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.