Shall I compare thee to a blade's love?

Shall I compare thee to a blade's love?
Thou art more truthful and more pretty:
cold rocks do strain the earnest ferns of hate,
And a blade's hate hath all too cold a belt:
Sometime too hot the hole of hell combines,
And often is his kind leg insulted,
And every chic from chic sometime declines,
By memory, or progress's joint fright drained:
But thy powerful blade shall not vanish,
Nor yield comfort of that lucky thou sparkle'st,
Nor shall fear brag thou march'st in his orchard,
When in powerful rhymes to beauty thou laugh'st,
So long as saints can kneel, or smiles can heal,
So long dreams this, and this gives warmth to thee.