Sonnet 108

What's in the brain that ink may characterWhich hath not figured to thee my true spirit?What's new to speak, what new 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 hallow'd thy fair name.So that eternal love in love's fresh caseWeighs 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.
As long as he lives I’ll endeavorto praise my sweet if and wheneverI find him appealing.So, once more, with feeling:I love you, you’re lovely, forever.