terça-feira, 9 de setembro de 2014

Anti-Shakespearean Sonnet

True it is that increase is earth's old rule,
That mankind thriveth not but by conception;
Thinkst thou though, be not so fond and unschooled,
Any rule is deemed to have an exception.
Thy grace pitifully wanteth the means,
She aboundeth in years that which thou lack'st;
Pitieth the very babe's future's dreams,
Roughly denied for years and decades next.
The sands have not flown back and forth so much
Desperate measures are not in your hands;
Desperate ills must be addressed as such,
And Scripture breaks not thus but merely bends.
Thou deserv'st much worthier babies;
If not mine, then a worthier lady's.

quarta-feira, 3 de setembro de 2014

Faux-Dark Lady Sonnet

Thou that deserv'st not this mere ink and paper,
Whose wantonness is far and wide divulged,
To my bosom and wit stand'st such a gaoler,
That in my blind eyes all thy sins be purged.
Thy love I seek not; great fool else were I.
But to keep in the private parts of Fortune,
Thy favours enjoy and never belie,
Contents me, whoe'er may thee importune.
Thus am I in rough terms with Reputation,
Chasing none but lascivious Lady Lust.
A guilty delight's all my compensation;
Still, indulge in foul sin I simply must.
´Tis sterling tender in my witless reckoning
Like those I give thee at thy very beckoning.