Sonnet 18b

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thou art more cloying and more desperate.
Fever comes from the rip’ning fields of hay,
And summer’s sneeze hath all too long a date.
Oft time too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And sweat doth pour down ev’ry nook and crease;
the stench is great and patience oft declines.
Yet you persist, I really wish you’d cease!
I thought the way that I returned your gifts
And sent your letters back and moved out west
Would make it clear. Alas! You have no wits
To grasp the magnitude I thee detest.
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
Evr’y one knows I’ll never be with thee.

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