Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thou art more irksome and more blistering:
Kind Zephyrs breathe to brush the sweat away,
And stir the trees, again full-maned, to sing:
Sometime a cloud o’ergoes the tyrant sun,
And reigns in mercy from the heavenly throne;
And Fate’s cruel weave is not so cruelly done,
As temperate stitches are not sometime sown;
But thine unending summer shall not fade
Nor be usurped by Chance’s caring whim;
Nor shall you puff aught but “Do as I bade!”
And “Scoundrel!” and “Not so!” as ‘t were a hymn;
Though nature’s ends by nature tempered be,
Untempered temper’s nature all to thee.