The Essential Shakespeare, Volume XII: Space-Saver Sonnets

T

purged of accretions & newly published in the corrected hemimeter version prepared under the general folgership of G. Starbuck





Poor Soul


Fly,
thief;
thy
fief-
dom
’s torched.

Come,
Cur.
Fetch!

Get
your
scorched
earth
worth. Not Marble


This
word,
whis-
pered,
shall
stand,
and

the
Car-
rar-
a
mar-
ble
fall.





My Mistress’ Eyes Are Nothing


Yes,
Per-
fes-
ser,

snow
no
doubt
out-
does

her
et-
cet-
er-
as. Like the Sun


She’s

not
some
flot-
sam
si-
mi-
les
from
Ly-
ly’s
Eu-
phu-
es.





Th’ Expense


Lust
is
just
mis-

er-
y,
wor-
ry

and
blame.
Brand-
name

dreck.
Ecch. ‘Notes on the Life, By the Late B. D. Browse.’


“Bill?
Lil?
’sme!
’s Will!

Key?
Natch.

Latch-
rope?
Nope.

Ope
Nup!

Yup.

You
too.”
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