My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun
William Shakespeare, 1564 - 1616
My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips’ red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damasked, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress when she walks treads on the ground.
     And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
     As any she belied with false compare. 

send forth the best ye breed

go bind your sons to exile

to serve your captives' need;

to wait in heavy harness,

on fluttered folk and wild

your new-caught, sullen peoples,

half-devil and half-child.

Take up the White Man's burden

in patience to abide,

to veil the threat of terror

and check the show of pride;

by open speech and simple,

an hundred times made plain

to seek another's profit,

and work another's gain.

Take up the White Man's burden

the savage wars of peace

fill full the mouth of Famine

and bid the sickness cease;

and when your goal is nearest

the end for others sought,

watch sloth and heathen Folly

bring all your hopes to nought.

Take up the White Man's burden

no tawdry rule of kings,

but toil of serf and sweeper

the tale of common things.

the ports ye shall not enter,

the roads ye shall not tread,

go mark them with your living,

and mark them with your dead.

Take up the White Man's burden

and reap his old reward:

the blame of those ye better,

the hate of those ye guard

the cry of hosts ye humour

(Ah, slowly!) toward the light:

"Why brought he us from bondage,

our loved Egyptian night?"

Take up the White Man's burden

ye dare not stoop to less

nor call too loud on Freedom

to cloke your weariness;

by all ye cry or whisper,

by all ye leave or do,

the silent, sullen peoples

shall weigh your gods and you.

Take up the White Man's burden

have done with childish days

the lightly proferred laurel,

the easy, ungrudged praise.

comes now, to search your manhood

through all the thankless years

cold, edged with dear-bought wisdom,

the judgment of your peers!

Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge, 

Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs 

And towards our distant rest began to trudge. 

Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots 

But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind; 

Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots

Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.

 

Gas! Gas! Quick, boys! – An ecstasy of fumbling, 

Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time; 

But someone still was yelling out and stumbling, 

And floundering like a man in fire or lime . . . 

Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light, 

As under a green sea, I saw him drowning. 

In all my dreams, before my helpless sight, 

He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning. 

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace 

Behind the wagon that we flung him in, 

And watch the white eyes writhing in his face, 

His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin; 

If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood 

Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs, 

Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud

Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues, 

My friend, you would not tell with such high zest

To children ardent for some desperate glory, 

The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est 

Pro patria mori.