Day 03: #punchcardlipo

[hallluke]

This text contains each 80 character phrase from Shakespeare's sonnets in order:

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Despite of wrinkles this thy golden time. But if thou live remembered not to be,
Upon thy self thy beauty’s legacy? Nature’s bequest gives nothing but doth lend,
Thy unused beauty must be tombed with thee, Which used lives th’ executor to be.
Leaving thee living in posterity? Be not self-willed for thou art much too fair,
Attending on his golden pilgrimage: But when from highmost pitch with weary car,
If the true concord of well-tuned sounds, By unions married do offend thine ear,
Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate:

For all that beauty that doth cover thee, Is but the seemly raiment of my heart,
O therefore love be of thyself so wary, As I not for my self, but for thee will,
Now see what good turns eyes for eyes have done, Mine eyes have drawn thy shape,
But as the marigold at the sun’s eye, And in themselves their pride lies buried,
not to show my wit. Duty so great, which wit so poor as mine May make seem bare,
made lame by Fortune’s dearest spite Take all my comfort of thy worth and truth.
That by this separation I may give: That due to thee which thou deserv’st alone:

that thou mayst true love call, All mine was thine, before thou hadst this more:
Are both with thee, wherever I abide, The first my thought, the other my desire,
Mine eye and heart are at a mortal war, How to divide the conquest of thy sight,
Art left the prey of every vulgar thief. Thee have I not locked up in any chest,
Till I return of posting is no need. O what excuse will my poor beast then find,
for love, thus shall excuse my jade, Since from thee going, he went wilful-slow,
Which but to-day by feeding is allayed, To-morrow sharpened in his former might.

which being full of care, Makes summer’s welcome, thrice more wished, more rare.
And patience tame to sufferance bide each check, Without accusing you of injury.
Nativity once in the main of light, Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crowned,
And for my self mine own worth do define, As I all other in all worths surmount.
Nor gates of steel so strong but time decays? O fearful meditation, where alack,
Tired with all these for restful death I cry, As to behold desert a beggar born,
Ah wherefore with infection should he live, And with his presence grace impiety,

Why should poor beauty indirectly seek, Roses of shadow, since his rose is true?
Before these bastard signs of fair were born, Or durst inhabit on a living brow:
To live a second life on second head, Ere beauty’s dead fleece made another gay:
O if (I say) you look upon this verse, When I (perhaps) compounded am with clay,
And hang more praise upon deceased I, Than niggard truth would willingly impart:
Too base of thee to be remembered, The worth of that, is that which it contains,
O know sweet love I always write of you, And you and love are still my argument:

delivered from thy brain, To take a new acquaintance of thy mind. These offices,
I grant (sweet love) thy lovely argument Deserves the travail of a worthier pen,
This silence for my sin you did impute, Which shall be most my glory being dumb,
And such a counterpart shall fame his wit, Making his style admired every where.
when my heart hath ’scaped this sorrow, Come in the rearward of a conquered woe,
To linger out a purposed overthrow. If thou wilt leave me, do not leave me last,
Wherein it finds a joy above the rest, But these particulars are not my measure,

But do thy worst to steal thy self away, For term of life thou art assured mine,
or thy heart’s workings be, Thy looks should nothing thence, but sweetness tell.
Nor did I wonder at the lily’s white, Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose,
In gentle numbers time so idly spent, Sing to the ear that doth thy lays esteem,
O truant Muse what shall be thy amends, For thy neglect of truth in beauty dyed?
Beauty no pencil, beauty’s truth to lay: But best is best, if never intermixed’?
The argument all bare is of more worth Than when it hath my added praise beside.

For to no other pass my verses tend, Than of your graces and your gifts to tell.
Since all alike my songs and praises be To one, of one, still such, and ever so.
I see descriptions of the fairest wights, And beauty making beautiful old rhyme,
and lovely knights, Then in the blazon of sweet beauty’s best, Of hand, of foot,
That is my home of love, if I have ranged, Like him that travels I return again,
To leave for nothing all thy sum of good: For nothing this wide universe I call,
O for my sake do you with Fortune chide, The guilty goddess of my harmful deeds,

Since I left you, mine eye is in my mind, And that which governs me to go about,
but effectually is out: For it no form delivers to the heart Of bird, of flower,
Might I not then say ‘Now I love you best,’ When I was certain o’er incertainty,
And I a tyrant have no leisure taken To weigh how once I suffered in your crime.
Thy pyramids built up with newer might To me are nothing novel, nothing strange,
It suffers not in smiling pomp, nor falls Under the blow of thralled discontent,
It fears not policy that heretic, Which works on leases of short-numbered hours,

Or laid great bases for eternity, Which proves more short than waste or ruining?
No, let me be obsequious in thy heart, And take thou my oblation, poor but free,
lust Is perjured, murd’rous, bloody full of blame, Savage, extreme, rude, cruel,
On purpose laid to make the taker mad. Mad in pursuit and in possession so, Had,
And yet by heaven I think my love as rare, As any she belied with false compare.
And suit thy pity like in every part. Then will I swear beauty herself is black,
my self, and thee I am forsaken, A torment thrice three-fold thus to be crossed:

so that other mine, Thou wilt restore to be my comfort still: But thou wilt not,
came debtor for my sake, So him I lose through my unkind abuse. Him have I lost,
Or mine eyes seeing this, say this is not To put fair truth upon so foul a face?
But wherefore says she not she is unjust? And wherefore say not I that I am old?
Lest sorrow lend me words and words express, The manner of my pity-wanting pain.
Nor taste, nor smell, desire to be invited To any sensual feast with thee alone:
But if thou catch thy hope turn back to me: And play the mother’s part, kiss me,

Tempteth my better angel from my side, And would corrupt my saint to be a devil:
And whether that my angel be turned fiend, Suspect I may, yet not directly tell,
Breathed forth the sound that said ‘I hate’, To me that languished for her sake:
Shall worms inheritors of this excess Eat up thy charge? is this thy body’s end?
Nay if thou lour’st on me do I not spend Revenge upon my self with present moan?
When all my best doth worship thy defect, Commanded by the motion of thine eyes?
Which from Love’s fire took heat perpetual, Growing a bath and healthful remedy,

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[eseyffarth]

Brilliant, although I wasn't aware that Shakespeare knew what a punchcard is...😁