New sonnets from Shakespeare.
One every five minutes.
One every five minutes.
The expense of spirit in a waste of shame
Of public honour and proud titles boast,
But then begins a journey in my head
In a cold valley-fountain of that ground;
Whilst her neglected child holds her in chase,
Worthy perusal stand against thy sight;
And in mine own love's strength seem to decay,
Will sourly leave her till he have prevail'd?
Not that the summer is less pleasant now
That in thy face sweet love should ever dwell;
Shall sum my count, and make my old excuse,'
Or made them swear against the thing they see;
O cunning Love! with tears thou keep'st me blind,
Than both your poets can in praise devise.
