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Shall i compare thee to a summer's day?

Thou art more lovely and more temp'rate,

Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,

And summer's lease have all too short a date,

Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,

And often in his gold complexion dimm'd,

And every fair from fair sometime declines,

By chance or nature's changing course untr'mmed,

But thy eternal summer shall not fade,

Nor lose possession of that faire thou ow'st,

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

When in eternal lines to time, thou grow'st

So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,

So long lives this and this gives life to thee.

Oh Rose,

Thou art sick,

The invisible worm,

Which flies in the night,

In the howling storm,

Has found out his bed of crimson joy,

And his dark secret love,

Does thy life destroy!

i have of late, but wherefore i know not,

lost all my mirth. forgone all custom of exercise, and indeed it goes so heavily with my disposition,

that this goodly frame the earth, appears nothing to me,

than a foul and pestilent congragation of vapours.

What a piece of work is a man? How noble in reason? how infinate in faculties? in form and moving and express and admirable?

in action-how like an angel? in apprehension-how like a god?

The beauty of the world, the paragon of animals, and to me, what is this quitensence of dust?

Man delights not me, no, nor woman neither!