Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
There live not three good men unhanged in England; and one of them is fat and grows old.
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come.
Finish, good lady; the bright day is done, And we are for the Dark.
O me, you juggler, you canker-blossom, you thief of love!
Passion lends them power, time means to meet, tempering extremities with extremes sweet.