| | Sonnet 76 |
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Why is my verse so barren of new pride, |
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So far from variation or quick change? |
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Why with the time do I not glance aside |
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To new-found methods and to compounds strange? |
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Why write I still all one, ever the same, |
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And keep invention in a noted weed, |
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That every word doth almost tell my name, |
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Showing their birth, and where they did proceed? |
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O know, sweet love, I always write of you, |
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And you and love are still my argument. |
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So all my best is dressing old words new, |
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Spending again what is already spent: |
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For as the sun is daily new and old, |
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So is my love still telling what is told. |
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| Sonnet 76 |
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Why is my poetry so lacking in new ornaments, so determined in avoiding variation and change? Why don't I, like everyone else these days, take a look at the new literary styles and weird combinations of other writers? Why do I always write the same thing, always the same, and always in the same distinctive style, so that almost every word I write tells you who wrote it, where it was born, and where it comes from? Oh, you should know, sweet love, I always write about you, and you and love are continually my subjects. So the best I can do is find new words to say the same thing, spending again what I've already spent: Just as the sun is new and old every day, my love for you keeps making me tell what I've already told. |
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