New sonnets from Shakespeare.
One every five minutes.

As an unperfect actor on the stage,
That having such a scope to show her pride,
Nature's bequest gives nothing, but doth lend,
Unlearned in the world's false subtleties.
Most true it is, that I have look'd on truth
Finding thy worth a limit past my praise;
But he that writes of you, if he can tell
The spirit of love, with a perpetual dulness.
That I might see what the old world could say
And constant stars in them I read such art
Who even but now come back again, assur'd,
But let your love even with my life decay;
   And more, much more, than in my verse can sit,
   Painting my age with beauty of thy days.

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