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1. (the tenor) , .

2. (the vehicle) , .

3. (the ground) .

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(), , , .

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, . , . , (a sea of troubles), , , (And heaved and heaved, still unrestingly heaved the black sea as if its vast tides were a conscience).

, , , .

, like. seems, resembles, looks like. . -ish, -like, -some, -. , . , . , , : Bible-black, crowblack, sloeblack, , .

. : (1), (2), (3) (4). : The old woman (2) is sly (3) like (4) a fox (1).

, : The old woman (2) is like (4) a fox (1).

: A foxy (1 4) woman (2). -, , .

, , : The old woman (2) is a fox (1). , : The old fox deceived us. , , .. : The old woman is sly like a fox and deceived us.

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- : Evans possessed that British rhinoceros equipment of mingled ignorance, self-confidence and complacency which is triple-armed against all the shafts of the mind.

, : , .

- , .. , , , :

 

Soft is the music that would charm for ever;

The flower of sweetest smell is shy and lowly.

(W. Wordsworth)

 

. : a warm colour, sharp colour, cold light, soft light, soft voice, sharp sound .. , , . .

. . , , . .

 

THE GRASSHOPPER AND THE CRICKET

 

The poetry of earth is never dead:

When all the birds are faint with the hot sun,

And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run

From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead;

That is the Grasshopper's he takes the lead

In summer luxury, he has never done

With his delights, for when tired out with fun,

He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed.

The poetry of earth is ceasing never:

On a lone winter evening, when the frost

Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills

The cricket's song, in warmth increasing ever,

And seems to one, in drowsiness half lost,

The grasshopper's among some grassy hills.

 

, , :

The poetry of earth is never dead The poetry of earth is ceasing never. , , , .

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, never say that I was false of heart,

Though absence seemed my flame to qualify.

 

(W. Shakespeare. Sonnet CIX)

 

flame , , . , . : the eye of heaven : Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines. (W. Shakespeare. Sonnet XVIII.)

, , , , .. , :

 

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.

 

(W. Shakespeare. Sonnet XXVI)

 

, , , . : lord of my love, vassalage, duty, embassage, . :

 

I love not less, though less the show appear:

That love is merchandised whose rich esteeming

The owner's tongue doth publish everywhere.

 

(W. Shakespeare. Sonnet CII)

 

, .

, . , , , , . . , .

(. 99) .

, , :

 

All days are nights to see till I see thee,

And nights bright days when dreams do show thee me.

 

(W. Shakespeare. Sonnet XLIII)

 

, , , , .

, . : not bad = very good. (we inched our way along the road) (rather fine = very fine).

, - - . , , , , , pearly teeth, coral lips, ivory neck, hair of golden wire.

- , , :

My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun,

Coral is far more red than her lips' red,

If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;

If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.

I have seen roses damask'd, red and white,

But no such roses see I in her cheeks...

 

(W. Shakespeare. Sonnet CXXX)

 

, , .. , , . , .. , . , , CXLIII, , , , .

. , , - . . , . . ' . . . , . . , .. , : , (.. ). . , , , : . 1.

, , , . , , . , ; , ; ; ..

, , . Eye, ear, heart, brain :

 

In faith, I do not love thee with mine eyes,

For they in thee a thousand errors note;

But 'tis my heart that loves what they despise,

Who in despite of view is pleased to dote;

Nor are mine ears with thy tongue's tune delighted,

Nor tender feeling, to base touches prone,

Nor taste, nor smell, desire to be invited

To any sensual feast with thee alone...

 

(W. Shakespeare. Sonnet CXLT)

 

, , . , , .

, , . , , , . ear eye . Since I left you, mine eye is in my mind (W. Shakespeare. Sonnet CXIII). For there can live no hatred in thine eye (W. Shakespeare. Sonnet XCIII).

. , , : ( ), , , , . , . , 1.

, , , , , . , , .

, , , . , , , he she, , , , . . -Time, : this bloody tyrant Time (XVI); devouring Time do thy worst, old Time (XIX).

, , :

 

Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore,

So do our minutes hasten to their end;

Each changing place with that which goes before,

In sequent toil all forwards do contend.

Nativity, once in the main of light,

Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crown'd,

Crooked eclipses 'gainst his glory fight,

And Time that gave doth now his gift confound.

Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth

And delves the parallels in beauty's brow,

Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth,

And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow:

And yet to times in hope my verse shall stand,

Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand.

 

(W. Shakespeare. Sonnet LX)

 

, . hasten, contend forwards , So do our minutes hasten to their end , : , , , . nativity maturity. Time , (his gift, his scythe, his cruel hand), : , .. .

, , .

. LX .

- . , . , , , .

, , , . The beast that bears me (W. Shakespeare. Sonnet L).

, , , .

 

, . -, (a silvery laugh) (to smile cuttingly), (my sweet!), , . , , . , , . :





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