New sonnets from Shakespeare.
One every five minutes.
One every five minutes.
Those parts of thee that the world's eye doth view
A maid of Dian's this advantage found,
That she hath thee is of my wailing chief,
And what is't but mine own when I praise thee?
Why should false painting imitate his cheek,
And broils root out the work of masonry,
Bearing the wanton burden of the prime,
Against strange maladies a sovereign cure.
Let those whom nature hath not made for store,
And folly--doctor-like--controlling skill,
To critic and to flatterer stopped are.
That it nor grows with heat, nor drowns with showers.
But what's so blessed-fair that fears no blot?
More worthy I to be belov'd of thee.
