New sonnets from Shakespeare.
One every five minutes.

So are you to my thoughts as food to life,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
But now my gracious numbers are decay'd,
But day by night and night by day oppress'd,
And therefore have I slept in your report,
Cries to catch her whose busy care is bent
As Philomel in summer's front doth sing,
And taught it thus anew to greet;
How many lambs might the stern wolf betray,
By looking on thee in the living day,
Her audit (though delayed) answered must be,
Save what is had, or must from you be took.
   How like Eve's apple doth thy beauty grow,
   Sweet flattery! then she loves but me alone.

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