ARIEL

Where the bee sucks, there I suck.

In the cowslip’s bell, I lie.

Should the thorn sting, still I sing:

Where the bee sucks, there suck I.

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?

Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,

But thy eternal summer shall not fade.

O, summer’s lease hath all too short a date.

Thou art more lovely and more temperate,

And thy eternal summer shall not fade