- description
- # Section 107
## Overview - What this is (type, form, dates, scope)
Section 107 is a text section extracted from a file, labeled as "107". It is part of a larger chapter titled "SONNERS" and was extracted on January 30, 2026. The section contains 16 lines of text, including a title and verse.
## Context - Background and provenance from related entities
This section is part of the "SONNERS" chapter ([arke:01KG6S4D9EKTFTRX4K37SBJKRD]), which is contained within a larger collection titled "PDF Workflow Main Test 2026-01-30T00:26:53" ([arke:01KG6NWQ2H2K4PGG7H4ZHYCZ3Y]). The text was extracted from the file [pdf-01KG6Q7Q25RHMFT3SJXPV18VFF.txt](arke:01KG6S2X2EBB305ENM00G16GWA). The section is preceded by section "106" ([arke:01KG6S5MR3FAQFXR5014PFDVRF]) and followed by section "108" ([arke:01KG6S5NCE8NW4YEMKHKBRYJEZ]).
## Contents - What it contains, key subjects and details
Section 107 contains a poem beginning with the line "Ot mine owne feares, nor the prophetick foule". The poem discusses the speaker's love and its resilience against time and mortality. It mentions "tyrants crests and tombs of brasse" and suggests the poem itself will serve as a monument to the beloved.
- description_generated_at
- 2026-01-30T06:26:26.429Z
- description_model
- gemini-2.5-flash-lite
- description_title
- Section 107
- end_line
- 12236
- extracted_at
- 2026-01-30T06:24:08.806Z
- extracted_by
- structure-extraction-lambda
- start_line
- 12220
- text
- ## 107
**N** Ot mine owne feares, nor the prophetick foule,
Of the wide world, dreaming on things to come,
Can yet the lease of my true loue controule,
Supposde as forfeit to a confin'd doome.
The mortall Moone hath her eclipse indur'de,
And the sad Augurs mock their owne presage,
Incestenties now crowne them-selues assur'de,
And peace proclaimes Olives of endlesse age.
Now with the drops of this most balmie time,
My loue lookes fresh, and death to me subserbes;
Since spight of him Ile liue in this poore time,
While he insults ore dull and speachlesse tribes.
And thou in this shalt finde thy monument,
When tyrants crests and tombs of brasse are spent.
- title
- 107