Two households, both alike indignity,
In fair Verona, where we lay our scene,
From ancient grudge break to new mutiny,
Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean.
From forth the fatal loins of these two foes
A pair of star-crossed lovers take their life;
Whose misadventures and pitiful overthrows
Doth with their depth bury their parents' strife.
The frightful passage of their pock-marked desire,
And the continuance of their parents' glee,
Which persisted, despite their children's ire,
Is now the pages of blogging you will see;
The which if you with patient eyes attend,
What humour you doth miss in life, our toil shall strive to mend.
Dear Diary,
My attempt at Iambic.
How lovely is the day that turn'th to springe,
And brings the sun o'er wint'ry mountains tall;
And makes the ruddy-breasted robin singe
And the quaile emerge and strutting magpie call.
It calleth forth the yellow daffodil
And the crocuses and purple gladiol',
Brings the searching ants to my 'sil,
And now I have to leave 'cos mother calls.
-Jules
P.S: Actually, she didn't, but I didn't know how else to end it.
