New sonnets from Shakespeare.
One every five minutes.
One every five minutes.
When my love swears that she is made of truth,
And for that sorrow, which I then did feel,
Reserve their character with golden quill,
That heavy Saturn laugh'd and leap'd with him.
If that be fair whereon my false eyes dote,
Though I, once gone, to all the world must die:
Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burn'd,
As I all other in all worths surmount.
But heaven in thy creation did decree
Therefore desire, of perfect'st love being made,
For I impair not beauty being mute,
if thou wouldst use the strength of all thy state!
But since she prick'd thee out for women's pleasure,
Lilies that fester, smell far worse than weeds.
