Ruin Shakespeare, Sonnet 18

Would you draw my eye from a summer's day? When it, more lovely and dear, remains? The brief sight of the open blooms of May, Lasts more than what interest in you I feign. Long and fierce does the Earth’s own Sol shine, Why look at its poor mirror, pale and starved? With time, what virtue you hold will decline, Age and pain, cruel lines on plain features carved. But the eternal summer shall not fade; Nor will age mar, summer reborn in turns. No death will bind the warm wind in the shade, When, put to rest, thou art food for worms. While I can still feel such, you would ask me, to waste sight or breath on timid, frail thee?