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Tag: Shakespeare’s sonnets

Shakespeare’s Sonnet #4, Read by David Hurley

Shakespeare’s Sonnet #4, Read by David Hurley

IV. Unthrifty loveliness why dost thou spend Upon thy self thy beauty’s legacy? Nature’s bequest gives nothing, but doth lend, And being frank she lends to those are free: Then, beauteous niggard, why dost thou abuse The bounteous largess given thee to give? Profitless usurer, why dost thou use So great a sum of sums, yet canst not live? For having traffic with thy self alone Thou of thy self thy sweet self dost deceive: Then how when nature calls…

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Shakespeare’s Sonnet #3, Read by David Hurley

Shakespeare’s Sonnet #3, Read by David Hurley

III. 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…

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Shakespeare’s Sonnet #2, Read by David Hurley

Shakespeare’s Sonnet #2, Read by David Hurley

II. When forty winters shall beseige thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty’s field, Thy youth’s proud livery, so gazed on now Will be a totter’d weed, of small worth held: Then being ask’d, 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 praise deserved thy beauty’s use, If thou couldst answer “This fair child of mine…

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Shakespeare’s Sonnet #1, Read by David Hurley

Shakespeare’s Sonnet #1, Read by David Hurley

I. From 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, Thy self thy foe, to thy own sweet self too cruel: Thou that art now the world’s fresh ornament And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud…

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