Sonnet Cvii
William Shakespeare
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 confined doom. The mortal moon hath her eclipse endured And the sad augurs mock their own presage; Incertainties now crown themselves assured 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, I'll live in this poor rhyme, While he insults o'er dull and speechless tribes: And thou in this shalt find thy monument, When tyrants' crests and tombs of brass are spent.
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- William Shakespeare : Sonnet Cviii
- William Shakespeare : Sonnet Cx
- William Shakespeare : Sonnet Cxi
- William Shakespeare : Sonnet Cxii
- William Shakespeare : Sonnet Cxiii
- William Shakespeare : Sonnet Cxiv
- William Shakespeare : Sonnet Cxix
- William Shakespeare : Sonnet Cxl
- William Shakespeare : Sonnet Cxli
- William Shakespeare : Sonnet Cxlii
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- William Shakespeare : Sonnet Cvi
- William Shakespeare : Sonnet Cv
- William Shakespeare : Sonnet Cliv
- William Shakespeare : Sonnet Cliii
- William Shakespeare : Sonnet Clii
- William Shakespeare : Sonnet Cli
- William Shakespeare : Sonnet Cl
- William Shakespeare : Sonnet Cix
- William Shakespeare : Sonnet Civ
- William Shakespeare : Sonnet Ciii