Shall I compare thee to a summer day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate... When in eternal lines to time thou growst So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

Report me and my cause aright.

So will I turn her virtue into pitch, And out of her own goodness make the net That shall enmesh them all.

I will speak daggers to her, but use none.

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?

An old black ram is tupping your white ewe

The let-alone lies not in your good will.