New sonnets from Shakespeare.
One every five minutes.

Were't aught to me I bore the canopy,
For slander's mark was ever yet the fair;
Give warning to the world that I am fled
From hands of falsehood, in sure wards of trust!
How many a holy and obsequious tear
To hideous winter, and confounds him there;
Then should I spur, though mounted on the wind,
As I all other in all worths surmount.
And I by this will be a gainer too;
When other petty griefs have done their spite,
I grant I never saw a goddess go,--
Return of love, more blest may be the view;
   In nothing art thou black save in thy deeds,
   To love that well, which thou must leave ere long.

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