New sonnets from Shakespeare.
One every five minutes.
One every five minutes.
Is it thy will, thy image should keep open
And that which governs me to go about
For then despite of space I would be brought,
Call'd to that audit by advis'd respects;
I grant, sweet love, thy lovely argument
That to his subject lends not some small glory;
Why should poor beauty indirectly seek
No news but health from their physicians know;--
Thy registers and thee I both defy,
If ten of thine ten times refigur'd thee:
But beauty's waste hath in the world an end,
Crowning the present, doubting of the rest?
So, till the judgment that yourself arise,
To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell.
