New sonnets from Shakespeare.
One every five minutes.

Who will believe my verse in time to come,
In thee thy summer, ere thou be distill'd:
But then begins a journey in my head
With shifting change, as is false women's fashion:
Now stand you on the top of happy hours,
And steel dead seeming of his living hue?
And, sick of welfare, found a kind of meetness
Of his self-love to stop posterity?
It fears not policy, that heretic,
After a thousand victories once foil'd,
But being both from me, both to each friend,
As tender nurse her babe from faring ill.
   Thy unused beauty must be tombed with thee,
   Being fond on praise, which makes your praises worse.

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