Should I compare you to a winters morn?
You are more bitter and more discontent
Than winds that shake even the devils horns.
At least winter is cold but for a minute.
Sometimes the fingers of winter are warm,
And oft is the complexion painted ruse
By brush or surgeon changing the cold storm
Of crows feet that pass like the pain and bruise
Left yellowing by time and the pursuit
Eternal,the search for gold and jewels of youth,
But your lust shall not pass as falling fruit
Or summer days spent plyed in sweet vermouth
–So long as you can breath, or hand can spend,
–So long lives him, and you will bring an end.