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Poem by William Shakespeare
To the Idol of My Eye and Delight of My Heart, Anne Hathaway WOULD ye be taught, ye feathered throng, With love’s sweet notes to grace your song, To pierce the heart with thrilling lay, Listen to mine Anne Hathaway! She hath a way to sing so clear, Phœbus might wondering stop to hear. To melt the sad, make blithe the gay, And nature charm, Anne hath a way; She hath a way, Anne Hathaway; To breathe delight Anne hath a way. When Envy’s breath and rancorous tooth Do soil and bite fair worth and truth, And merit to distress betray, To soothe the heart Anne hath a way. She hath a way to chase despair, To heal all grief, to cure all care, Turn foulest night to fairest day. Thou know’st, fond heart, Anne hath a way; She hath a way, Anne Hathaway; To make grief bliss, Anne hath a way. Talk not of gems, the orient list, The diamond, topaz, amethyst, The emerald mild, the ruby gay; Talk of my gem, Anne Hathaway! She hath a way, with her bright eye, Their various lustres to defy,— The jewels she, and the foil they, So sweet to look Anne hath a way; She hath a way, Anne Hathaway; To shame bright gems, Anne hath a way. But were it to my fancy given To rate her charms, I ’d call them heaven; For though a mortal made of clay, Angels must love Anne Hathaway; She hath a way so to control, To rapture, the imprisoned soul, And sweetest heaven on earth display, That to be heaven Anne hath a way; She hath a way, Anne Hathaway; To be heaven’s self, Anne hath a way.
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