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The Sonnets is a collection of poems in sonnet form written by William Shakespeare that deal with such themes as love, beauty, politics, and mortality. They were probably written over a period of several years. The sonnets are constructed from three four-line stanzas (called quatrains) and a final couplet сomposed in iambic pentameter with the rhyme scheme abab cdcd efef gg (this form is now known as the Shakespearean sonnet).
Characters of the Sonnets:
Fair Youth – (1-126), presumably Earl Southampton,Shakespeare’s patron
Rival Poet – (76-96) ,presumably Christopher Marlowe, a poet and playwright
Dark Lady – (127-152), presumably Lady Mary Fitton, a married woman
Sonnets Memo: First published in 1609
Quantity : 154 Sonnets
Three four-line stanzas+couplet(two lines)
Rhyme scheme: abab cdcd efef gg
Characters:Fair Youth, Rival Poet,Dark Lady ,
Shakespeare :the Bard,the Swan of Avon,Great Unknown
Sonnet N 18
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date:
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade
Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest;
Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou growest:
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this and this gives life to thee.
Sonnet N 130
My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips' red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damask'd, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.
Sonnet N 66
Tired with all this, for
restful death I cry,-
Tired with all this, from
these would I be gone.
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