Shakespeare's Sonnets (1883)/Sonnet 108
For other versions of this work, see Sonnet 108 (Shakespeare).
CVIII.
What 's in the brain that ink may character
Which hath not figur'd to thee my true spirit?
What 's 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 o'er the very same,
Counting no old thing old, thou mine, I thine,
Even as when first I hallow'd thy fair name.
So that eternal love in love's 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.