Enobarbus describing Cleopatra sailing on the river Cydnus. Two constraints have been used, one common and the other unusual - can you spot them?

The barge she sat in, like a burnished throne,
Burnt on the water. The poop was beaten gold,
Purple the sails, and so perfumed that
The winds were love-sick with them; the oars were silver,
Which to the tune of flutes kept stroke, and made
The water which they beat to follow faster,
As amorous of their strokes. For her own person,
It beggar'd all description; she did lie
In her pavillion - cloth of gold, of tissue -
O'er-picturing that Venus where we see
The fancy outwork nature.

She rode in silken pomp, her glow outshone
Heav'n's gilded thoroughfares a thousand-fold.
A redolence went forth from where she sat
Kindling erotic gales upon the river;
Euphonious were the rowers' notes that bade
Swift tide with rapture flow, sent briskly past her.
Praise, when bleak words that volume will but worsen,
Effects a tenth her truth to speak. How high
Above art works pathetic, tall, this you!
Refined poetic tone embodies thee,
Elite fantastic creature.

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The Man's Part - a woman's answer to the misogynistic soliloquy of Posthumus in Cymbeline. There is something significant about this anagram that relates to the last two lines - can you discover it?

Could I find out
The woman's part in me - for there's no motion
That tends to vice in man, but I affirm
It is the woman's part; be it lying, note it,
The woman's; flattering, hers; deceiving, hers;
Lust and rank thoughts, hers, hers; revenges, hers;
Ambitions, covetings, changes of pride, disdain,
Nice longing, slanders, mutability,
All faults that name, nay, that hell knows.
Why, hers, in part or all; but rather, all;
For even to vice
They are not constant, but are changing still.

If I might tell
That part of man that's mine - Taint? there's no bent
That makes in woman fault, but I assert
It's all the male intent; Harsh, cold from birth, regard,
The masculine; guilt, his; conniving, his;
Malign neglect, his, his; seductions, his;
Flirtations, scandals, attitudes, vileness.
Where's virtue in the guy, of heav'n approved?
Why, none. Regrettable affronting, scorning too,
Not once per month, nor week, but ev'ry day;
In words and acts abhorrent all year long.

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From Intimations of Immortality by William Wordsworth

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting.
The soul that rises with us, our life's Star,
Has had elsewhere it's setting,
And cometh from afar:
Not in entire forgetfulness,
And not in utter nakedness,
But trailing clouds of glory do we come
From God, who is our home.
Heaven lies about us in our infancy!

Our death's a slumbering. Ah! dreams eternal;
For some with bliss serene, contented, filled.
Some go in fire infernal
And burn midst it unkilled.
Stones cast or arrows shot at us,
Annoying scourges that I cuss,
If unfought, if protested, augur fate
Of both: oh, how we rate.
I live true; I hang on to youth.

An anagram of an excerpt from Othello, in which the names of some of the play's principal characters have been hidden - can you find them all?
["Sewn relic" refers to the magical handkerchief which plays such a central role in the story.]

O, now, for ever
Farewell the tranquil mind! farewell content!
Farewell the plumed troops, and the big wars,
That make ambition virtue! O, farewell!
Farewell the neighing steed, and the shrill trump,
The spirit-stirring drum, the ear-piercing fife,
The royal banner, and all quality,
Pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious war!
And, O, you mortal engines, whose rude throats
The immortal Jove's dread clamours conterfeit,
Farewell! Othello's occupation's gone!

The tale: sewn relic, jealous temper.

I'll advocate guilt oft;
O then, her elder lover's loving's off.
Deceit, hello! What wretched worry bring.
Eternal woe! I'll weep, no arms I'll raise.
So pitiful! No conquering acclaim.
Depart wild horse, the horn, the trumpet blown,
Emblems that flutter, upward flown, adieu!
March in parade? No more fanfare or noise.
Off, quaking armaments that terrify,
Negating thund'rous roar. My helm? End it!
Adieu cadet! All sparring stop. It's o'er!

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An anagram of two excerpts from The Tempest. The first three lines are spoken in Act I Scene 2 by Ariel, Prospero's spirit minister, and describe Ferdinand's descent into the water. The remainder is the only speech by Duke Francis of Naples: it is in Act II Scene 1, and tells of Ferdinand's struggle to stay afloat, expressing confidence of his ultimate ascending out of the water onto the island.

There is an additional, unusual constraint, related to the anagram's avoidance of upper case (which has nothing to do with e. e. cummings) - can you discover it?

The king's son, Ferdinand,
Was the first man that leap'd; cried: Hell is empty,
And all the devils are here.

Sir, he may live;
I saw him beat the surges under him,
And ride upon their backs; he trod the water,
Whose enmity he flung aside, and breasted
The surge most swoln that met him; his bold head
'Bove the contentious waves he kept, and oar'd
Himself with his good arms in lusty stroke
To the shore, that o'er his wave-worn basis bow'd
As stooping to relieve him; I not doubt
He came alive to land.

o swimming prince, ye cry:
gee, angry imps arrive, grim, as i spy
groups pass in wings, in arms.

some ocean waves arise, unsure i swim.

the bad tide eased, the hard earth i behold
the shore outstretched before me! heav'n i'd thank
for health, the sun, the seed, the buds that bloom,
the milk i drink, the water smooth, serene;
and in the shade, i looked at it: the sand,
the blue vault too, above this island firm;
the winds that blow, the doves, the whole wide world,
the land, and this salvation most of all.

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