New sonnets from Shakespeare.
One every five minutes.

Be wise as thou art cruel; do not press
And 'Will' to boot, and 'Will' in over-plus;
My life hath in this line some interest,
Thy lovers withering, as thy sweet self grow'st.
When I perceive that men as plants increase,
Feed'st thy light's flame with self-substantial fuel,
Another time mine eye is my heart's guest,
Than niggard truth would willingly impart:
'I hate' she alter'd with an end,
To mar the subject that before was well?
My thoughts and my discourse as madmen's are,
As tender nurse her babe from faring ill.
   No want of conscience hold it that I call
   In sleep a king, but waking no such matter.

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