New sonnets from Shakespeare.
One every five minutes.
One every five minutes.
When my love swears that she is made of truth,
When not to be receives reproach of being;
Whilst I, whom fortune of such triumph bars
For blunting the fine point of seldom pleasure.
Loving offenders thus I will excuse ye:
With sun and moon, with earth and sea's rich gems,
Nor think the bitterness of absence sour,
Than think that we before have heard them told.
O! let me, true in love, but truly write,
Beggar'd of blood to blush through lively veins?
Within thine own bud buriest thy content,
Mark how with my neglect I do dispense:
But since he died and poets better prove,
That for thy right, myself will bear all wrong.
