New sonnets from Shakespeare.
One every five minutes.

As an unperfect actor on the stage,
For as you were when first your eye I ey'd,
What can mine own praise to mine own self bring?
Some in their hawks and hounds, some in their horse;
Make glad and sorry seasons as thou fleets,
Which erst from heat did canopy the herd,
As interest of the dead, which now appear
Stealing away the treasure of his spring;
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
Weighs not the dust and injury of age,
Which, like a jewel (hung in ghastly night,
One will of mine, to make thy large will more.
   Love is a babe, then might I not say so,
   For truth proves thievish for a prize so dear.

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