New sonnets from Shakespeare.
One every five minutes.
One every five minutes.
As an unperfect actor on the stage,
From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year!
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,
And precious phrase by all the Muses fil'd.
Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell,
And my next self thou harder hast engross'd:
Beauty no pencil, beauty's truth to lay;
And in his thoughts of love doth share a part:
Your shallowest help will hold me up afloat,
Though in thy store's account I one must be;
No marvel then, though I mistake my view;
Nor it, nor no remembrance what it was:
Yet eyes this cunning want to grace their art,
Bear thine eyes straight, though thy proud heart go wide.
