Shakespeare cento

The lie with circumstance; the lie direct
Which now shows all the beauty of the sun,
Lovers cannot see—love’s night is noon.
For such as I am, all true lovers are.
Love is merely a madness, love is a devil—
With bitter fasts, with penitential groans,               
A murderous guilt shows not itself more soon.

Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow,
Never was a story of more woe:
The lascivious pleasing of a lute,
The uncertain glory of an April day,
The pretty follies that themselves commit,
And by and by a cloud takes all away.

 
Terese Coe’s poems and translations have appeared in Alaska Quarterly Review, Cincinnati Review, The Hopkins Review, Metamorphoses, New American Writing, Poetry, Threepenny Review, Agenda, Crannog, Cyphers, The Moth, Poetry Review, the TLS, and The Stinging Fly, among other international journals. Her poem “More” was heli-dropped across London as part of the 2012 London Olympics Rain of Poems, and her latest collection, Shot Silk, was listed for the 2017 Poet’s Prize. For further information and links, see: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Terese_Coe.