New sonnets from Shakespeare.
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O! how I faint when I of you do write,
What hast thou then more than thou hadst before?
Doth teach that ease and that repose to say,
And sable curls, all silvered o'er with white;
For how do I hold thee but by thy granting?
Is but the seemly raiment of my heart,
And right perfection wrongfully disgrac'd,
The living record of your memory.
For, if I should despair, I should grow mad,
Till Nature, as she wrought thee, fell a-doting,
As any mother's child, though not so bright
Mark how with my neglect I do dispense:
   For I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright,
   I never writ, nor no man ever lov'd.

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