New sonnets from Shakespeare.
One every five minutes.
One every five minutes.
That thou art blam'd shall not be thy defect,
What hast thou then more than thou hadst before?
Do I not think on thee, when I forgot
For that sweet odour, which doth in it live.
Do I envy those jacks that nimble leap,
So far from home into my deeds to pry,
The age to come would say 'This poet lies;
Stealing away the treasure of his spring;
Thou art thy mother's glass and she in thee
Though to itself, it only live and die,
The injuries that to myself I do,
Or to thyself at least kind-hearted prove:
Thy unused beauty must be tombed with thee,
The worst was this,--my love was my decay.
