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CVIII.
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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