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Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?

Thy eternal summer shall not fade

So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,

When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,

For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings

That then I scorn to change my state with kings.

Let me not to the marriage of true minds

Love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds,

Or bends with the remover to remove:

How like a winter hath my absence been

From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year!

What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen!

But thy eternal summer shall not fade

Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest

Nor shall death brag thou wander'st in his shade,

When in eternal lines to time thou growest:

So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

Thy bosom is endeared with all hearts,

Which I by lacking have supposed dead;

There they are lodged, where these receives new life,

And there reigns Love, and all Love's loving parts,

And all those friends which I thought buried.

How many a holy and obsequious tear

Hath dear religious love stolen from mine eye

As interest of the dead, which now appear

But things removed that hidden in thee lie!

Thou art the grave where buried love doth live,

Hung with the trophies of my lovers gone,

Who all their parts of me to thee did give;

That due of many now is thine alone:

Their images I loved I view in thee,

And thou— all they— hast all the all of me.

If thou survive my well-contented day,

When that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover

And shalt by fortune once more re-survey

These poor rude lines of thy deceased lover,

Compare them with the bett'ring of the time,

And though they be outstripp'd by every pen,

Reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme,

Exceeded by the height of happier men.

O! then vouchsafe me but this loving thought:

'Had my friend's Muse grown with this growing age,

A dearer birth than this his love had brought:

To march in ranks of better equipage:

But since he died, and poets better prove,