Tag Archives: Sonetos

Soneto 8 – Shakespeare

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SONNET VIII

Music to hear, why hear’st thou music sadly?
Sweets with sweets war not, joy delights in joy.
Why lovest thou that which thou receivest not gladly,
Or else receivest with pleasure thine annoy?
If the true concord of well-tuned sounds,                         5
By unions married, do offend thine ear,
They do but sweetly chide thee, who confounds
In singleness the parts that thou shouldst bear.
Mark how one string, sweet husband to another,
Strikes each in each by mutual ordering,                      10
Resembling sire and child and happy mother
Who all in one, one pleasing note do sing:
Whose speechless song, being many, seeming one,
Sings this to thee: ‘thou single wilt prove none.’      14

O

photo by: KJGarbutt

Soneto 7 Shakespeare

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Shakespeare’s Sonnets

Lo in the orient when the gracious light


 

Que tal adquirir o livro com os Sonetos de Shakespeare?

Soneto 6 – Shakespeare

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Then let not winter’s ragged hand deface

Sonnet 6 – by William Shakespeare.

Os sonetos 5 e 6 fazem parte de um todo e podem ser melhor compreendidos se lidos na sequência. Para ouvir o soneto 5, acesse PodCast Observatório.

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Those Hours – Sonnet 5

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Those hours that with gentle work did frame

By William Shakespeare

 

Those hours that with gentle work did frame

The lovely gaze where every eye doth dwell

Will play the tyrants to the very same,

And that unfair which fairly doth excel:

For never-resting time leads summer on

To hideous winter and confounds him there,

Sap checked with frost and lusty leaves quite gone,

Beauty o’er-snowed and bareness every where:

Then were not summer’s distillation left

A liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass,

Beauty’s effect with beauty were bereft,

Nor it nor no remembrance what it was.

But flowers distilled though they with winter meet,

Leese but their show, their substance still lives sweet.

 

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Soneto 3 – William Shakespeare

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Sonnet 3

(by William Shakespeare)

3

Look in thy glass and tell the face thou viewest,
Now is the time that face should form another,
Whose fresh repair if now thou not 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 remembered not to be,
Die single and thine image dies with thee.

 

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