The Sonnets by William Shakespeare

Sonnet 107

read by Diana Quick

Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul

Of the wide world, dreaming on things to come,

Can yet the lease of my true love control,

Supposed as forfeit to a confined doom.

5The mortal moon hath her eclipse endured,

And the sad augurs mock their own presage;

Uncertainties now crown themselves assured,

And peace proclaims olives of endless age.

Now with the drops of this most balmy time

10My love looks fresh, and death to me subscribes,

Since ’spite of him I’ll live in this poor rhyme,

While he insults o’er dull and speechless tribes;

And thou in this shalt find thy monument,

When tyrants’ crests and tombs of brass are spent.

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