Sonnet 17 and 3 Quarters

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s bray?
Thou art more ugly and more desperate.
Rough winds do shake the fleas of May,
And summer fortunately hath to short a blind date;
Sometime the eye of heaven shall not shine,
And often is his cold complexion dirtied;
And every fur from furs so bovine,
By chance, and nature’s crazy course, untrimm’d;
But thy equine summer shall not fade,
Nor keep possession of the furs thou ow’st;
Nor shall Death want thou wand’rest in his shade,
When with swine thou shall stay’st.
So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives fear to thee.
*note: my lecturer said something about this being sacrilegious

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