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.