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Poetry von Shakespeare, William (eBook)

  • Verlag: Strelbytskyy Multimedia Publishing
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Poetry

Shakespeare's sonnets are the best samples of 'high poetry'. Literature historians have been arguing about them for several centuries, trying to solve the secret of mysterious 'dark lady' and poet's young friend to whom he devoted the works. A lot of science and fictional books are written and some films are shot about the possible story how he had created his sonnets. But ordinary readers just enjoy the beauty of Shakespeare's language and passion of his inspiration that turned this collection of sonnets into the most genius poetry cycle in the history of world literature. The poems A Lover's Complaint, Venus and Adonis are also included to the book. ?????

Produktinformationen

    Format: ePUB
    Kopierschutz: watermark
    Seitenzahl: 244
    Sprache: Englisch
    ISBN: 9783963768927
    Verlag: Strelbytskyy Multimedia Publishing
    Größe: 329 kBytes
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Poetry

A Lover's Complaint

FROM off a hill whose concave womb reworded

A plaintful story from a sistering vale,

My spirits to attend this double voice accorded,

And down I laid to list the sad-tuned tale;

Ere long espied a fickle maid full pale,

Tearing of papers, breaking rings a-twain,

Storming her world with sorrow's wind and rain.

Upon her head a platted hive of straw,

Which fortified her visage from the sun,

Whereon the thought might think sometime it saw

The carcass of beauty spent and done:

Time had not scythed all that youth begun,

Nor youth all quit; but, spite of heaven's fell rage,

Some beauty peep'd through lattice of sear'd age.

Oft did she heave her napkin to her eyne,

Which on it had conceited characters,

Laundering the silken figures in the brine

That season'd woe had pelleted in tears,

And often reading what contents it bears;

As often shrieking undistinguish'd woe,

In clamours of all size, both high and low.

Sometimes her levell'd eyes their carriage ride,

As they did battery to the spheres intend;

Sometime diverted their poor balls are tied

To the orbed earth; sometimes they do extend

Their view right on; anon their gazes lend

To every place at once, and, nowhere fix'd,

The mind and sight distractedly commix'd.

Her hair, nor loose nor tied in formal plat,

Proclaim'd in her a careless hand of pride

For some, untuck'd, descended her sheaved hat,

Hanging her pale and pined cheek beside;

Some in her threaden fillet still did bide,

And true to bondage would not break from thence,

Though slackly braided in loose negligence.

A thousand favours from a maund she drew

Of amber, crystal, and of beaded jet,

Which one by one she in a river threw,

Upon whose weeping margent she was set;

Like usury, applying wet to wet,

Or monarch's hands that let not bounty fall

Where want cries some, but where excess begs all.

Of folded schedules had she many a one,

Which she perused, sigh'd, tore, and gave the flood;

Crack'd many a ring of posied gold and bone

Bidding them find their sepulchres in mud;

Found yet moe letters sadly penn'd in blood,

With sleided silk feat and affectedly

Enswathed, and seal'd to curious secrecy.

These often bathed she in her fluxive eyes,

And often kiss'd, and often 'gan to tear:

Cried 'O false blood, thou register of lies,

What unapproved witness dost thou bear!

Ink would have seem'd more black and damned here!'

This said, in top of rage the lines she rents,

Big discontent so breaking their contents.

A reverend man that grazed his cattle nigh -

Sometime a blusterer, that the ruffle knew

Of court, of city, and had let go by

The swiftest hours, observed as they flew -

Towards this afflicted fancy fastly drew,

And, privileged by age, desires to know

In brief the grounds and motives of her woe.

So slides he down upon his grained bat,

And comely-distant sits he by her side;

When he again desires her, being sat,

Her grievance with his hearing to divide:

If that from him there may be aught applied

Which may her suffering ecstasy assuage,

'Tis promised in the charity of age.

'Father,' she says, 'though in me you behold

The injury of many a blasting hour,

Let it not tell your judgment I am old;

Not age, but sorrow, over me hath power:

I might as yet have been a spreading flower,

Fresh to myself, If I had self-applied

Love to myself and to no love beside.

'But, woe is me! too early I attended

A youthful suit-it was to gain my

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