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.


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