Sonnet 107 by William Shakespeare: Not mine own fears nor the prophetic soul

Sonnet 107 by William Shakespeare

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.               4


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.              8


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;        12


And thou in this shalt find thy monument

When tyrants’ crests and tombs of brass are spent.


Shakespeare Sonnets All 154

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