New sonnets from Shakespeare.
One every five minutes.

O! lest the world should task you to recite
Upon thy self thy beauty's legacy?
Whose fresh repair if now thou not renewest,
And precious phrase by all the Muses fil'd.
They rightly do inherit heaven's graces,
Is but the seemly raiment of my heart,
My saucy bark, inferior far to his,
When summer's breath their masked buds discloses:
Therefore my mistress' eyes are raven black,
Had, having, and in quest, to have extreme;
So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand,
Commanded by the motion of thine eyes?
   And yet by heaven, I think my love as rare,
   Thou gav'st me thine not to give back again.

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