New sonnets from Shakespeare.
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SONNET DXXIII
Tired with all these, for restful death I cry,
With Time's injurious hand crush'd and o'erworn;
Who, moving others, are themselves as stone,
Serving with looks his sacred majesty;
That is my home of love: if I have rang'd,
Making lascivious comments on thy sport,
And rather make them born to our desire
When summer's breath their masked buds discloses:
Look! what thy memory cannot contain,
Nor draw no lines there with thine antique pen;
And brought to medicine a healthful state
Making his style admired every where.
   But since he died and poets better prove,
   That for thy right, myself will bear all wrong.

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