Welcome to English Language Arts 12!
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Unit 1: Personal Narrative
Unit 2: Shakespeare's Macbeth
Introduction to Language of Shakespeare:
Shakespeare's Sonnet 116
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no; it is an ever-fixed mark,
That looks on tempests, and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
Millay, "Love is Not All: It Is Not Meat nor Drink" (799)
Love is not all: it is not meat nor drink
Nor slumber nor a roof against the rain;
Nor yet a floating spar to men that sink
And rise and sink and rise and sink again;
Love can not fill the thickened lung with breath,
Nor clean the blood, nor set the fractured bone;
Yet many a man is making friends with death
Even as I speak, for lack of love alone.
It well may be that in a difficult hour,
Pinned down by pain and moaning for release,
Or nagged by want past resolution’s power,
I might be driven to sell your love for peace,
Or trade the memory of this night for food.
It well may be. I do not think I would.
Spenser, Sonnet 30
My love is like to ice, and I to fire:
How comes it then that this her cold so great
Is not dissolved through my so hot desire,
But harder grows the more I her entreat?
Or how comes it that my exceeding heat
Is not allayed by her heart-frozen cold,
But that I burn much more in boiling sweat,
And feel my flames augmented manifold?
What more miraculous thing may be told,
That fire, which all things melts, should harden ice,
And ice, which is congeal's with senseless cold,
Should kindle fire by wonderful device?
Such is the power of love in gentle mind,
That it can alter all the course of kind.
Petrarch, Sonnet 12
If my life find strength enough to fight
The grievous battle of each passing day
That I may meet your gaze, years from today,
Lady, when your eyes have lost their light,
And when your golden curls have turned to white,
And vanished are your wreaths and green array,
And when your youthful hue has fled away,
Whose beauty makes me tremble in its sight,
Perhaps then love will overcome my fears
Enough that I may let my secret rise
And tell you what I've suffered all these years;
And if no flame be kindled in your eyes,
At least I may be granted for my tears
The comfort of a few belated sighs.