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Texting Shakespeare
Hello! I am Annie, a linguist and passionate Shakespearean from Armenia. Here are the txt sonnets my imagination bodied forth in engaging with Shakespeare's language. Relish!
Text-Messaging
S’O’T 53 by Annie Martirosyan
W OUGHT EASE YORE S’BST’NS, WEAR ’o RU MAID,
TH’T 1000000s ’o STIR RANGE sh… DOSE ’o U tNd?
SINSS EVREE 1 h’th, EVREE 1, WON sh… AID,
NU, B’T 1, C’N EVREE sh… DOE lNd.
D SCRIBE ’DOE NIECE, N th’ COWN2FEET
EASE PORE LEE IMIT8ED A’2U;
’O HELL Ns CHICA ’L Rt ’o bUteaZ,
NU ’i GRISHIAN tI’s R P8ED nU:
SPEEK ’o th’ SPREE’, N FOIZN ’o th’ YE;
Th’ 1 d’th sh… DOE ’o YORE bUtea sh…oh…,
Th’ A’TH’ ’Z YORE BAUNTEA d’th ’PEER;
NU ’i EVREE BL S ED sh… APE WEE NO.
’I AWL XT’NL G’ACE U ha’ S’M pRt,
B’T U lIk NUN, NUN U, F’ CONST’NT hRt.
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Sonnet 53 by William Shakespeare
What is your substance, whereof are you made,
That millions of strange shadows on you tend?
Since every one hath, every one, one shade,
And you, but one, can every shadow lend.
Describe Adonis and the counterfeit
Is poorly imitated after you;
On Helen’s cheek all art of beauty set,
And you in Grecian tires are painted new:
Speak of the spring and foison of the year;
The one doth shadow of your beauty show,
The other as your bounty doth appear;
And you in every blessed shape we know.
In all external grace you have some part,
But you like none, none you, for constant heart.
Text-Messaging
S’O’T 66. by Annie Martirosyan
TI’d w’th AWL th’z, f’ rStf’l D'TH I crI, -
’Z 2 Bhold D’zt ’ BEG’ BO’N,
N nED NAUGHT’ TRIM’D ’i jol’T,
N pU WRIST F8’ UHAP’LY F’SO’N,
N G’L DID ’O’ sh…AIMf’ly misp LACED,
N mAIDn V’ch’ ru.dly STRUMPY Dd,
N rEYEt Paffection RON’F’LY disG’ACEd,
N StrNth bI LIMP’I’ SwA disAbld,
N Rt MAID TUN’tId bI Otho’T,
N FOLLY, DOCT’lIk, C’TROl’i’ SKILL,
N SI’PL TR’TH miscALLd SI’PL’CTY,
N CAPtiv GUD ’TEN’i’ CAPtin ILL:
TI’d w’th AWL th’z, fr’m th’z WOOD I B GUN,
S th’t, 2 dI, I LI:V mI LUV ’LONE.
Sonnet 66. by William Shakespeare
Tired with all these, for restful death I cry,-
As, to behold Desert a beggar born,
And needy Nothing trimm’d in jollity,
And purest Faith unhappily forsworn,
And gilded Honour shamefully misplaced,
And maiden Virtue rudely strumpeted,
And right Perfection wrongfully disgraced,
And Strength by limping Sway disabled,
And Art made tongue-tied by Authority,
And Folly, doctor-like, controlling Skill,
And simple Truth miscall’d Simplicity,
And captive Good attending captain Ill:
Tired with all these, from these would I be gone,
Save that, to die, I leave my love alone.