[ L X X V I ]
Why is my verse so barren of new pride,
So far from variation or quick change?
Why with the time do I not glance aside
To newfound methods and to compounds strange?
Why write I still all one, ever the same,
And keep invention in a noted weed,
That every word doth almost tell my name,
Showing their birth and where they did proceed?
O, know, sweet love, I always write of you,
And you and love are still my argument;
So all my best is dressing old words new,
Spending again what is already spent:
For as the sun is daily new and old,
So is my love still telling what is told.
For asking, rather triumphantly, a teacher whether this meant Billy Shakespaw was on drugs, the young Whitey got thrown out of an English class at high school. By Mrs Moriarty, not Miss Mizing, who would have enjoyed the impertinence. This was not one of the sonnets we were meant to be studying. So it was with some glee he discovered, nearly fifty years later, when they dug around the old Stratford cellar and grounds, that the Bard probably did partake. Could this be a pertinent lesson for those of us who struggle to find new wine descriptors, dressing old words new when most wines are ever the same? Selah.