The Sonnets CVIII - Whats in the brain, that ink may character
By William Shakespeare
Whats in the brain, that ink may character,
Which hath not figurd to thee my true spirit?
Whats new to speak, what now to register,
That may express my love, or thy dear merit?
Nothing, sweet boy; but yet, like prayers divine,
I must each day say oer the very same;
Counting no old thing old, thou mine, I thine,
Even as when first I hallowd thy fair name.
So that eternal love in loves 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.