Shall I compare thee to the butterfly,
Thou hast more beauty, more strength, and more grace.
Rough winds do blow paper wings toward the sky,
And an icy chill doest berate h’r face.

The weight of h’r first original form:
But a caterpillar, she did abhor,
Brings onto h’r face a look so forlorn
Alas! One day she proclaimed she would soar!

With wings so frail, she emerged from her sleep,
With a new body, h’r soul couldst keepeth
To findeth a love so quaint and so deep,
Upon my gaze, thee did take hence mine breath.

I hath’t such adoration for thy soul,
For t’ is mine weak heart, yond hath’t quickly stole.