What’s in the brain that ink may character
    Which hath not figured 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,
    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,
    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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