Shall I compare thee to my Adelaide?
Thou art less lovely and less temperate.
Rough winds shake you, my bony lady May,
Adelaide’s lease hath all a better date.
Sometimes too hot your eye of hell shines,
And often your ugly complexion dimmed;
And every fair from fair always declines,
By chance, or nature's changing course untrimmed.
But her eternal summer shall not fade
Nor lose possession of that fair her ow'st;
Nor shall death brag her wand'rest in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time her grow'st,
So long as you can breathe or you can see,
So long lives thou, and I will not love thee.