New sonnets from Shakespeare.
One every five minutes.
One every five minutes.
So oft have I invoked thee for my Muse,
The rich-proud cost of outworn buried age;
Which shall above that idle rank remain,
O! in what sweets dost thou thy sins enclose.
I think good thoughts, whilst others write good words,
That have profan'd their scarlet ornaments
But he that writes of you, if he can tell
Or ten times happier, be it ten for one;
So that eternal love in love's fresh case,
With all triumphant splendour on my brow;
Where beauty's veil doth cover every blot
Unless thou take that honour from thy name:
For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings
As any she belied with false compare.
