Sonnet #140

b wise as thou art cruel, do nt press
My tongue-tied patience wiv 2 much disdain:
Lest sorrow lend me words & words express,
d manner of my pity-wanting pain.
If I might teach thee wit better it were,
Though nt 2 luv, yet luv 2 tell me so,
As testy sick men when thr deaths b near,
No nus bt health frm thr physicians know.
4 if I shud despair I shud grow mad,
& in my madness might speak ill of thee,
Now this ill-wresting world is grown so bad,
Mad sl&erers by mad ears believed be.
th@ I may nt b so, nor thou belied,
Bear thine eyes straight, though thy proud heart go wide.
See Original Sonnet

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?

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