O, what a rogue and peasant slave am I!
Is it not monstrous that this player here,
But in a fiction, in a dream of passion,
Could force his soul so to his own conceit
That from her working all his visage wann’d,
Tears in his eyes, distraction in’s aspect,
A broken voice, and his whole function suiting
With forms to his conceit? and all for nothing!
Is it not monstrous that this player here,
But in a fiction, in a dream of passion,
Could force his soul so to his own conceit
That from her working all his visage wann’d,
Tears in his eyes, distraction in’s aspect,
A broken voice, and his whole function suiting
With forms to his conceit? and all for nothing!
2 comments:
I have to say coming to this blog is a bit like having tea with a philosopher. I'm always glad to be here, always leave with something to think about, and usually leave with more questions than I came in with.
It feeds my brain.
The problem, you see, is that I'm not entirely convinced that I wasn't alive in the 19th century...probably that's why I have such trouble adjusting to things like "working" and "public transport." Also why I have a tendency to think in blank verse.
Anyway, I put my email on my blog--feel free to drop me a letter unconstricted by tiny blogger comment boxes.
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