It’s messy. It’s complicated. It’s life.
From fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty’s Rose might never die,
When I do count the clock that tells the time,
And see the brave day sunk in hideous night;
Shall I compare thee to a Summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
My glass shall not persuade me I am old,
So long as youth and thou are of one date,