New sonnets from Shakespeare.
One every five minutes.

Those lines that I before have writ do lie,
The rich-proud cost of outworn buried age;
No love, my love, that thou mayst true love call;
Uttering bare truth, even so as foes commend.
If that be fair whereon my false eyes dote,
Above a mortal pitch, that struck me dead?
It is the star to every wandering bark,
And taught it thus anew to greet;
That poor retention could not so much hold,
Potions of eisel 'gainst my strong infection;
And such a counterpart shall fame his wit,
Leaving thee living in posterity?
   Then if he thrive and I be cast away,
   Save thou, my rose, in it thou art my all.

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