Randomly generated poem using a JSON file of Shakespeare's sonnets, Markov Chains and RhymeBrain API

gistfile1.txt

There can my pen, Where breath their badness
Who all thy aid, my self, that purpose

thine, That am that the fair; The manner
remember thee more: To thy might the other

poor beauty is, Beggar'd of altering things; Alas!
to flow, For how do none, That have

well might teach thee my angel be false,
Unless you be twain, By seeing farther off

times in mine eyes, even I witness duty,
thy fair whose will my appeal says beauty

Hence, thou bear'st love looks adore his heart-inflaming
On newer might Is it lawful reasons making

Hath put in earth devour her maiden gardens,
For bending all Love's own thoughts, whilst others

Why is of that thee one When rocks
since she might the lesser sin there was

When proud-pied April, dress'd in thee, my love-suit,
evil luck, Of this composed wonder at least.