New sonnets from Shakespeare.
One every five minutes.
One every five minutes.
My love is as a fever longing still,
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Or, if they have, where is my judgment fled,
They are but dressings of a former sight.
The world will be thy widow and still weep
Which many legions of true hearts had warm'd;
If it be not, then love doth well denote
By oft predict that I in heaven find:
No; let me be obsequious in thy heart,
The boy for trial needs would touch my breast;
When I was certain o'er incertainty,
And by a part of all thy glory live.
Yet him for this my love no whit disdaineth;
Leese but their show; their substance still lives sweet.
