Sweets Grown Common Lose Their Dear Delight

My love is strengthen'd, though more weak in seeming;
I love not less, though less the show appear:
That love is merchandized whose rich esteeming
The owner's tongue doth publish every where.

Our love was new and then but in the spring
When I was wont to greet it with my lays,
As Philomel in summer's front doth sing
And stops her pipe in growth of riper days:

Not that the summer is less pleasant now
Than when her mournful hymns did hush the night,
But that wild music burthens every bough
And sweets grown common lose their dear delight.

Therefore like her I sometime hold my tongue,
Because I would not dull you with my song.

Ah, Sonnet 102, retrieved based on a legal-based dictionary.com inquiry into the scope of "merchandise". Philomel, weaver and nightingale; the hypercatalectic (11) lines 1 and 3; the enjambment of line 9; in all, an amazing work of art, and a nice counterpoint of ponderance from the rest of the holiday work.

That which shall be over, of course, disgarded in favour of rough roads and open skies, monsoons and manic seeking. As in Winterson's Atlas, the freedom in simply walking away. The heavier the burden, the greater the sense of liberation, the broader the expanse.

Friday's are always like this. Even when, as now, it marks not a brief halt to the daily work that must be done, there is that element of depth. It is what we seek out there, on the road. More Fridays. Although, as the Bard reminds above, not too much.