New sonnets from Shakespeare.
One every five minutes.
One every five minutes.
The little Love-god lying once asleep,
Coral is far more red, than her lips red:
More than enough am I that vex'd thee still,
The wiry concord that mine ear confounds,
And yet this time removed was summer's time;
Thy face hath not the power to make love groan;
Profitless usurer, why dost thou use
And wear their brave state out of memory;
Yet in these thoughts my self almost despising,
Which from Love's fire took heat perpetual,
As victors of my silence cannot boast;
To march in ranks of better equipage:
But do not so, I love thee in such sort,
I will be true despite thy scythe and thee.
