New sonnets from Shakespeare.
One every five minutes.

Is it for fear to wet a widow's eye,
That do not do the thing they most do show,
Against this coming end you should prepare,
'Thus far the miles are measured from thy friend!'
And yet this time removed was summer's time;
Find no determination; then you were
Counting no old thing old, thou mine, I thine,
As soon as think the place where he would be.
Look! what an unthrift in the world doth spend
Thou of thy self thy sweet self dost deceive:
But being both from me, both to each friend,
A vengeful canker eat him up to death.
   For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds;
   That mine eye loves it and doth first begin.

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