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As an unperfect actor on the stage,
Who with his fear isput beside his part,
Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage,
Whose strenght's abundance weakens his own heart:
So I, for fear of trust, forget to say
The perfect ceremony of love's rite,
And in mine own love's strenght seem te decay,
O'ercharged with burden of mine own love's might.
O, let my books be then the eloquence
And dubm presagers of my speaking breast,
Who plead for love and look for recompense
More than that tongue that more hath more expressed.
O, learn to read what silent love hath writ:
To hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit

W. Shakespeare

A Paris
Sur la terre
La terre qui est un astre