New sonnets from Shakespeare.
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Being your slave what should I do but tend,
To speak of that which gives thee all thy might?
Doth part his function and is partly blind,
What old December's bareness everywhere!
Methinks no face so gracious is as mine,
As I by yours, you've pass'd a hell of time;
She keeps thee to this purpose, that her skill
That hath his windows glazed with thine eyes.
Hearing you praised, I say ''tis so, 'tis true,'
And folly--doctor-like--controlling skill,
Possessing or pursuing no delight,
Where thou art forced to break a twofold truth:--
   But found no cure, the bath for my help lies
   That then I scorn to change my state with kings.

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