New sonnets from Shakespeare.
One every five minutes.

The other two, slight air, and purging fire
Upon that blessed wood whose motion sounds
Who hast by waning grown, and therein show'st
Serving with looks his sacred majesty;
And truly not the morning sun of heaven
Better becomes the grey cheeks of the east,
Why of eyes' falsehood hast thou forged hooks,
Which in their wills count bad what I think good?
O! carve not with thy hours my love's fair brow,
Like feeble age, he reeleth from the day,
So thou, being rich in 'Will,' add to thy 'Will'
Proving his beauty by succession thine!
   This I do vow and this shall ever be;
   As high as learning, my rude ignorance.

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