Shakespeare In Love
Siti Nur Faidah
by: William Shakespeare
    • ROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
      That thereby beauty’s rose might never die,
      But as the riper should by time decease,
      His tender heir might bear his memory;
      But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
      Feed’st thy light’s flame with self-substantial fuel,
      Making a famine where abundance lies,
      Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
      Thout that are now the world’s fresh ornament
      And only herald to the gaudy spring,
      Within thine own bud buriest thy content
      And, tender churl, mak’st waste in niggarding.
      Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
      To eat the world’s due, by the grave and thee.
SONNET #2
by: William Shakespeare
    • HEN forty winters shall besiege thy brow
      And dig deep trenches in thy beauty’s field,
      Thy youth’s proud livery, so gazed on now,
      Will be a tottered weed of small worth held:
      Then being asked where all thy beauty lies,
      Where all the treasure of thy lusty days,
      To say within thine own deep-sunken eyes
      Were an all-eating shame and thriftless praise.
      How much more prasie deserved thy beauty’s use
      If thou couldst answer, ‘This fair child of mine
      Shall sum my count and make my old excuse,’
      Proving his beauty by succession thine.
      This were to be new made when thou art old
      And see thy blood warm when thou feel’st cold.
SONNET #3
by: William Shakespeare
    • OOK in thy glass, and tell the face thou viewest
      Now is the time that face should form another,
      Whose fresh repair if now thou renewest,
      Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother.
      For where is she so fair whose uneared womb
      Disdains the tillage of thy husbandry?
      Or who is he so fond will be the tomb
      Of his self-love, to stop posterity?
      Thou art thy mother’s glass, and she in thee
      Calls back the lovely April of her prime;
      So thou through windows of thine age shalt see,
      Despite of wrinkles, this thy golden time.
      But if thou live rememb’red not to be,
      Die single, and thine image dies with thee.
SONNET #4
by: William Shakespeare
    • NTHRIFTY loveliness, why dost thou spend
      Upon thyself they beauty’s legacy?
      Nature’s bequest gives nothing but doth lend,
      And, being frank, she lends to those are free.
      Then, beateous niggard, why dost thou abuse
      The bounteous largess given thee to give?
      Profitless userer, why dost thou use
      So great a sum of sums, yet canst not live?
      For, having traffic with thyself alone,
      Thou of thyself thy sweet self dost deceive:
      Then how, when Nature calls thee to be gone,
      What acceptable audit canst thou leave?
      Thy unused beauty must be tombed with thee,
      Which, usèd, lives th’ executor to be.
0 Responses

Posting Komentar

Langganan: Posting Komentar (Atom)