New sonnets from Shakespeare.
One every five minutes.
One every five minutes.
What's in the brain, that ink may character,
If it were fill'd with your most high deserts?
Give warning to the world that I am fled
In my love's veins thou hast too grossly dy'd.
For since each hand hath put on Nature's power,
When swift extremity can seem but slow?
Nor taste, nor smell, desire to be invited
And in my will no fair acceptance shine?
Yet this abundant issue seem'd to me
If ten of thine ten times refigur'd thee:
For thou not farther than my thoughts canst move,
Grows fairer than at first, more strong, far greater.
Ah! but those tears are pearl which thy love sheds,
Mine be thy love and thy love's use their treasure.
