One day, I shall be lead striker for England in the World Cup. I request only that they replace the ball with a kitten or a puppy. BAWWW GOOD LUCK TO YOU TOO <33333
England keeps all his sappy poety inside. Though there are some scribbles sonnets. And, you know, Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,/And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;/And every fair from fair sometime declines,/By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd;/But thy eternal summer shall not fade/Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest
I would pay big money to go see that live. It'd be like a trainwreck of awesome and terror. FIGHT ON~ /o/
Welllll. He kept all of it but one. After which things became GLARINGLY OBVIOUS (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sonnets_from_the_Portuguese).
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I love thee to the depth and breadth and height My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight For the ends of Being and ideal Grace. I love thee to the level of everyday's Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight. I love thee freely, as men might strive for Right; I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise. I love thee with the passion put to use In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith. I love thee with a love I seemed to lose With my lost saints,–I love thee with the breath, Smiles, tears, of all my life!–and, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death.
PORT IS SO APPRECIATIVE OF ENGLAND'S NEED TO REASSURE HIMSELF THAT HE CAN TOP HAHAHA
A trainwreck of awesome and terror and animal rights activists. *TIES A BAND AROUND HER HEAD LIKE IN ANIME* FAI-TOH!
The first 128 of Shakespeare's sonnets are written to some unknown man, most of them romantic. England totally relates them to Port.
Let those who are in favour with their stars Of public honour and proud titles boast, Whilst I, whom fortune of such triumph bars Unlook'd for joy in that I honour most. Great princes' favourites their fair leaves spread But as the marigold at the sun's eye, And in themselves their pride lies buried, For at a frown they in their glory die. The painful warrior famoused for fight, After a thousand victories once foiled, Is from the book of honour razed quite, And all the rest forgot for which he toiled: Then happy I, that love and am beloved, Where I may not remove nor be removed.
And streakers. Can't have football without someone streaking across the pitch. o/ */CUE I'LL MAKE A MAN OUT OF YOU*
A-Aaaaah. ;AAAA; England why do you write all this poetry about Port but never tell him? They are so dere, good god.
If thou must love me, let it be for nought Except for love's sake only. Do not say I love her for her smile--her look--her way Of speaking gently,--for a trick of thought That falls in well with mine, and certes brought A sense of ease on such a day-- For these things in themselves, Belovèd, may Be changed, or change for thee,--and love, so wrought,
May be unwrought so. Neither love me for Thine own dear pity's wiping my cheek dry,-- A creature might forget to weep, who bore Thy comfort long, and lose thy love thereby! But love me for love's sake, that evermore Thou may'st love on, through love's eternity.
You have to admit, everyone loves writing Port love poetry. Even France did it (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Letters_of_a_Portuguese_Nun). XDDD
no subject
Date: 2010-06-10 09:24 am (UTC)One day, I shall be lead striker for England in the World Cup. I request only that they replace the ball with a kitten or a puppy. BAWWW GOOD LUCK TO YOU TOO <33333
England keeps all his sappy poety inside. Though there are some scribbles sonnets. And, you know, Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,/And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;/And every fair from fair sometime declines,/By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd;/But thy eternal summer shall not fade/Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest
no subject
Date: 2010-06-10 09:29 am (UTC)I would pay big money to go see that live. It'd be like a trainwreck of awesome and terror. FIGHT ON~ /o/
Welllll. He kept all of it but one. After which things became GLARINGLY OBVIOUS (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sonnets_from_the_Portuguese).
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of everyday's
Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.
I love thee freely, as men might strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints,–I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life!–and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.
no subject
Date: 2010-06-10 09:52 am (UTC)A trainwreck of awesome and terror and animal rights activists. *TIES A BAND AROUND HER HEAD LIKE IN ANIME* FAI-TOH!
The first 128 of Shakespeare's sonnets are written to some unknown man, most of them romantic. England totally relates them to Port.
Let those who are in favour with their stars
Of public honour and proud titles boast,
Whilst I, whom fortune of such triumph bars
Unlook'd for joy in that I honour most.
Great princes' favourites their fair leaves spread
But as the marigold at the sun's eye,
And in themselves their pride lies buried,
For at a frown they in their glory die.
The painful warrior famoused for fight,
After a thousand victories once foiled,
Is from the book of honour razed quite,
And all the rest forgot for which he toiled:
Then happy I, that love and am beloved,
Where I may not remove nor be removed.
God, they're so lovey dovey.
no subject
Date: 2010-06-10 10:01 am (UTC)And streakers. Can't have football without someone streaking across the pitch. o/ */CUE I'LL MAKE A MAN OUT OF YOU*
A-Aaaaah. ;AAAA; England why do you write all this poetry about Port but never tell him? They are so dere, good god.
If thou must love me, let it be for nought
Except for love's sake only. Do not say
I love her for her smile--her look--her way
Of speaking gently,--for a trick of thought
That falls in well with mine, and certes brought
A sense of ease on such a day--
For these things in themselves, Belovèd, may
Be changed, or change for thee,--and love, so wrought,
May be unwrought so. Neither love me for
Thine own dear pity's wiping my cheek dry,--
A creature might forget to weep, who bore
Thy comfort long, and lose thy love thereby!
But love me for love's sake, that evermore
Thou may'st love on, through love's eternity.
You have to admit, everyone loves writing Port love poetry. Even France did it (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Letters_of_a_Portuguese_Nun). XDDD