New sonnets from Shakespeare.
One every five minutes.

Love is too young to know what conscience is,
For as you were when first your eye I ey'd,
I found, or thought I found, you did exceed
To-morrow sharpened in his former might:
O! how shall summer's honey breath hold out,
When I was wont to greet it with my lays;
That's for thy self to breed another thee,
That heals the wound, and cures not the disgrace:
But when from highmost pitch, with weary car,
Within the knowledge of mine own desert,
But if that flower with base infection meet,
Thy pity may deserve to pitied be.
   Then do thy office, Muse; I teach thee how
   And sav'd my life, saying 'not you'.

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