What’s In The Brain That Ink May Character
What’s
in
the
brain,
that
ink
may
character,
Which
hath
not
figured
to
thee
my
true
spirit?
What’s
new
to
speak,
what
now
to
register,
That
may
express
my
love,
or
thy
dear
merit?
Nothing,
sweet
boy;
but
yet,
like
prayers
divine,
I
must
each
day
say
o’er
the
very
same;
Counting
no
old
thing
old,
thou
mine,
I
thine,
Even
as
when
first
I
hallowed
thy
fair
name.
So
that
eternal
love
in
love’s
fresh
case,
Weighs
not
the
dust
and
injury
of
age,
Nor
gives
to
necessary
wrinkles
place,
But
makes
antiquity
for
aye
his
page;
Finding
the
first
conceit
of
love
there
bred,
Where
time
and
outward
form
would
show
it
dead.
