Tuesday, May 6, 2014

Why is my verse by William Shakespeare

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Why is my verse so barren of new pride? 
So far from variation or quick change? 
Why, with the time, do I not glance aside 
To new-found methods and to compounds strange? Why write I still all one, ever the same,
And keep invention in a noted weed, 
That every word doth almost tell my name, Showing their birth, and where they did proceed? 
O know, sweet love, I always write of you, 
And you and love are still my argument; 
So all my best is dressing old words new, Spending again what is already spent;
For as the sun is daily new and old, 
So is my love still telling what is told.
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