Shall I compare thee to a ciderbread?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate.
Rough winds do shake the darling rose's head
And rising yeast hath all too short a date.
Sometimes too hot the bread of cider burns
And often is his gold perfection cut;
And every fair from fair in some way turns
By chance, or nature's changing course unshut.
But thy eternal rising shall not fade
Nor lose possession of the fair thou owest
Nor shall Death brag thy fatal slice was made
When in eternal lines to time thou growest.
So long as men can eat and tongue can taste
So long lives this, and in this you are placed.
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