New sonnets from Shakespeare.
One every five minutes.

Or I shall live your epitaph to make,
When proud-pied April, dress'd in all his trim,
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
Then, if for my love, thou my love receivest,
And many maiden gardens, yet unset,
When every private widow well may keep
In singleness the parts that thou shouldst bear.
Thou art the grave where buried love doth live,
Or state itself confounded, to decay;
Be, as thy presence is, gracious and kind,
One will of mine, to make thy large will more.
   More flowers I noted, yet I none could see,
   Perforce am thine, and all that is in me.

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