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.
The mortal moon hath her eclipse endured
And the sad augurs mock their own presage;
Incertainties now crown themselves assured
And peace proclaims olives of endless age.
Now with the drops of this most balmy time
My 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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sergey May 20, 2013 at 7:45am
This is awful and robratterman sucks!
Reply
robert-bobert May 21, 2013 at 3:10am
Yeah, this guy is just nuts!
robratterman May 21, 2013 at 3:12am
YOU BOTH ARE FIRED!!!