The Sonnets

Whatʼs in the brain, that ink may character,

Which hath not figurʼd to thee my true spirit?

Whatʼs 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 oʼer the very same;

Counting no old thing old, thou mine, I thine,

Even as when first I hallowʼd thy fair name.

So that eternal love in loveʼs 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.