SONNET NO. 108
What's in the brain that ink may character,
Which hath not figured to thee my true spirit
What's now to speak, what's 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 hallow'd thy fair name
So that eternal love in loves fresh case
Weigh's 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.