" "He must have had some ups and downs in life to make him such a churl.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament, , And only herald to the gaudy spring, , Within thine own bud buriest thy content, , And, tender churl, mak'st waste in niggarding.
If thou survive my well-contented day, When that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover, And shalt by fortune once more re-survey These poor rude lines of thy deceased lover, Compare them with the bettering of the time, And though they be outstripp'd by every pen, Reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme, Exceeded by the height of happier men.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
What do you say, churl, not much.
