Sonnet 108. What's in the brain that ink may character

What's in the brain that ink may character

Which hath not figured to thee my true spirit

What's new to speak, what now 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 hallowed thy fair name.