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Sonnet CVIII
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| What's in the brain that ink may character | 1
| Which hath not figured to thee my true spirit? | 2
| What's new to speak, what new to register, | 3
| That may express my love or thy dear merit? | 4
| Nothing, sweet boy; but yet, like prayers divine, | 5
| I must, each day say o'er the very same, | 6
| Counting no old thing old, thou mine, I thine, | 7
| Even as when first I hallow'd thy fair name. | 8
| So that eternal love in love's fresh case | 9
| Weighs not the dust and injury of age, | 10
| Nor gives to necessary wrinkles place, | 11
| But makes antiquity for aye his page, | 12
| Finding the first conceit of love there bred | 13
| Where time and outward form would show it dead. | 14
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