>>7657594 Sonnet 19 is best sonnet: Devouring Time, blunt thou the lion's paws, And make the earth devour her own sweet brood; Pluck the keen teeth from the fierce tiger's jaws, And burn the long-liv'd Phoenix in her blood; Make glad and sorry seasons as thou fleets, And do whate'er thou wilt, swift-footed Time, To the wide world and all her fading sweets; But I forbid thee one more heinous crime: O, carve not with the hours my love's fair brow, Nor draw no lines there with thine antique pen! Him in thy course untainted do allow For beauty's pattern to succeeding men. Yet do thy worst, old Time! Despite thy wrong My love shall in my verse ever live young.
>>7657606 Thanks, I love people who share Shakespeare's sonnets. I only recently started discovering them, when reading Carpenter's Gothic it opened with a really really beautiful sonnet that made me crack open this big Shakespeare collection I got when Borders went out of business.
Full many a glorious morning have I seen Flatter the mountain-tops with sovereign eye, Kissing with golden face the meadows green, Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy; Anon permit the basest clouds to ride With ugly rack on his celestial face, And from the forlorn world his visage hide, Stealing unseen to west with this disgrace: Even so my sun one early morn did shine With all triumphant splendor on my brow; But out! alack! he was but one hour mine, The region cloud hath mask'd him from me now. Yet him for this my love no whit disdaineth; Suns of the world may stain when heaven's sun staineth.
It's almost an anomaly in its being entirely in verse with no prose, high proportion of quatrains and couplets, and man scenes of intensely poetic back-and-forths between noble men of honor and guile. They pick up each other imagery and metaphors, transform them or ironically subvert, occasionally noticeably let their conceit get away with them (and that's an explicit theme of the play) and ironically undo themselves metaphorically, all of these is delightfully set up from the very beginning in I.1 where two noblemen, about to challenge each other to a duel over (officially) a matter of honor but where giant political forces are really at stake, and one says: >Let not my cold words here accuse my zeal: '>Tis not the trial of a woman's war, >The bitter clamour of two eager tongues, >Can arbitrate this cause betwixt us twain; >The blood is hot that must be cool'd for this:
I love endlessly rereading it, seeing the interplay between what people are saying and what it really means, which is always and everywhere essentially hidden because of the high-stakes political mileu.
Then, of course, there's Richard himself, the best poet of the play.
Favorite Sonnet is 73, for its heart-achingly tender imagery and feel: >That time of year thou mayst in me behold, >When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang >Upon those boughs which shake against the cold, >Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang. >In me thou seest the twilight of such day, >As after sunset fadeth in the west, >Which by and by black night doth take away, >Death's second self, that seals up all in rest. >In me thou seest the glowing of such fire, >That on the ashes of his youth doth lie, >As the death-bed whereon it must expire, >Consumed with that which it was nourished by. >This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong, >To love that well, which thou must leave ere long.
>>7657606 Very pretty, but there's a worrying slant rhyme there at the end, all the more worrying because every other rhyme is conspicuously perfect in comparison. I wonder if the writer really has any faith or hope in his own protestation?
this is light, not height of his technical achievement, but some of his tangential speeches are so great.
The kinder we, to give them thanks for nothing. Our sport shall be to take what they mistake: And what poor duty cannot do, noble respect Takes it in might, not merit. Where I have come, great clerks have purposed To greet me with premeditated welcomes; Where I have seen them shiver and look pale, Make periods in the midst of sentences, Throttle their practised accent in their fears And in conclusion dumbly have broke off, Not paying me a welcome. Trust me, sweet, Out of this silence yet I pick'd a welcome; And in the modesty of fearful duty I read as much as from the rattling tongue Of saucy and audacious eloquence. Love, therefore, and tongue-tied simplicity In least speak most, to my capacity.
>>7657868 Possibly, but I'm always leery going to that assumption first when I don't have any expertise telling me it was really so. I try to operate on the assumption that their pronunciation wasn't that different unless a note explicitly says otherwise. I do this because, after all, slant rhyme is a very real choice.
When I was a kid I thought this was a perfect rhyme: >What immortal hand or eye, >Could frame thy fearful symmetry? Until when I finally got to college a far more erudite professor guffawed when I pronounced it that way in front of him. He claimed that it isn't a perfect rhyme and that the "-try" isn't different from hours. He pointed out that the assumption that it was a deliberate slant rhyme: Blake, while speaking of the symmetry of the creator's work, fails to maintain his own symmetry and places himself in that much of a different order than God.
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