351 [from Sonnets]
108
What’s in the braine that Inck may character,
Which hath not figur’d to thee my true spirit,
What’s new to speake, what now to register,
That may expresse my love, or thy deare merit?
5 Nothing sweet boy, but yet like prayers divine,
I must each day say ore the very same,
Counting no old thing old, thou mine, I thine,
Even as when first I hallowed thy faire name.
So that eternall love in loves fresh case,
10 Waighes not the dust and injury of age,
Nor gives to necessary wrinckles place,
But makes antiquitie for aye his page,
Finding the first conceit of love there bred,
Where time and outward forme would shew it dead.