New sonnets from Shakespeare.
One every five minutes.

In faith I do not love thee with mine eyes,
With my extern the outward honouring,
In whose confine immured is the store
And what is't but mine own when I praise thee?
Was it his spirit, by spirits taught to write,
Not once vouchsafe to hide my will in thine?
Entitled in thy parts, do crowned sit,
And you in Grecian tires are painted new:
Then the conceit of this inconstant stay
That followed it as gentle day,
And he that calls on thee, let him bring forth
Who, all in one, one pleasing note do sing:
   These offices, so oft as thou wilt look,
   In sleep a king, but waking no such matter.

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