New sonnets from Shakespeare.
One every five minutes.

Love is my sin, and thy dear virtue hate,
In one of thine, from that which thou departest;
For then despite of space I would be brought,
Which hides your life, and shows not half your parts.
With mine own weakness, being best acquainted,
To find where your true image pictur'd lies,
But these particulars are not my measure,
Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew:
Rise, resty Muse, my love's sweet face survey,
For bending all my loving thoughts on thee,
And puts apparel on my tatter'd loving,
Where thou art forced to break a twofold truth:--
   The worth of that is that which it contains,
   As with your shadow I with these did play.

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