New sonnets from Shakespeare.
One every five minutes.

If there be nothing new, but that which is
I see descriptions of the fairest wights,
Nature's bequest gives nothing, but doth lend,
To work my mind, when body's work's expired:
Unless you would devise some virtuous lie,
When in the least of them my life hath end.
When love, converted from the thing it was,
Among a number one is reckon'd none:
So all their praises are but prophecies
That sometimes anger thrusts into his hide,
At such who, not born fair, no beauty lack,
And thither hied, a sad distemper'd guest,
   So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
   My most true mind thus maketh mine untrue.

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