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William Shakespeare - Sonnet 107: "Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul..."
Work rating: Medium

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,
Suppos`d as forfeit to a confin`d doom.
The mortal moon hath her eclipse endur`d
And the sad augurs mock their own presage;
Incertainties now crown themselves assur`d
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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