The gaudy pomp of worldly, vain renown,
The fickle homage of the unwashed crowd,
The brittle triumphs of a king or clown,
Are but a whisper borne upon a shroud.
What does it profit, when the final breath
Doth leave the corporeal husk behind,
To have been lauded, saved from silent death,
And leave no trace upon the human mind?
Nay, let me live unknown to history's pen,
And let my story fade, a whispered tale,
And leave behind the vanity of men,
Whose empty glories are of no avail.
But may my love, a humble, simple plea,
Remain a testament for all to see.
Sonnet 27
My heart, a thrall to passions fierce and twain,
Doth wage a civil war within its bounds;
One part a loyal vassal, to thy reign,
Another roves on unfamiliar grounds.
This mutinous and schismatick desire
Do sway.
Sonnet 28
That perjured tongue, which promised thee its troth,
Did plant within my heart a poison'd seed,
And nourished it with sweet and sugared broth,
To cover up its perfidy and greed.
The serpent's hiss is music to the ear
When uttered from a source we hold s
And find the truth in shadows you have made,
Like winter's fading promise of the sun.
And though the wound will ache and never mend,
Thy faithless heart can no more me offend.
Sonnet 29
Let others feast on beauty's fragile crust,
The outward form, the fleshly, soft design,
That withers swift to unforgiving dust,
And holds no portion of the sacred mine.
They praise the eye, the lip, the slender hand,
A painted vessel, filled with earthly wine,
And seek to claim a place in love's demand,
Ignoring that which makes the spirit fine.
But I perceive the source from which it springs,
The inward light that no dark time can dim,
The melody that my own spirit sings,
Upon a constant and eternal hymn.
And for that truth, I give all outward show,
To know the garden where true blessings grow.
Here are three more sonnets in the requested heavy-diction style, maintaining the Shakespearean form. They explore the corrupting influence of temporal power, the solemn wisdom found in nature's decay, and the solace of eternal truth amidst worldly falsity.
Sonnet 30
The monarch's sceptre, gorged with subjects' plea,
Doth lose its lustre in a tyrant's hand;
The hollow pomp of earthly majesty
Cannot withstand the truth at fate's command.
For on the brow where diadems are pressed,
The cankered spirit leaves its ugly trace;
No silken robes can hide the soul oppressed,
Nor perfumed words conceal a heart's disgrace.
The fulsome praise of cringing, sycophant,
A brittle shield against the common fray,
Will crumble fast, a fleeting, brittle cant,
When truth's strong sword shall find its proper way.
So let the world its fleeting power crave,
While humble truth doth conquer from the grave.
Sonnet 31
The sere and yellow leaf, in autumn shed,
A patient witness to the winter's close,
Doth bear a wisdom in its humble bed,
Which nature's transient, verdant bosom knows.
The faded glory of the dying year,
The silent rustling of the falling grain,
Doth speak a truth to every mortal ear,
That every bloom must suffer from the rain.
And though my spirit seeks a higher flight,
And longs to leave this worldly, mortal coil,
I find a solace in the dying light,
And learn the lessons from the weary soil.
For in this cycle, with its measured pace,
My spirit finds a calm and fitting place.
Sonnet 32
When falsehood, with its sly and serpent's tongue,
Doth poison hearts with venomous deceit,
And fragile faith is broken and unstrung,
And love's first promise turns to bitter cheat,
Then let me turn from every spoken word,
From every vow that seeks to bind and hold,
And seek the truth that can not be conferred,
Nor bought for less than pure and honest gold.
For in this honest love, no artifice,
No gilded cage to catch a fleeting soul,
But steadfast truth that promises no bliss,
But brings my weary spirit to its whole.
And in that truth, I find no mortal prize,
But see the heaven mirrored in thine eyes.
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