New sonnets from Shakespeare.
One every five minutes.

Those lips that Love's own hand did make,
Bound for the prize of all too precious you,
As easy might I from my self depart
His tender heir might bear his memory:
Thence comes it that my name receives a brand,
Thy hungry eyes, even till they wink with fulness,
To the clear day with thy much clearer light,
And gives thy pen both skill and argument.
And to be sure that is not false I swear,
And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er
That it could so preposterously be stain'd,
And kept unused the user so destroys it.
   Lascivious grace, in whom all ill well shows,
   And sav'd my life, saying 'not you'.

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