A Fairy Song
over hill, over dale,
Thorough bush, thorough brier,
Over park, over pale,
Thorough flood, thorough fire!
I do wander everywhere,
Swifter than the moon’s sphere;
And I serve the Fairy Queen,
To dew her orbs upon the green;
The cowslips tall her pensioners be;
In their gold coats spots you see;
Those be rubies, fairy favours;
In those freckles live their savours;
I must go seek some dewdrops here,
And hang a pearl in every cowslip’s ear.
William Shakespeare
Let me confess that we two must be twain,
Although our undivided loves are one:
So shall those blots that do with me remain
Without thy help by me be borne alone.
In our two loves there is but one respect,
Though in our lives a separable spite,
Which though it alter not love’s sole effect,
Yet doth it steal sweet hours from love’s delight.
I may not evermore acknowledge thee,
Lest my bewailed guilt should do thee shame,
Nor thou with public kindness honour me,
Unless thou take that honour from thy name:
But do not so; I love thee in such sort
As, thou being mine, mine is thy good report
William Shakespeare
Apna gham le ke kahin aur na jaaya jaaye
اپنا غم لے کے کہیں اور نہ جایا جائے
Ghar mein bikhri hui cheezon ko sajaaya jaaye
گھر میں بکھری ہوئی چیزوں کو سجایا جائے
Jin chiragon ko hawaon ka koi khauf nahin
جن چراغوں کو ہواؤں کا کوئی خوف نہیں
Un chiragon ko hawaon se bachaya jaaye
ان چراغوں کو ہواؤں سے بچایا جائے
Baagh mein jaane ke aadaab hua karte hain
باغ میں جانے کے آداب ہوا کرتے ہیں
Kisi titli ko na phoolon se udaya jaaye
کسی تتلی کو نہ پھولوں سے اڑایا جائے
Ghar se masjid hai bohot door chalo yun kar lein
گھر سے مسجد ہے بہت دور چلو یوں کر لے
Kisi rote huye bachay ko hansaya jaaye
کسی روتے ہوئے بچے کو ہنسایا جائے
That you were once unkind befriends me now,
And for that sorrow, which I then did feel,
Needs must I under my transgression bow,
Unless my nerves were brass or hammered steel.
For if you were by my unkindness shaken
As I by yours, y’have passed a hell of time,
And I, a tyrant, have no leisure taken
To weigh how once I suffered in your crime.
O, that our night of woe might have remembered
My deepest sense how hard true sorrow hits,
And soon to you, as you to me then, tendered
The humble salve which wounded bosoms fits!
But that your trespass now becomes a fee;
Mine ransoms yours, and yours must ransom me.
William Shakespeare