Sonnet 108
What 's in the brain, that ink may
character
«William Shakespeare»
What's in the brain that ink may character,
Which hath not
figured to thee my true spirit,
What's new to speak,
what now to register,
That may express my
love, or thy dear merit?
Nothing sweet boy,
but yet like prayers divine,
I must each day say
o'er the very same,
Counting no old thing
old, thou mine, I thine,
Even as when first I
hallowed thy fair name.
So that eternal love
in love's fresh case,
Weighs not the dust
and injury of age,
Nor gives to
necessary wrinkles place,
But makes antiquity
for aye his page,
Finding the first
conceit of love there bred,
Where time and
outward form would show it dead.
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