Shakespeare's classic sonnets:
My tongue-tied muse is polite to keep her still,
Despite your praise, rich editors,
Preserve their character with golden quill pens.
And precious phrases.
I think it's a good idea, and if others write it well,
It's like an illiterate employee still shouting "Amen"
Every hymn is provided by a capable spirit.
Polished with a delicate pen.
Hearing your praise, I said, "It's true, it's true."
In addition to the greatest praise, but also add more things;
But that's my idea, who loves you,
Although the words are at the back, his position is in the front.
Then others show respect for the breath of words,
I'm sorry for my stupid idea, actually.
My silent poet was speechless;
They are full of good comments about you,
Carved into brilliant Chinese characters with a golden pen,
And all the famous sayings carved by the god of art.
I am full of enthusiasm, but they praise and pray;
Like an illiterate priest who can only shout "Amen",
In response to the elegant style of gifted scholars.
Melt every hymn cast.
When I hear people praise you, I say "yes, indeed".
How they praise me is never enough;
But only in my heart, because I love you.
Although I am not good at words, my actions always take the lead.
Then, please respect their empty words;
To me, to my wordless sincerity.
Shakespeare's classic sonnets:
Is the full sail of pride in his great poems,
For your precious reward,
This shattered the mature ideas in my mind,
Let their graves become their growing wombs?
It is his soul, the soul taught to write.
Above a fatal pitch, am I dead?
No, not him, nor his companion.
Giving him help surprised my poem.
He is not the amiable and familiar ghost.
Every night fills him with wisdom.
My silent winner cannot boast;
I don't have any fear of getting sick;
But when your face fills his lines,
So lack of my question; Weaken my strength.
His poetry is vigorous and powerful, is it majestic?
Sail for your precious life,
Let my mature thoughts miscarry in my brain,
Turn their placenta into a graveyard?
Did he learn to write from ghosts?
Very epigram, beat me to death?
No, neither he nor the night.
Sending it to his assistant will put me in a coma.
He, or his amiable ghost
It deceives him with wit every night. Don't be proud.
They knocked me down and silenced me;
Their threats don't scare me.
But when his poems are full of your encouragement,
I will lack inspiration; This is what makes me depressed.
Shakespeare's classic sonnets:
Farewell! You are too precious to me,
You know your estimate:
Your value charter is released to you;
My bondage to you is certain.
Because how can I possess you except your permission?
Where is the wealth I deserve?
The reason for this wonderful gift on me is the lack of it.
So my patent has changed again.
You give yourself, your own value and then you don't know,
Or me, who did you give it to, otherwise it is wrong;
So your great gift, in the wrong growth,
Go home and make a better judgment.
I have you like this, just like a dream flattering me,
He is king when he sleeps, but not when he wakes up.
Farewell! You are too precious for me to climb;
Obviously you also know the price of your own voice:
Your securities are worth enough to redeem you,
I have to give up all my demands on you.
Because, how can I have you without your consent?
How can I have such a treasure?
Because this favor is groundless to me,
I have to cancel my patent license.
You promised me because you underestimated yourself,
Otherwise, you misunderstood me, your benefactor;
Therefore, your generous gift comes from misunderstanding.
I'll pay you back after a better judgment.
In this way, I once had you, just like a dream,
To be king in a dream is to wake up with nothing.