Junk of the heart

I love Pippin!

Before the time I did Lysander see

Seemed Athens as a paradise to me.

Oh, then, what graces in my love do dwell,

That he hath turned a heaven unto a hell

(Source: armlessbear, via ohitsflawless)

Ay me! For aught that I could ever read,

Could ever hear by tale or history,

The course of true love never did run smooth.

But either it was different in blood—
Or else misgraffèd in respect of years—
Or else it stood upon the choice of friends—

Or, if there were a sympathy in choice,

War, death, or sickness did lay siege to it,

Making it momentary as a sound,

Swift as a shadow, short as any dream,

Brief as the lightning in the collied night;

That, in a spleen, unfolds both heaven and Earth,

And ere a man hath power to say “Behold!”

The jaws of darkness do devour it up.

So quick bright things come to confusion.

But earthlier happy is the rose distilled

Than that which, withering on the virgin thorn,

Grows, lives, and dies in single blessedness

To you your father should be as a god,

One that composed your beauties, yea, and one

To whom you are but as a form in wax,

By him imprinted and within his power

To leave the figure or disfigure it.

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