Tea

a parody, a pale imitation

Shall I compare thee to a lemonade?

Thou art more comforting and civilised:

Rough winds have all the other’s faults displayed,

Thy constancy too stringent, it despised:

Sometime too cold the wind of heaven blows,

And often summer’s fruit is brought to sour

And every pale delight is changed to prose,

By chance or by some elemental power;

But thy eternal warmth shall never fade,

Nor lose possession of that taste thou owest,

Nor shall death brag thou driftest in his shade

When in eternal streams to time thou flowest;

So long as men can breathe, or drink their tea

So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.