Shall I compare thee to a summer's RIB? Thou art more lovely and more tempoRIB Rough winds will shake the darling RIBs of May And summer's RIB hath all too short a RIB.
Now is the winter of our discountRIB Made glorious summer by this son of RIB; And all the clouds that low'r'd upon our RIB In the RIB bosom of the ocean buried.