| WHAT ’S in the brain, that ink may character | |
| Which hath not figur’d to thee my true spirit? | |
| What ’s new to speak, what new to register, | |
| That may express my love, or thy dear merit? | |
| Nothing, sweet boy; but yet, like prayers divine, | 5 |
| 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 love’s fresh case | |
| Weighs not the dust and injury of age, | 10 |
| 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. |