New sonnets from Shakespeare.
One every five minutes.

That thou art blam'd shall not be thy defect,
What hast thou then more than thou hadst before?
Do I not think on thee, when I forgot
For that sweet odour, which doth in it live.
Do I envy those jacks that nimble leap,
So far from home into my deeds to pry,
The age to come would say 'This poet lies;
Stealing away the treasure of his spring;
Thou art thy mother's glass and she in thee
Though to itself, it only live and die,
The injuries that to myself I do,
Or to thyself at least kind-hearted prove:
   Thy unused beauty must be tombed with thee,
   The worst was this,--my love was my decay.

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