Sonnet 107 (Sonnet CVII) by William Shakespeare

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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.

That concludes Sonnet 107 (Sonnet CVII) by William Shakespeare. Did you like William Shakespeare’s Sonnet 107 (Sonnet CVII)? Then, rate it below. And don’t forget to like, tweet or share William Shakespeare’s Sonnet 107 (Sonnet CVII) by using the Facebook and Twitter buttons below.

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