English Poetry I: From Chaucer to Gray.
The Harvard Classics. 1909–14. |
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| 130. One Hundred and Seventh Sonnet |
| | | William Shakespeare (1564–1616) |
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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, | |
| Suppos’d as forfeit to a confin’d doom. | |
| The mortal moon hath her eclipse endur’d | 5 |
| 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, | 10 |
| 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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