or: “Those who can’t, teach”
Shall I compare thee to a sonneteer? Thou hast no love profess'd in patterned verse; But feelings just as sure, and just as dear, Well in thy breast, as poets' best and worst. Thy love's steeped not in winds and sunny days. It has no taste for slow iambic feet. A newer, bolder rhythm is your craze, With fresh-cut verve and courage in its beat. And that, I cannot sing. Beyond my wit, Though all the Muses lent to me their aid, Do loves and lyrics stay. Alone, I sit Most boldly writing when I'm most afraid. I have no truths for when love's foul or fair, But this: some sonnets aren't "Shall I compare...".