New sonnets from Shakespeare
Two every five minutes

O! how I faint when I of you do write,
So far from variation or quick change?
The ornament of beauty is suspect,
To one, of one, still such, and ever so.
For, thou betraying me, I do betray
The right of sepulchres, were shorn away,
Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope,
And taught it thus anew to greet;
Now all is done, save what shall have no end:
And chide thy beauty and thy straying youth,
Shall neigh--no dull flesh--in his fiery race;
And barren rage of death's eternal cold?
   Whoever hath her wish, thou hast thy 'Will,'
   For as you were when first your eye I ey'd,

Whilst he upon your soundless deep doth ride;
For having traffic with thy self alone,
The little Love-god lying once asleep,
Thou mayst be false, and yet I know it not.
To say they err I dare not be so bold,
Look in your glass, and there appears a face
In nothing art thou black save in thy deeds,
When that mine eye is famish'd for a look,
And her quietus is to render thee.
But those same tongues, that give thee so thine own,
Or, being wrack'd, I am a worthless boat,
Is writ in moods, and frowns, and wrinkles strange.
   In winged speed n:motion shall I know,
   Of public honour and proud titles boast,