Sonnet No. 14

Shall I compare thee to a Summer Ale?                  

Thou art more hoppy on my front palate.              

Brewers do take the resin’d cones wholesale       

And shape body, and nose, most delicate.              

Sometimes too dank the feel of IPA                        

And oft its gold’n subtlety is lost                             

And from numb’d lips a voice is forced to say       

Balance is banished; out the window toss’d          

But through rich malt thy fruit’d hops won’t fade

Nor lose proportion twixt sweet and bitter           

Nor shall inebriation’s clumsy aid                          

Cause an overburdened tongue to flitter.              

So long as men can thirst, or stand their round    

So they drink, be they snob or boozehound.