Shall I Compare Thee To

Press Not A Falling Man Too Far; 'tis Virtue: His Faults Lie Open To The Laws; Let Them, Not You, Correct Him.

To Lapse In Fulness Is Sorer Than To Lie For Need, And Falsehood Is Worse In Kings Than Beggars.

Then Is It Sin To Rush Into The Secret House Of Death. Ere Death Dare Come To Us?

You Cannot Call It Love, For At Your Age The Heyday In The Blood Is Tame

To Be Generous, Guiltless, And Of A Free Disposition Is To Take Those Things For Bird-bolts That You Deem Cannon-bullets.