark at break of day arising
That use is not forbidden usury,
And in themselves their pride lies buried,
Sings this to thee: 'thou single wilt prove none.'
So should my papers yellow'd with their age
How much more praise deserved thy beauty's use,
This wish I have; then ten times happy me!
If thou couldst answer 'This fair child of mine
Can make you live yourself in eyes of men.
But out, alack! he was but one hour mine;
May make seem bare, in wanting words to show it,
Neither in inward worth nor outward fair,
Then of thy beauty do I question make,
The perfect ceremony of love's rite,
Ah! if thou issueless shalt hap to die.
Thy adverse party is thy advocate--
Looking on darkness which the blind do see
Sap cheque'd with frost and lusty leaves quite gone,
Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed,
And threescore year would make the world away.
And yet methinks I have astronomy,
Such civil war is in my love and hate
And having climb'd the steep-up heavenly hill,
Thy end is truth's and beauty's doom and date.
But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,
For then my thoughts, from far where I abide,
The eyes, 'fore duteous, now converted are
| [
{
"content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nAnd shalt by fortune once more re-survey\nWho all in one, one pleasing note do sing:\nFor then my thoughts, from far where I abide,\nBut day doth daily draw my sorrows longer\nThen what could death do, if thou shouldst depart,\nLike to the lark at break of day arising\nThat use is not forbidden usury,\nAnd in themselves their pride lies buried,\nSings this to thee: 'thou single wilt prove none.'\nSo should my papers yellow'd with their age\nHow much more praise deserved thy beauty's use,\nThis wish I have; then ten times happy me!\nIf thou couldst answer 'This fair child of mine\nCan make you live yourself in eyes of men.\nBut out, alack! he was but one hour mine;\nMay make seem bare, in wanting words to show it,\nNeither in inward worth nor outward fair,\nThen of thy beauty do I question make,\nThe perfect ceremony of love's rite,\nAh! if thou issueless shalt hap to die.\nThy adverse party is thy advocate--\nLooking on darkness which the blind do see\nSap cheque'd with frost and lusty leaves quite gone,\nWeary with toil, I haste me to my bed,\nAnd threescore year would make the world away.\nAnd yet methinks I have astronomy,\nSuch civil war is in my love and hate\nAnd having climb'd the steep-up heavenly hill,\nThy end is truth's and beauty's doom and date.\nBut if the while I think on thee, dear friend,\nFor then my thoughts, from far where I abide,\nThe eyes, 'fore duteous, now converted are\n",
"role": "user"
}
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518,
29914,
25580,
29962
] |
85 | Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
| FROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
Full many a glorious morning have I seen
The bounteous largess given thee to give?
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
For having traffic with thyself alone,
Looking on darkness which the blind do see
Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy;
With sun and moon, with earth and sea's rich gems,
Which hides your life and shows not half your parts.
Thou art the grave where buried love doth live,
Lifts up his burning head, each under eye
When I consider every thing that grows
And see thy blood warm when thou feel'st it cold.
Of public honour and proud titles boast,
So long lives this and this gives life to thee.
Much steals men's eyes and women's souls amazeth.
Seeking that beauteous roof to ruinate
Kissing with golden face the meadows green,
Where all the treasure of thy lusty days,
That am debarr'd the benefit of rest?
If thou survive my well-contented day,
Or say with princes if it shall go well,
When I behold the violet past prime,
Proving his beauty by succession thine!
Resembling sire and child and happy mother
So should my papers yellow'd with their age
And kept unused, the user so destroys it.
Borne on the bier with white and bristly beard,
But if thou live, remember'd not to be,
| [
{
"content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nFull many a glorious morning have I seen\nThe bounteous largess given thee to give?\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nFor having traffic with thyself alone,\nLooking on darkness which the blind do see\nGilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy;\nWith sun and moon, with earth and sea's rich gems,\nWhich hides your life and shows not half your parts.\nThou art the grave where buried love doth live,\nLifts up his burning head, each under eye\nWhen I consider every thing that grows\nAnd see thy blood warm when thou feel'st it cold.\nOf public honour and proud titles boast,\nSo long lives this and this gives life to thee.\nMuch steals men's eyes and women's souls amazeth.\nSeeking that beauteous roof to ruinate\nKissing with golden face the meadows green,\nWhere all the treasure of thy lusty days,\nThat am debarr'd the benefit of rest?\nIf thou survive my well-contented day,\nOr say with princes if it shall go well,\nWhen I behold the violet past prime,\nProving his beauty by succession thine!\nResembling sire and child and happy mother\nSo should my papers yellow'd with their age\nAnd kept unused, the user so destroys it.\nBorne on the bier with white and bristly beard,\nBut if thou live, remember'd not to be,\n",
"role": "user"
}
] | [
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304,
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518,
29914,
25580,
29962
] |
86 | Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
| FROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
Let me confess that we two must be twain,
I summon up remembrance of things past,
So then I am not lame, poor, nor despised,
Thy bosom is endeared with all hearts,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Mine eye hath play'd the painter and hath stell'd
To change your day of youth to sullied night;
Bearing thy heart, which I will keep so chary
Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day,
And thou, all they, hast all the all of me.
No more be grieved at that which thou hast done:
Full many a glorious morning have I seen
A woman's face with Nature's own hand painted
O'ercharged with burden of mine own love's might.
Thy adverse party is thy advocate--
A woman's face with Nature's own hand painted
So should the lines of life that life repair,
Who with his fear is put besides his part,
And fortify yourself in your decay
The lovely gaze where every eye doth dwell,
That this huge stage presenteth nought but shows
Haply I think on thee, and then my state,
Devouring Time, blunt thou the lion's paws,
Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee,
That heaven's air in this huge rondure hems.
| [
{
"content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nLet me confess that we two must be twain,\nI summon up remembrance of things past,\nSo then I am not lame, poor, nor despised,\nThy bosom is endeared with all hearts,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nMine eye hath play'd the painter and hath stell'd\nTo change your day of youth to sullied night;\nBearing thy heart, which I will keep so chary\nWhy didst thou promise such a beauteous day,\nAnd thou, all they, hast all the all of me.\nNo more be grieved at that which thou hast done:\nFull many a glorious morning have I seen\nA woman's face with Nature's own hand painted\nO'ercharged with burden of mine own love's might.\nThy adverse party is thy advocate--\nA woman's face with Nature's own hand painted\nSo should the lines of life that life repair,\nWho with his fear is put besides his part,\nAnd fortify yourself in your decay\nThe lovely gaze where every eye doth dwell,\nThat this huge stage presenteth nought but shows\nHaply I think on thee, and then my state,\nDevouring Time, blunt thou the lion's paws,\nIntend a zealous pilgrimage to thee,\nThat heaven's air in this huge rondure hems.\n",
"role": "user"
}
] | [
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408,
366,
508,
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3454,
29901,
13,
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6534,
342,
907,
3698,
591,
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7910,
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13,
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304,
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13,
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306,
674,
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577,
521,
653,
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303,
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263,
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681,
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310,
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1999,
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278,
301,
291,
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29879,
282,
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13,
2928,
355,
263,
3777,
20521,
8230,
629,
3027,
304,
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13,
7058,
18356,
29915,
29879,
4799,
297,
445,
12176,
24627,
545,
298,
1567,
29889,
518,
29914,
25580,
29962
] |
87 | Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
| FROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
That thou among the wastes of time must go,
Resembling strong youth in his middle age,
So long as youth and thou are of one date;
Stirr'd by a painted beauty to his verse,
With beauty's treasure, ere it be self-kill'd.
| [
{
"content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nThat thou among the wastes of time must go,\nResembling strong youth in his middle age,\nSo long as youth and thou are of one date;\nStirr'd by a painted beauty to his verse,\nWith beauty's treasure, ere it be self-kill'd.\n",
"role": "user"
}
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] |
88 | Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
| FROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
Which I new pay as if not paid before.
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
Unlook'd for joy in that I honour most.
Such civil war is in my love and hate
And in themselves their pride lies buried,
Though yet, heaven knows, it is but as a tomb
Like feeble age, he reeleth from the day,
That heals the wound and cures not the disgrace:
Leaving thee living in posterity?
Which happies those that pay the willing loan;
And then believe me, my love is as fair
Yourself again after yourself's decease,
With what I most enjoy contented least;
May make seem bare, in wanting words to show it,
They do but sweetly chide thee, who confounds
Strikes each in each by mutual ordering,
Gilding the object whereupon it gazeth;
Which I by lacking have supposed dead,
No more be grieved at that which thou hast done:
That use is not forbidden usury,
Look, what an unthrift in the world doth spend
And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste:
Which bounteous gift thou shouldst in bounty cherish:
Thy bosom is endeared with all hearts,
How can I then be elder than thou art?
What acceptable audit canst thou leave?
Disdains the tillage of thy husbandry?
Then let not winter's ragged hand deface
Stirr'd by a painted beauty to his verse,
And having climb'd the steep-up heavenly hill,
Devouring Time, blunt thou the lion's paws,
| [
{
"content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nWhich I new pay as if not paid before.\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nUnlook'd for joy in that I honour most.\nSuch civil war is in my love and hate\nAnd in themselves their pride lies buried,\nThough yet, heaven knows, it is but as a tomb\nLike feeble age, he reeleth from the day,\nThat heals the wound and cures not the disgrace:\nLeaving thee living in posterity?\nWhich happies those that pay the willing loan;\nAnd then believe me, my love is as fair\nYourself again after yourself's decease,\nWith what I most enjoy contented least;\nMay make seem bare, in wanting words to show it,\nThey do but sweetly chide thee, who confounds\nStrikes each in each by mutual ordering,\nGilding the object whereupon it gazeth;\nWhich I by lacking have supposed dead,\nNo more be grieved at that which thou hast done:\nThat use is not forbidden usury,\nLook, what an unthrift in the world doth spend\nAnd with old woes new wail my dear time's waste:\nWhich bounteous gift thou shouldst in bounty cherish:\nThy bosom is endeared with all hearts,\nHow can I then be elder than thou art?\nWhat acceptable audit canst thou leave?\nDisdains the tillage of thy husbandry?\nThen let not winter's ragged hand deface\nStirr'd by a painted beauty to his verse,\nAnd having climb'd the steep-up heavenly hill,\nDevouring Time, blunt thou the lion's paws,\n",
"role": "user"
}
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282,
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518,
29914,
25580,
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] |
89 | Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
| FROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
And by addition me of thee defeated,
How many a holy and obsequious tear
O, therefore, love, be of thyself so wary
I all alone beweep my outcast state
| [
{
"content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nAnd by addition me of thee defeated,\nHow many a holy and obsequious tear\nO, therefore, love, be of thyself so wary\nI all alone beweep my outcast state\n",
"role": "user"
}
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457,
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289,
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342,
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590,
714,
4384,
2106,
518,
29914,
25580,
29962
] |
90 | Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
| FROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
And fortify yourself in your decay
Which hides your life and shows not half your parts.
Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day,
That beauty still may live in thine or thee.
| [
{
"content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nAnd fortify yourself in your decay\nWhich hides your life and shows not half your parts.\nWhy didst thou promise such a beauteous day,\nThat beauty still may live in thine or thee.\n",
"role": "user"
}
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] |
91 | Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
| FROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
Where I may not remove nor be removed.
Ah! but those tears are pearl which thy love sheds,
If it were fill'd with your most high deserts?
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.
For all that beauty that doth cover thee
Such civil war is in my love and hate
But I forbid thee one most heinous crime:
But things removed that hidden in thee lie!
This wish I have; then ten times happy me!
Now stand you on the top of happy hours,
Then look I death my days should expiate.
When I consider every thing that grows
And each, though enemies to either's reign,
Yet, do thy worst, old Time: despite thy wrong,
Whose strength's abundance weakens his own heart.
With April's first-born flowers, and all things rare
So thou through windows of thine age shall see
So is it not with me as with that Muse
That I in thy abundance am sufficed
That's for thyself to breed another thee,
Now is the time that face should form another;
Let them say more than like of hearsay well;
Or say with princes if it shall go well,
Ah! but those tears are pearl which thy love sheds,
| [
{
"content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nWhere I may not remove nor be removed.\nAh! but those tears are pearl which thy love sheds,\nIf it were fill'd with your most high deserts?\nThat then I scorn to change my state with kings.\nFor all that beauty that doth cover thee\nSuch civil war is in my love and hate\nBut I forbid thee one most heinous crime:\nBut things removed that hidden in thee lie!\nThis wish I have; then ten times happy me!\nNow stand you on the top of happy hours,\nThen look I death my days should expiate.\nWhen I consider every thing that grows\nAnd each, though enemies to either's reign,\nYet, do thy worst, old Time: despite thy wrong,\nWhose strength's abundance weakens his own heart.\nWith April's first-born flowers, and all things rare\nSo thou through windows of thine age shall see\nSo is it not with me as with that Muse\nThat I in thy abundance am sufficed\nThat's for thyself to breed another thee,\nNow is the time that face should form another;\nLet them say more than like of hearsay well;\nOr say with princes if it shall go well,\nAh! but those tears are pearl which thy love sheds,\n",
"role": "user"
}
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5360,
528,
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29892,
518,
29914,
25580,
29962
] |
92 | Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
| FROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
Lo! thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind,
Which I by lacking have supposed dead,
Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell,
Thou shouldst print more, not let that copy die.
Presume not on thy heart when mine is slain;
And they are rich and ransom all ill deeds.
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
And see the brave day sunk in hideous night;
Those hours, that with gentle work did frame
Of plagues, of dearths, or seasons' quality;
I make my love engrafted to this store:
Make thee another self, for love of me,
The region cloud hath mask'd him from me now.
Like feeble age, he reeleth from the day,
And in fresh numbers number all your graces,
With what I most enjoy contented least;
| [
{
"content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nLo! thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind,\nWhich I by lacking have supposed dead,\nNor can I fortune to brief minutes tell,\nThou shouldst print more, not let that copy die.\nPresume not on thy heart when mine is slain;\nAnd they are rich and ransom all ill deeds.\nShall I compare thee to a summer's day?\nAnd see the brave day sunk in hideous night;\nThose hours, that with gentle work did frame\nOf plagues, of dearths, or seasons' quality;\nI make my love engrafted to this store:\nMake thee another self, for love of me,\nThe region cloud hath mask'd him from me now.\nLike feeble age, he reeleth from the day,\nAnd in fresh numbers number all your graces,\nWith what I most enjoy contented least;\n",
"role": "user"
}
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] |
93 | Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
| FROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
And do whate'er thou wilt, swift-footed Time,
Proving his beauty by succession thine!
Thou mayst call thine when thou from youth convertest.
No more be grieved at that which thou hast done:
O, therefore, love, be of thyself so wary
As truth and beauty shall together thrive,
But that thou none lovest is most evident;
And perspective it is the painter's art.
To dry the rain on my storm-beaten face,
Such civil war is in my love and hate
Die single, and thine image dies with thee.
And perspective it is the painter's art.
As a decrepit father takes delight
And in themselves their pride lies buried,
As a decrepit father takes delight
And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;
Take all my comfort of thy worth and truth.
I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,
By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd;
Herein lives wisdom, beauty and increase:
Though yet, heaven knows, it is but as a tomb
The offender's sorrow lends but weak relief
Nature's bequest gives nothing but doth lend,
But from thine eyes my knowledge I derive,
Look in thy glass, and tell the face thou viewest
| [
{
"content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nAnd do whate'er thou wilt, swift-footed Time,\nProving his beauty by succession thine!\nThou mayst call thine when thou from youth convertest.\nNo more be grieved at that which thou hast done:\nO, therefore, love, be of thyself so wary\nAs truth and beauty shall together thrive,\nBut that thou none lovest is most evident;\nAnd perspective it is the painter's art.\nTo dry the rain on my storm-beaten face,\nSuch civil war is in my love and hate\nDie single, and thine image dies with thee.\nAnd perspective it is the painter's art.\nAs a decrepit father takes delight\nAnd in themselves their pride lies buried,\nAs a decrepit father takes delight\nAnd often is his gold complexion dimm'd;\nTake all my comfort of thy worth and truth.\nI sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,\nBy chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd;\nHerein lives wisdom, beauty and increase:\nThough yet, heaven knows, it is but as a tomb\nThe offender's sorrow lends but weak relief\nNature's bequest gives nothing but doth lend,\nBut from thine eyes my knowledge I derive,\nLook in thy glass, and tell the face thou viewest\n",
"role": "user"
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] |
94 | Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
| FROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
And trouble deal heaven with my bootless cries
Ten times thyself were happier than thou art,
To dry the rain on my storm-beaten face,
So flatter I the swart-complexion'd night,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
| [
{
"content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nAnd trouble deal heaven with my bootless cries\nTen times thyself were happier than thou art,\nTo dry the rain on my storm-beaten face,\nSo flatter I the swart-complexion'd night,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\n",
"role": "user"
}
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310,
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7088,
4934,
29901,
518,
29914,
25580,
29962
] |
95 | Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
| FROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
To find where your true image pictured lies;
Then happy I, that love and am beloved
Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,
Nor it nor no remembrance what it was:
And thou, all they, hast all the all of me.
Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
So great a sum of sums, yet canst not live?
With ugly rack on his celestial face,
For thou art so possess'd with murderous hate
And then believe me, my love is as fair
For at a frown they in their glory die.
Holds in perfection but a little moment,
To him that bears the strong offence's cross.
Till Nature, as she wrought thee, fell a-doting,
More than that tongue that more hath more express'd.
By oft predict that I in heaven find:
Those hours, that with gentle work did frame
Lord of my love, to whom in vassalage
Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother.
And perspective it is the painter's art.
Pointing to each his thunder, rain and wind,
The perfect ceremony of love's rite,
Which though it alter not love's sole effect,
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
Kissing with golden face the meadows green,
To that sweet thief which sourly robs from me.
Or who is he so fond will be the tomb
That am debarr'd the benefit of rest?
Much liker than your painted counterfeit:
If it were fill'd with your most high deserts?
And though they be outstripp'd by every pen,
Yet eyes this cunning want to grace their art;
| [
{
"content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nTo find where your true image pictured lies;\nThen happy I, that love and am beloved\nNor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,\nNor it nor no remembrance what it was:\nAnd thou, all they, hast all the all of me.\nNor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nSo great a sum of sums, yet canst not live?\nWith ugly rack on his celestial face,\nFor thou art so possess'd with murderous hate\nAnd then believe me, my love is as fair\nFor at a frown they in their glory die.\nHolds in perfection but a little moment,\nTo him that bears the strong offence's cross.\nTill Nature, as she wrought thee, fell a-doting,\nMore than that tongue that more hath more express'd.\nBy oft predict that I in heaven find:\nThose hours, that with gentle work did frame\nLord of my love, to whom in vassalage\nThou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother.\nAnd perspective it is the painter's art.\nPointing to each his thunder, rain and wind,\nThe perfect ceremony of love's rite,\nWhich though it alter not love's sole effect,\nAnd every fair from fair sometime declines,\nKissing with golden face the meadows green,\nTo that sweet thief which sourly robs from me.\nOr who is he so fond will be the tomb\nThat am debarr'd the benefit of rest?\nMuch liker than your painted counterfeit:\nIf it were fill'd with your most high deserts?\nAnd though they be outstripp'd by every pen,\nYet eyes this cunning want to grace their art;\n",
"role": "user"
}
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13,
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29915,
303,
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3578,
29915,
303,
1652,
420,
411,
1583,
29899,
22492,
424,
616,
26413,
29892,
13,
29924,
5086,
263,
5216,
457,
988,
18666,
749,
12185,
29892,
13,
1349,
952,
761,
13874,
1701,
29872,
29892,
304,
13874,
14225,
1583,
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] |
96 | Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
| FROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day,
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;
Sings this to thee: 'thou single wilt prove none.'
The world will wail thee, like a makeless wife;
Shall hate be fairer lodged than gentle love?
Of plagues, of dearths, or seasons' quality;
Which erst from heat did canopy the herd,
Find no determination: then you were
No longer yours than you yourself here live:
Those hours, that with gentle work did frame
For where is she so fair whose unear'd womb
With April's first-born flowers, and all things rare
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
And summer's lease hath all too short a date:
I may not evermore acknowledge thee,
Why lovest thou that which thou receivest not gladly,
Herein lives wisdom, beauty and increase:
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Duty so great, which wit so poor as mine
Presents thy shadow to my sightless view,
After a thousand victories once foil'd,
Ah! if thou issueless shalt hap to die.
That heaven's air in this huge rondure hems.
But I forbid thee one most heinous crime:
I will not praise that purpose not to sell.
Now is the time that face should form another;
Resembling strong youth in his middle age,
A woman's face with Nature's own hand painted
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
The world will wail thee, like a makeless wife;
Disdains the tillage of thy husbandry?
Leese but their show; their substance still lives sweet.
And dumb presagers of my speaking breast,
Be scorn'd like old men of less truth than tongue,
Much liker than your painted counterfeit:
These poor rude lines of thy deceased lover,
With sun and moon, with earth and sea's rich gems,
| [
{
"content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nWhy didst thou promise such a beauteous day,\nRough winds do shake the darling buds of May,\nAnd often is his gold complexion dimm'd;\nSings this to thee: 'thou single wilt prove none.'\nThe world will wail thee, like a makeless wife;\nShall hate be fairer lodged than gentle love?\nOf plagues, of dearths, or seasons' quality;\nWhich erst from heat did canopy the herd,\nFind no determination: then you were\nNo longer yours than you yourself here live:\nThose hours, that with gentle work did frame\nFor where is she so fair whose unear'd womb\nWith April's first-born flowers, and all things rare\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nAnd summer's lease hath all too short a date:\nI may not evermore acknowledge thee,\nWhy lovest thou that which thou receivest not gladly,\nHerein lives wisdom, beauty and increase:\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nDuty so great, which wit so poor as mine\nPresents thy shadow to my sightless view,\nAfter a thousand victories once foil'd,\nAh! if thou issueless shalt hap to die.\nThat heaven's air in this huge rondure hems.\nBut I forbid thee one most heinous crime:\nI will not praise that purpose not to sell.\nNow is the time that face should form another;\nResembling strong youth in his middle age,\nA woman's face with Nature's own hand painted\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nThe world will wail thee, like a makeless wife;\nDisdains the tillage of thy husbandry?\nLeese but their show; their substance still lives sweet.\nAnd dumb presagers of my speaking breast,\nBe scorn'd like old men of less truth than tongue,\nMuch liker than your painted counterfeit:\nThese poor rude lines of thy deceased lover,\nWith sun and moon, with earth and sea's rich gems,\n",
"role": "user"
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] |
97 | Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
| FROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Thou art thy mother's glass, and she in thee
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Were an all-eating shame and thriftless praise.
Who lets so fair a house fall to decay,
So shall those blots that do with me remain
Then being ask'd where all thy beauty lies,
For whether beauty, birth, or wealth, or wit,
How far I toil, still farther off from thee.
Flatter the mountain-tops with sovereign eye,
And fortify yourself in your decay
That I an accessary needs must be
But were some child of yours alive that time,
And dumb presagers of my speaking breast,
With sun and moon, with earth and sea's rich gems,
| [
{
"content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nThou art thy mother's glass, and she in thee\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nWere an all-eating shame and thriftless praise.\nWho lets so fair a house fall to decay,\nSo shall those blots that do with me remain\nThen being ask'd where all thy beauty lies,\nFor whether beauty, birth, or wealth, or wit,\nHow far I toil, still farther off from thee.\nFlatter the mountain-tops with sovereign eye,\nAnd fortify yourself in your decay\nThat I an accessary needs must be\nBut were some child of yours alive that time,\nAnd dumb presagers of my speaking breast,\nWith sun and moon, with earth and sea's rich gems,\n",
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] |
98 | Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
| FROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
Thy adverse party is thy advocate--
As those gold candles fix'd in heaven's air:
Who for thyself art so unprovident.
To witness duty, not to show my wit:
Save breed, to brave him when he takes thee hence.
Which in my bosom's shop is hanging still,
Who with his fear is put besides his part,
And your sweet semblance to some other give.
And by addition me of thee defeated,
Upon thyself thy beauty's legacy?
When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,
Like feeble age, he reeleth from the day,
For no man well of such a salve can speak
And every fair with his fair doth rehearse
Though thou repent, yet I have still the loss:
And trouble deal heaven with my bootless cries
Making a couplement of proud compare,
For having traffic with thyself alone,
No love toward others in that bosom sits
Who all their parts of me to thee did give;
Attending on his golden pilgrimage;
And by a part of all thy glory live.
And yet methinks I have astronomy,
And 'gainst myself a lawful plea commence:
Beauty o'ersnow'd and bareness every where:
The one by toil, the other to complain
Till whatsoever star that guides my moving
Ten times thyself were happier than thou art,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date:
Thou gavest me thine, not to give back again.
All men make faults, and even I in this,
Is from the book of honour razed quite,
They do but sweetly chide thee, who confounds
Suns of the world may stain when heaven's sun staineth.
Thy beauty's form in table of my heart;
When lofty trees I see barren of leaves
| [
{
"content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nThy adverse party is thy advocate--\nAs those gold candles fix'd in heaven's air:\nWho for thyself art so unprovident.\nTo witness duty, not to show my wit:\nSave breed, to brave him when he takes thee hence.\nWhich in my bosom's shop is hanging still,\nWho with his fear is put besides his part,\nAnd your sweet semblance to some other give.\nAnd by addition me of thee defeated,\nUpon thyself thy beauty's legacy?\nWhen, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,\nLike feeble age, he reeleth from the day,\nFor no man well of such a salve can speak\nAnd every fair with his fair doth rehearse\nThough thou repent, yet I have still the loss:\nAnd trouble deal heaven with my bootless cries\nMaking a couplement of proud compare,\nFor having traffic with thyself alone,\nNo love toward others in that bosom sits\nWho all their parts of me to thee did give;\nAttending on his golden pilgrimage;\nAnd by a part of all thy glory live.\nAnd yet methinks I have astronomy,\nAnd 'gainst myself a lawful plea commence:\nBeauty o'ersnow'd and bareness every where:\nThe one by toil, the other to complain\nTill whatsoever star that guides my moving\nTen times thyself were happier than thou art,\nAnd summer's lease hath all too short a date:\nThou gavest me thine, not to give back again.\nAll men make faults, and even I in this,\nIs from the book of honour razed quite,\nThey do but sweetly chide thee, who confounds\nSuns of the world may stain when heaven's sun staineth.\nThy beauty's form in table of my heart;\nWhen lofty trees I see barren of leaves\n",
"role": "user"
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] |
99 | Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:
| FROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
So should that beauty which you hold in lease
Against the stormy gusts of winter's day
So I, made lame by fortune's dearest spite,
That thou consumest thyself in single life?
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
And that fresh blood which youngly thou bestowest
In one of thine, from that which thou departest;
Which happies those that pay the willing loan;
Hiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke?
Where I may not remove nor be removed.
Pluck the keen teeth from the fierce tiger's jaws,
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Herein lives wisdom, beauty and increase:
Thy unused beauty must be tomb'd with thee,
To say, within thine own deep-sunken eyes,
My love shall in my verse ever live young.
Save breed, to brave him when he takes thee hence.
Which hides your life and shows not half your parts.
| [
{
"content": "Pick as many lines as you can from these poem lines:\nFROM fairest creatures we desire increase,\nThat thereby beauty's rose might never die,\nBut as the riper should by time decease,\nHis tender heir might bear his memory:\nBut thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,\nFeed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,\nMaking a famine where abundance lies,\nThyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.\nThou that art now the world's fresh ornament\nAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,\nWithin thine own bud buriest thy content\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nTo eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.\nWhen forty winters shall beseige thy brow,\nAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,\nThy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,\nWill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:\nYet in these thoughts myself almost despising,\nSo should that beauty which you hold in lease\nAgainst the stormy gusts of winter's day\nSo I, made lame by fortune's dearest spite,\nThat thou consumest thyself in single life?\nPity the world, or else this glutton be,\nAnd, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.\nAnd that fresh blood which youngly thou bestowest\nIn one of thine, from that which thou departest;\nWhich happies those that pay the willing loan;\nHiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke?\nWhere I may not remove nor be removed.\nPluck the keen teeth from the fierce tiger's jaws,\nThou art more lovely and more temperate:\nHerein lives wisdom, beauty and increase:\nThy unused beauty must be tomb'd with thee,\nTo say, within thine own deep-sunken eyes,\nMy love shall in my verse ever live young.\nSave breed, to brave him when he takes thee hence.\nWhich hides your life and shows not half your parts.\n",
"role": "user"
}
] | [
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