New sonnets from Shakespeare.
One every five minutes.
One every five minutes.
Music to hear, why hear'st thou music sadly?
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage,
From this vile world with vilest worms to dwell:
Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me young,
In tender embassy of love to thee,
Like stones of worth they thinly placed are,
Suffering my friend for my sake to approve her.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament,
Thy adverse party is thy advocate,--
Whate'er thy thoughts, or thy heart's workings be,
And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow:
O! him she stores, to show what wealth she had
For I must ne'er love him whom thou dost hate.
