' . . . things that I could read for ever'
The quality of mercy is not strain'd; It droppeth as the gentle rain from heavenUpon the place beneath. It is twice blest - It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes.'Tis mightiest in the mightiest. It becomesThe throned monarch better than his crown.His sceptre shows the force of temporal power,The attribute to awe and majesty,
Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings;But mercy is above this sceptred sway;It is enthroned in the hearts of kings,
It is an attribute to God himself;
And earthly power doth then show likest God'sWhen mercy seasons justice.. . .
Tiger, tiger, burning bright In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
In what distant deeps or skies Burnt the fire of thine eyes? On what wings dare he aspire? What the hand dare seize the fire?
And what shoulder and what art Could twist the sinews of thy heart? And, when thy heart began to beat, What dread hand and what dread feet?
What the hammer? What the chain? In what furnace was thy brain? What the anvil? What dread grasp Dare its deadly terrors clasp?
When the stars threw down their spears, And water'd heaven with their tears, Did He smile His work to see? Did He who made the lamb make thee?
Tiger, tiger, burning bright In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?