here is one of my favs: My Mistress' Eyes Are Nothing Like The Sun My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun; Coral is far more red than her lips' red: If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun; If hairs be wires, black wires grown on her head. I have seen roses damaskt, red and white, But no such roses see I in her cheeks; And in some perfumes is there more delight Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks. I love to hear her speak, yet well I know That music hath a far more pleasing sound; I grant I never saw a goddess go; my mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground. And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare As any she belied with false compare.

Let Me Not Let me not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediments, love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds, Or bends with the remover to remove. O no! it is an ever-fixed mark, That looks on tempests and is never shaken; It is the star to every wand'ring bark, Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken. Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks Within his bending sickle's compass come, Love alters not wit his brief hours and weeks, But bears it out even to the edge of doom: If this be error and upon me proved, I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

amen

Last night I listen to one of the most beautiful pieces of music I have ever heard. It was 'Serenade to Music' by Vaughan Williams, one of my favourite composers, a 1938 historical recording. Because it's such an old recording one can't make out the words, but I know the music was set to a few lines by Shakespeare. Does anyone know what these few lines are? BEAUTIFUL stuff!

I have finally managed to find the text to 'Serenade to Music', and it is from 'The Merchant of Venice'. Read this: How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank! Here will we sit, and let the sounds of music Creep in our ears: soft stillness and the night Become the touches of sweet harmony. Look, how the floor of heaven Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold: There's not the smallest orb that thou behold'st But in his motion like an angel sings Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubins; Such harmony is in immortal souls; But, whilst this muddy vesture of decay Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it. Come, ho! and wake Diana with a hymn: With sweetest touches pierce your mistress' ear, And draw her home with music. I find it so so beautiful.

it is, thanks for posting it!

You're welcome.