"Elizabethan" içeren İngilizce örnek cümleler

Shakespeare's plays were written in Elizabethan English.
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Elizabethan English is like a foreign language to modern English speakers.
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They are part of an expressive tradition stretching all the way back to Elizabethan pamphlets, with particular roots in fanzines and feminist expression of the 1990s.
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A dim line of ancestors, in every variety of dress, from the Elizabethan knight to the buck of the Regency, stared down upon us and daunted us by their silent company.
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Do you like Elizabethan poetry?
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Indeed, a remarkable aspect of the group is the way in which, despite its romantic tone and its Elizabethan form, it yet foreshadows the movement that English drama was about to make toward a ‘realistic’ presentment of life.
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Until several decades ago, the physical sciences were considered to have had their origins in the 17th century—mechanics beginning with men like Galileo Galilei and magnetism with men like the Elizabethan physician and scientist William Gilbert. Historians of science, however, have traced many of the 17th century's concepts of mechanics back into the Middle Ages. Here, Gilbert's explanation of the loadstone and its powers is compared with explanations to be found in the Middle Ages and earlier. From this comparison it appears that Gilbert can best be understood by considering him not so much a herald of the new science as a modifier of the old.
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It's before dawn, this 3rd of August of 2025, here on Lulu Island. I just ate a fig and am drinking hot lime water in the lamp-illumined living room. Yesterday, I saw a stocky Filipino full of Cambodian tattoos, as he told me that he stayed 4 years in Cambodia. He asked for just a small tattoo from the tattoo lady artist, but she then tattooed his whole body. At first, I thought of Tibetan tattoos, but they were Cambodian. The day before yesterday was exceptionally a day of brown Adonises at Tim Hortons café: one brown full of tattoos in the morning and in the afternoon another who spoke in a language which I thought was Maltese—at least some language that was Arabic mixed with something. In recent days, I have been asking Artificial Intelligence to write Shakespearean plays in Elizabethan English—remarkable and fascinating artwork for a machine!
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After a dinner of 4 fresh green figs, some refrigerated pickled fig pieces, and microwaved spaghetti Alfredo, eaten on the balcony under a blue sky, I sipped my iced lime water whilst watching the still street below and the big tall conifer beyond. I've been talking to Michael the Dane-French ufologist in recent days about lots of things: My university was like a vacation of smart people, Zen gardens, stone libraries, and so forth. It's different from the suburbia here. We wondered if people staring addictively for hours on their smartphone would ruin their "mind's eye"—inhibiting one's own imagination. He noticed that their device distraction did ruin social gatherings in cafés. I just people-watch and meditate in the café: It reminds me of Arthur the Japanese-American software engineer in my software workplace in Japan; he could just sit on a counter whilst just staring at a wall for a long time. Lately, I've been asking Artificial Intelligence to write ballads and travelogues in Elizabethan English and nostalgic Tagalog. I pick blackberries on the walking way to Tim Hortons café: "¡Moras!" (Blackberries!), I often exclaim in Spanish. An Ecuadorian friend has "Mora" as his surname. He is partly Amerindian, maybe Incan. Today is the 3rd of August of 2025, here on Lulu Island. I went to Kin's Farm Market to buy a bag of 4 lemons, not limes, this time.

It's Lulu Island, 3 August 2025. After supper—green figs tender with sunlight, sweet vinegar from yesterday’s pickled jar, and reheated Alfredo—I sat on the balcony and watched the conifer. Stillness below, a street without cars, without haste. My lime water, iced, caught the light. Michael, the Franco-Danish ufologist, has been in my conversations lately. We speak of inner things: the trance of smart devices, the mind’s eye dwindling. He says cafés aren’t cafés anymore. People forget how to look, how to linger. I tell him of Arthur in Japan—how he'd stare into blank walls like a monk gazing at emptiness. Lately I ask machines to speak like poets, and they do. They mimic Elizabethan verses and the old wistful lilt of Tagalog ballads. I pick blackberries along the path to Tim Hortons. "¡Moras!" I shout like a child. My friend Mora, whose blood flows with Andes mist, would smile. Today, I bought lemons. I meant limes, but lemons are all right. / blackberry morning— / a fig's ghost on my fingers / and the street still sleeps