New sonnets from Shakespeare.
One every five minutes.

Alack! what poverty my Muse brings forth,
Hath been before, how are our brains beguil'd,
Pluck the keen teeth from the fierce tiger's jaws,
Am of my self, all tyrant, for thy sake?
O! what excuse will my poor beast then find,
Look in your glass, and there appears a face
In other accents do this praise confound
By seeing farther than the eye hath shown.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose;
For I impair not beauty being mute,
And captive good attending captain ill:
   Or else of thee this I prognosticate:
   To subjects worse have given admiring praise.

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