I oft compare thee with a rose,
 But not for beauty's sake
The vain attention you demand
 Doth make my belly ache.

Although it's true thy beauty shines
 To rival nature's bloom,
Thy glory wilts if not proclaimed
 The fairest in the room.

Let no man dare to look away
 Or woman shun your scorn,
Lest you inflict a bloodless wound
 From each vindictive thorn.

And once thy season starts to wane
 And compliments decline,
You'll be no wiser than before
 And wither on the vine.