New sonnets from Shakespeare.
One every five minutes.

For shame! deny that thou bear'st love to any,
The dear respose for limbs with travel tir'd;
Do I not think on thee, when I forgot
Whose action is no stronger than a flower?
With my love's picture then my eye doth feast,
Dear heart, forbear to glance thine eye aside:
Yet what of thee thy poet doth invent
Nor his own vision holds what it doth catch;
Now all is done, save what shall have no end:
That is so proud thy service to despise,
He is contented thy poor drudge to be,
Nor double penance, to correct correction.
   Incapable of more, replete with you,
   Bear thine eyes straight, though thy proud heart go wide.

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