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Shakespeare in this isn’t
Shakespeare in this isn’t
The Board through the ears of modern speech recognition
Soviet 99 More foreign this Friday July, Suite C, when this this town field mice who left mouse, If not for mileage for? The group will provide Which of a soft cheese more complex and twelve In Monroe space the last two closely five. Neither the eye content for die and, And this a word to the human the margarine stone die air; De Rosas fear to 14610, One passenger in, and otherwise is there; The word, no arrests were one, stonewall ball, And to his robbery the mix by Brad; Therefore is that, in private homes grow The central canker use in the future. More flowers and, what I nine coup sea But sweet hole, it had stolen palm V. |
Verdorie jongens, dit moest op DoP!
fb? :bloos: |
In ieder geval is het een collaboratie van Shakespeare, Microsoft en mij. Experimentje!
Mijn welklinkend stemgeluid, woorden van William en technologie van Bill hebben deze herinterpretatie mogelijk gemaakt. De titel zou je ook hebben kunnen verstaan als 'Shakespeare revisited - The Bard through the ears of modern speech recognition'. De originele teksten van Sonnets II en XCIX zal ik ook maar even bijvoegen voor uw leesgenot. II When forty winters shall besiege thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery so gazed on now, Will be a totter'd weed of small worth held: Then being asked, where all thy beauty lies, Where all the treasure of thy lusty days; To say, within thine own deep sunken eyes, Were an all-eating shame, and thriftless praise. How much more praise deserv'd thy beauty's use, If thou couldst answer 'This fair child of mine Shall sum my count, and make my old excuse,' Proving his beauty by succession thine! This were to be new made when thou art old, And see thy blood warm when thou feel'st it cold. XCIX The forward violet thus did I chide: Sweet thief, whence didst thou steal thy sweet that smells, If not from my love's breath? The purple pride Which on thy soft cheek for complexion dwells In my love's veins thou hast too grossly dy'd. The lily I condemned for thy hand, And buds of marjoram had stol'n thy hair; The roses fearfully on thorns did stand, One blushing shame, another white despair; A third, nor red nor white, had stol'n of both, And to his robbery had annex'd thy breath; But, for his theft, in pride of all his growth A vengeful canker eat him up to death. More flowers I noted, yet I none could see, But sweet, or colour it had stol'n from thee. |
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