PATCHWORK POETRY
Oh blame me not if I no more can write.
In nothing art thou black, save in thy deeds.
Nor did I wonder at the lilies white;
Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds.
Thou mayst be false and yet I know it not,
How far I toil, still farther off from thee.
That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot
Beyond all date, even to eternity.
Oh never say that I was false of heart.
What is thy substance, whereof are you made?
For still temptation follows where thou art,
But now my gracious numbers are decayed.
I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought.
Oh then vouchsafe me but this loving thought.
Shakespeare Sonnets 103, 131, 98, 94, 92, 28, 71, 122, 109, 53, 41, 79, 30, 32
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