Shall I compare thee to a heartless bitch?

Thou hast more cruelty, and more cunning.

Thou makest my trigger finger start to itch

Although I’m seldom ever near a gun.

Oftimes thou speak’st of aught beyond my grasp,

And often hast thou mocked all that I am,

Until I shun thee, bitter to the last,

And silent keep, with language but a sham.

But thy most temp’ral beauty will soon fade

And multiplied shall be thine every care.

Nor will Death brag thou wand’rest in his shade –

For frankly, who would want thee to be theirs?

Thus I have won, or so it seemeth me,

For lo, behold! the joke hath been on thee.