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The new Forum may be found at http://booksliterature.com/ .
The former post was removed as it violated our user agreement, or it did not add to the "Great Books" conversation in a constructive manner.
In our ongoing effort to ensure quality discussions throughout our forums, from now on only registered members may post. Spam will not be tolerated. If you would like to help moderate, please contact "jolly roger ship @ yahoo . com".
To post please register at http://jollyroger.com/greatbooksforums or at JollyRogerWest.com Great Books Forums.
We prefer Shakespearean Sonnets, reflections on Space and Time, and posts along the lines of:
XXVI Lord of my love, to whom in vassalage Thy merit hath my duty strongly knit, To thee I send this written embassage, To witness duty, not to show my wit: Duty so great, which wit so poor as mine May make seem bare, in wanting words to show it, But that I hope some good conceit of thine In thy soul's thought, all naked, will bestow it: Till whatsoever star that guides my moving, Points on me graciously with fair aspect, And puts apparel on my tatter'd loving, To show me worthy of thy sweet respect: Then may I dare to boast how I do love thee; Till then, not show my head where thou mayst prove me. --William Shakespeare
We but half express ourselves, and are ashamed of that divine idea which each of us represents. --Emerson
It is our continuing goal to foster the world's greatest converstation.
In the future, please register and make all posts to http://jollyroger.com/greatbooksforums,
and/or join the forums Great Books & Philosophy Forums @ jollyrogerwest.com.
What seems to be proved may not be embraced; but what no one shows the ability to defend is quickly abandoned. C.S. Lewis
Best Regards,
William Einstein Shakespeare :)
CIV To me, fair friend, you never can be old, For as you were when first your eye I ey'd, Such seems your beauty still. Three winters cold, Have from the forests shook three summers' pride, Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn turn'd, In process of the seasons have I seen, Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burn'd, Since first I saw you fresh, which yet are green. Ah! yet doth beauty like a dial-hand, Steal from his figure, and no pace perceiv'd; So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand, Hath motion, and mine eye may be deceiv'd: For fear of which, hear this thou age unbred: Ere you were born was beauty's summer dead. --William Shakespeare