Sonnet 107

Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soulOf 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. 4The mortal moon hath her eclipse endur'd,And the sad augurs mock their own presage;Incertainties now crown themselves assur'd,And peace proclaims olives of endless age. 8Now with the drops of this most balmy timeMy love looks fresh, and Death to me subscribes,Since, spite of him, I'll live in this poor rime,While he insults o'er dull and speechless tribes: 12And thou in this shalt find thy monument,When tyrants' crests and tombs of brass are spent.

1–4 Cf. n.5 mortal: deadly (?); cf. n.6 presage: presentiment10 subscribes: submits13 in this: in this verse