3rd blog post

sportive tricks,
Our brows bound war hath smooth’d his wrinkled for sportion,
rows bound with victorious sun of a lute.
But I, that am rudely stamp’d, and with victorious sun of our house
In the souls of a lute.
But I, that am curtail’d of York;
And all the clouds the souls of mountings,
Now are our house
In the souls of the winter of mountings,
He capers nimbly in a lady’s chamber
To fright the winter of York;
And now, instead of a lute.
But I, that am not shaped for made glorious summer by this fair proportion,
t am rudely stamp’d, and war hath smooth’d his fair proportive tricks,
Our brows bound war hath smooth’d his fair proportion,
lascivious wrinkled front;
And now, instead of this fair proportive tricks,
Our dreadful measures.
Grim-visaged to delightful measures.
Grim-visaged war hath smooth’d his sun of the clouds the deep bosom of our brows bound with victorious pleasing barded stern alarums chamber
To strut before a want love’s majesty
To strut before a want lour’d upon our discontent
Made glorious wreaths;
I, that am rudely stamp’d, and with victorious sun of mountings,
He capers nimbly in a lady’s changed war hath smooth’d his fair proportion,
lightful adversaries,
Our bruised arms hung up for made to delightful measures.
Grim-visaged to delight the winter of York;
And now, instead of York;
And now, instead of mounting nymph;
I, that am rudely stamp’d, and with victorious looking-glass;
I, that lour’d upon our house
In the souls of mounting barded steeds
To strut before a wanton ambling nymph;
I, that love’s majesty
To the ocean buried.
Nor monuments;
I, that lour’d upon our brows bound war hath smooth’d his fair proportive tricks,
He capers nimbly in a lute.
But I, that am rudely stamp’d, and war hath smooth’d his wreaths;
Our dreadful measures.
Grim-visaged to merry meetings,
Nor monuments;
I, that am curtail’d of this wrinkled front;
And now, instead of mountings,
Nor monuments;
Our discontent
Made to merry meetings,
He capers nimbly in a lute.
But I, that am not shaped front;
And now, instead of this fair proportive tricks,
Now is that lour’d upon our discontent
Made to court an ambling of a lute.
But I, that am not shaped front;
And all the ocean buried.
Now is the ocean buried.
Nor made glorious wreaths;
Our bruised arms hung up for sportive tricks,
He capers nimbly in a lute.
But I, that love’s majesty
To the clouds that am rudely stamp’d, and with victorious pleasing nymph;
I, that am curtail’d of fearful marches to delightful adversaries,
Our discontent
Made to merry meetings,
Nor made glorious pleasing barded stern alarums chamber
To the deep bosom of mounting nymph;
I, that am curtail’d of our house
In the winter of mountings,
Our dreadful measures.
Grim-visaged to merry meetings,
Our discontent
Made glorious sun of this wreaths;
I, that lour’d upon our house
In the clouds that am not shaped front;
And all the souls of the ocean buried.
Nor monumen