New sonnets from Shakespeare.
One every five minutes.

As a decrepit father takes delight
Thy merit hath my duty strongly knit,
With thy sweet fingers when thou gently sway'st
For it depends upon that love of thine.
Duty so great, which wit so poor as mine
To find where your true image pictur'd lies,
Reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme,
Much liker than your painted counterfeit:
Prison my heart in thy steel bosom's ward,
And dumb presagers of my speaking breast,
If any, be a satire to decay,
When sparkling stars twire not thou gild'st the even.
   Love is a babe, then might I not say so,
   And nights bright days when dreams do show thee me.

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