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103 lines
2.4 KiB
Plaintext
103 lines
2.4 KiB
Plaintext
The Phoenix and Turtle
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by William Shakespeare
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Edited by Barbara A. Mowat and Paul Werstine
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with Michael Poston and Rebecca Niles
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Folger Shakespeare Library
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https://shakespeare.folger.edu/shakespeares-works/the-phoenix-and-turtle/
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Created on Jul 31, 2015, from FDT version 0.9.0.1
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"The Phoenix and Turtle"
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Let the bird of loudest lay
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On the sole Arabian tree
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Herald sad and trumpet be,
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To whose sound chaste wings obey.
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But thou shrieking harbinger,
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Foul precurrer of the fiend,
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Augur of the fever's end,
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To this troop come thou not near.
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From this session interdict
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Every fowl of tyrant wing,
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Save the eagle, feathered king;
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Keep the obsequy so strict.
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Let the priest in surplice white,
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That defunctive music can,
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Be the death-divining swan,
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Lest the requiem lack his right.
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And thou treble-dated crow,
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That thy sable gender mak'st
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With the breath thou giv'st and tak'st,
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'Mongst our mourners shalt thou go.
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Here the anthem doth commence:
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Love and constancy is dead,
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Phoenix and the turtle fled
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In a mutual flame from hence.
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So they loved, as love in twain
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Had the essence but in one,
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Two distincts, division none;
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Number there in love was slain.
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Hearts remote yet not asunder,
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Distance and no space was seen
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'Twixt this turtle and his queen;
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But in them it were a wonder.
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So between them love did shine
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That the turtle saw his right
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Flaming in the phoenix' sight;
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Either was the other's mine.
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Property was thus appalled
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That the self was not the same;
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Single nature's double name
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Neither two nor one was called.
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Reason, in itself confounded,
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Saw division grow together,
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To themselves yet either neither,
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Simple were so well compounded
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That it cried, "How true a twain
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Seemeth this concordant one!
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Love hath reason, Reason none,
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If what parts can so remain,"
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Whereupon it made this threne
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To the phoenix and the dove,
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Co-supremes and stars of love,
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As chorus to their tragic scene.
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Threnos
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Beauty, truth, and rarity,
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Grace in all simplicity,
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Here enclosed, in cinders lie.
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Death is now the phoenix' nest,
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And the turtle's loyal breast
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To eternity doth rest,
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Leaving no posterity;
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'Twas not their infirmity,
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It was married chastity.
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Truth may seem, but cannot be;
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Beauty brag, but 'tis not she;
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Truth and beauty buried be.
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To this urn let those repair
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That are either true or fair;
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For these dead birds sigh a prayer.
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William Shakespeare
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