New sonnets from Shakespeare.
One every five minutes.

O! how much more doth beauty beauteous seem
With Time's injurious hand crush'd and o'erworn;
Gor'd mine own thoughts, sold cheap what is most dear,
Then look I death my days should expiate.
'Tis not enough that through the cloud thou break,
Dear heart, forbear to glance thine eye aside:
To find out shames and idle hours in me,
Than think that we before have heard them told.
O! 'tis the first, 'tis flattery in my seeing,
Or me to whom thou gav'st it, else mistaking;
No bitterness that I will bitter think,
And to be prais'd of ages yet to be.
   You to your beauteous blessings add a curse,
   The hardest knife ill-us'd doth lose his edge.

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