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,Supposed as forfeit to a confined doom.The mortal moon hath her eclipse enduredAnd the sad augurs mock their own presage;Incertainties now crown themselves assuredAnd peace proclaims olives of endless age.Now 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 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.
Though everything feels so frenetic,I know the pain isn't prophetic.With you I can bearthe darkest despair,for love is the great anaesthetic.