Sonnet 107: Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul

1Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul

2Of the wide world dreaming on things to come,

3Can yet the lease of my true love control,

4Supposed as forfeit to a confin'd doom.

5The mortal moon hath her eclipse endur'd,

6And the sad augurs mock their own presage;

7Incertainties now crown themselves assur'd,

8And peace proclaims olives of endless age.

9Now with the drops of this most balmy time,

10My love looks fresh, and Death to me subscribes,

11Since, spite of him, I'll live in this poor rime,

12While he insults o'er dull and speechless tribes:

13 And thou in this shalt find thy monument,

14 When tyrants' crests and tombs of brass are spent.