The Sonnets

Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul

Of the wide world dreaming on things to come,

Can yet the lease of my true love control,

Supposed as forfeit to a confinʼd doom.

The mortal moon hath her eclipse endurʼd,

And the sad augurs mock their own presage;

Incertainties now crown themselves assurʼd,

And peace proclaims olives of endless age.

Now with the drops of this most balmy time,

My love looks fresh, and Death to me subscribes,

Since, spite of him, Iʼll live in this poor rime,

While he insults oʼer dull and speechless tribes:

And thou in this shalt find thy monument,

When tyrantsʼ crests and tombs of brass are spent.