(For those in the know here is Sunday's [6.2.00] WitSling Text
                              - Boy are you going to impress!  We won't give away your secret
                              'Now how did you guess,' she murmurs, 'that it was going
                       to be sonnet titles?  You're just so clever!!'  Bullseye!!)

XLIX. Against that time, if ever that time come,

L. How heavy do I journey on the way,

LI. Thus can my love excuse the slow offence

LII. So am I as the rich, whose blessed key

LIII. What is your substance, whereof are you made,

LIV. O, how much more doth beauty beauteous seem

LV. Not marble, nor the gilded monuments

LVI. Sweet love, renew thy force; be it not said

LVII. Being your slave, what should I do but tend

LVIII. That god forbid that made me first your slave,

LIX. If there be nothing new, but that which is

LX. Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore,

LXI. Is it thy will thy image should keep open

LXII. Sin of self-love possesseth all mine eye

LXIII. Against my love shall be, as I am now,

LXIV. When I have seen by Time's fell hand defaced

LXV. Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea,

LXVI. Tired with all these, for restful death I cry,

LXVII. Ah! wherefore with infection should he live,

LXVIII. Thus is his cheek the map of days outworn,

LXIX. Those parts of thee that the world's eye doth view

LXX. That thou art blamed shall not be thy defect,

LXXI. No longer mourn for me when I am dead

LXXII. O, lest the world should task you to recite

LXXIII. That time of year thou mayst in me behold

LXXIV. But be contented: when that fell arrest

LXXV. So are you to my thoughts as food to life,

LXXVI. Why is my verse so barren of new pride,

LXXVII. Thy glass will show thee how thy beauties wear,

LXXVIII. So oft have I invoked thee for my Muse

LXXIX. Whilst I alone did call upon thy aid,

LXXX. O, how I faint when I of you do write,

LXXXI. Or I shall live your epitaph to make,

LXXXII. I grant thou wert not married to my Muse

LXXXIII. I never saw that you did painting need

LXXXIV. Who is it that says most? which can say more

LXXXV. My tongue-tied Muse in manners holds her still,

LXXXVI. Was it the proud full sail of his great verse,

LXXXVII. Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing,

LXXXVIII. When thou shalt be disposed to set me light,

LXXXIX. Say that thou didst forsake me for some fault,

XC. Then hate me when thou wilt; if ever, now;

XCI. Some glory in their birth, some in their skill,

XCII. But do thy worst to steal thyself away,

XCIII. So shall I live, supposing thou art true,

XCIV. They that have power to hurt and will do none,

XCV. How sweet and lovely dost thou make the shame

XCVI. Some say thy fault is youth, some wantonness;

XCVII. How like a winter hath my absence been

XCVIII. From you have I been absent in the spring,

XCIX. The forward violet thus did I chide:

C. Where art thou, Muse, that thou forget'st so long

CI. O truant Muse, what shall be thy amends

CII. My love is strengthen'd, though more weak in seeming;

CIII. Alack, what poverty my Muse brings forth,

CIV. To me, fair friend, you never can be old,

CV. Let not my love be call'd idolatry,

CVI. When in the chronicle of wasted time

CVII. Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul

CVIII. What's in the brain that ink may character


I'm looking forward to your
WitSling this Sunday.
This'll be our little secret.