New sonnets from Shakespeare.
One every five minutes.
One every five minutes.
But be contented: when that fell arrest
I love not less, though less the show appear;
Wound me not with thine eye, but with thy tongue:
And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste:
And every humour hath his adjunct pleasure,
Plods dully on, to bear that weight in me,
Why of eyes' falsehood hast thou forged hooks,
I make my love engrafted, to this store:
Then were not summer's distillation left,
Thy adverse party is thy advocate,--
Die to themselves. Sweet roses do not so;
And to be prais'd of ages yet to be.
For as the sun is daily new and old,
Were to import forgetfulness in me.
