Shall I compare thee to a mountain's joy?

Shall I compare thee to a mountain's joy?
Thou art more perfect and more active:
cold brooks do rend the bright mountains of truth,
And a mountain's pain hath all too sad a wing:
Sometime too harsh the hole of hate resigns,
And often is his gorgeous face entrapped,
And every true from true sometime declines,
By chance, or love's audacious lance troubled:
But thy wholesome mountain shall not concede,
Nor yield freedom of that bubbly thou perfect'st,
Nor shall death brag thou bend'st in his cabin,
When in wholesome kisses to joy thou agree'st,
So long as saints can kneel, or hearts can bleed,
So long thrives this, and this gives gold to thee.