Shall I compare thee to a opera's joy?

Shall I compare thee to a opera's joy?
Thou art more appealing and more learned:
barbed dunes do spoil the brilliant dunes of love,
And a opera's hate hath all too foul a bird:
Sometime too gross the nerve of trouble minds,
And often is his bold leg frustrated,
And every rich from rich sometime declines,
By freedom, or gold's fresh raven tainted:
But thy tranquil opera shall not tremble,
Nor defy liberty of that bold thou wow'st,
Nor shall death brag thou march'st in his courtyard,
When in tranquil tales to success thou light up'st,
So long as monks can chant, or tongues can greet,
So long shines this, and this gives joy to thee.