Shall I Compare Thee to a Rotting Corpse

“Shall I compare thee to a corpse,
Thou hast more maggots, and are more bloated.
When fierce winds shake thy spider-web locks
And the Dugolog sun blackens thy skin
So the crispy flakes fly free in summer’s breeze
Thy foul complexion is not crueller!
Most hideous things do at time decline,
And change to white-pale bones
But thou shalt forever-loathsome stay.
And lose’th not possession of that repulsiveness thou ow’st;
Nor shall a glob búbhost tark cut thee down
Whilst thou taste’th the sweet man-flesh,
So long as blood is sapid as bursted eyes
The fight is ours, like thy festering meat.”