Ten Things I Hate About You Sonnet

I hate the way you talk to me, and the way you cut your hair. I hate the way you drive my car. I hate it when you stare, I hate your big dumb combat boots and the way you read my mind. I hate you so much it makes me sick, It even makes me rhyme. I hate the way you’re always right. I hate it when you lie. I hate it when you make me laugh, Even worse when you make me cry. I hate it that you’re not around. And the fact that you didn’t call. But mostly I hate the way I don’t hate you, not even close, not even a little bit, not even at all

SONNET 141 PARAPHRASE In faith, I do not love thee with mine eyes, In truth, I do not love you with my eyes, For they in thee a thousand errors note; For they note a thousand faults in you; But 'tis my heart that loves what they despise, But it is my heart that loves what my eyes dislike, Who in despite of view is pleased to dote; Which, despite what it sees, continues to dote over you; Nor are mine ears with thy tongue's tune delighted, Nor our mine ears delighted by the sound of your voice, Nor tender feeling, to base touches prone, Nor will my sense of feeling respond to just anyone's touch, Nor taste, nor smell, desire to be invited Nor do my senses of taste or smell desire to be invited To any sensual feast with thee alone: To any sensual feast with you and you alone. But my five wits nor my five senses can But my five wits nor my five senses can Dissuade one foolish heart from serving thee, Persuade my foolish heart not to serve you, Who leaves unsway'd the likeness of a man, Who leaves only the likeness of a man Thy proud hearts slave and vassal wretch to be: To be your proud heart's slave and vassal. Only my plague thus far I count my gain, Only in this do I consider my love-sickness to my advantage, That she that makes me sin awards me pain. She that makes me sin determines my punishment.

KATHERINE Fie, fie! Unknit that threat'ning unkind brow

And dart not scornful glances from those eyes

To wound thy lord, thy king, thy governor.

It blots thy beauty as frosts do bite the meads,

Confounds thy fame as whirlwinds shake fair buds,

And in no sense is meet or amiable.

A woman moved is like a fountain troubled,

Muddy, ill-seeming, thick, bereft of beauty,

And while it is so, none so dry or thirsty

Will deign to sip or touch one drop of it.

Thy husband is thy lord, thy life, thy keeper,

Thy head, thy sovereign, one that cares for thee,

And for thy maintenance commits his body

To painful labor both by sea and land,

To watch the night in storms, the day in cold,

Whilst thou liest warm at home, secure and safe,

And craves no other tribute at thy hands

But love, fair looks and true obedience—

Too little payment for so great a debt.

Such duty as the subject owes the prince,

Even such a woman oweth to her husband.

And when she is froward, peevish, sullen, sour,

And not obedient to his honest will,

What is she but a foul contending rebel

And graceless traitor to her loving lord?

I am ashamed that women are so simple To offer war where they should kneel for peace;

Or seek for rule, supremacy and sway

When they are bound to serve, love, and obey.

Why are our bodies soft and weak and smooth,

Unapt to toil and trouble in the world,

But that our soft conditions and our hearts

Should well agree with our external parts?

Come, come, you froward and unable worms!

My mind hath been as big as one of yours,

My heart as great, my reason haply more,

To bandy word for word and frown for frown.

But now I see our lances are but straws,

Our strength as weak, our weakness past compare,

That seeming to be most which we indeed least are.

Then vail your stomachs, for it is no boot,

And place your hands below your husband’s foot:

In token of which duty, if he please,

My hand is ready, may it do him ease. KATHERINE

Girls, girls! Wipe those frowns off your faces and stop rolling your eyes. This disrespectful stance toward the man who is your lord, your king, your governor tarnishes your beauty the way the frosts of winter blights the land. It mars your reputations as whirlwinds shake fair buds. And in no sense is it fitting or attractive. An angry woman is like an agitated fountain—muddy, unpleasant, lacking in beauty. And in this condition, no one—however dry or thirsty he may be —will stoop to sip or touch one drop of it. Your husband is your lord, your life, your keeper, your head, your sovereign, one who cares for you and who, for your ease and comfort, commits his body to harsh labor both on land and sea. Long, stormy nights at seas he stays awake, by day he endures cold while you lie safe and warm, secure in your beds at home. And in exchange he seeks no more from you but love, kind looks, and true obedience—too little payment for so great a debt. A woman owes her husband the same loyalty a subject owes his king. And when she is peevish and perverse, sullen, sour, and disobedient to his honest wishes, what is she but a loathsome, warlike rebel and an ungrateful traitor to her loving lord? I am ashamed that women are so foolish as to declare war when they should plead on their knees for peace, that they seek authority, supremacy, and power when they are under an obligation to serve, love, and obey. Why are our bodies soft and weak and smooth, unfit for toil and trouble in the world, if not so that our soft qualities and our hearts should agree with our external parts? Come, come, you weak, ungovernable worms! My spirit has been as proud as each of yours, my courage as great, and my reason perhaps even better suited to bandy words back and forth and exchange frown for frown. But now I see our weapons are like straws, our strength like a straw’s weakness, and our weakness past comparison, so that we seem to be the thing we most are not. Humble your pride, then, since it’s useless, and place your hand beneath your husband’s foot. As a gesture of my loyalty, my hand is ready if he cares to use it. May it bring him comfort.