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Roots of Terrorism
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Student Assignment Sheet: Much Ado About Something

Some Sonnets By Shakespeare


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  • Some Sonnets by Shakespeare
  • To Be or Not To Be -- Three Versions
  • #50

    1 How heavy do I journey on the way,
    2 When what I seek, my weary travel's end,
    3 Doth teach that ease and that repose to say,
    4 'Thus far the miles are measured from thy friend!'
    5 The beast that bears me, tired with my woe,
    6 Plods dully on, to bear that weight in me,
    7 As if by some instinct the wretch did know
    8 His rider lov'd not speed being made from thee.
    9 The bloody spur cannot provoke him on,
    10 That sometimes anger thrusts into his hide,
    11 Which heavily he answers with a groan,
    12 More sharp to me than spurring to his side;
    13 For that same groan doth put this in my mind,
    14 My grief lies onward, and my joy behind.

    #71

    1 No longer mourn for me when I am dead
    2 Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell
    3 Give warning to the world that I am fled
    4 From this vile world with vilest worms to dwell:
    5 Nay, if you read this line, remember not
    6 The hand that writ it, for I love you so,
    7 That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot,
    8 If thinking on me then should make you woe.
    9 O! if, I say, you look upon this verse,
    10 When I perhaps compounded am with clay,
    11 Do not so much as my poor name rehearse;
    12 But let your love even with my life decay;
    13 Lest the wise world should look into your moan,
    14 And mock you with me after I am gone.

    #104

    1 To me, fair friend, you never can be old,
    2 For as you were when first your eye I ey'd,
    3 Such seems your beauty still. Three winters cold,
    4 Have from the forests shook three summers' pride,
    5 Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn turned,
    6 In process of the seasons have I seen,
    7 Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burned,
    8 Since first I saw you fresh, which yet are green.
    9 Ah! yet doth beauty like a dial-hand,
    10 Steal from his figure, and no pace perceived;
    11 So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand,
    12 Hath motion, and mine eye may be deceived:
    13 For fear of which, hear this thou age unbred:
    14 Ere you were born was beauty's summer dead.

    #20

    1 A woman's face with nature's own hand painted,
    2 Hast thou, the master mistress of my passion;
    3 A woman's gentle heart, but not acquainted
    4 With shifting change, as is false women's fashion:
    5 An eye more bright than theirs, less false in rolling,
    6 Gilding the object whereupon it gazeth;
    7 A man in hue all hues in his controlling,
    8 Which steals men's eyes and women's souls amazeth.
    9 And for a woman wert thou first created;
    10 Till Nature, as she wrought thee, fell a-doting,
    11 And by addition me of thee defeated,
    12 By adding one thing to my purpose nothing.
    13 But since she prick'd thee out for women's pleasure,
    14 Mine be thy love and thy love's use their treasure.

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