No Shave November: I'm out, but Shakespeare's in

I was planning on participating in "No Shave November," which to be fair, was in my case "No Trim November," since I don't exactly shave. Well, it's only the 12th of the month, and I've already disqualified myself. I broke down and trimmed half an inch off my mustache. The redeeming news, however, is that my mustache is still over an inch long. As you might guess, it was getting awfully difficult to eat neatly.

But for all those who are still in the beard race, I offer this sonnet from Shakespeare.

That time of year thou mayst on me behold
When yellow hairs, or red, or brown, do hang;
Upon these cheeks which shake not in the cold,
Beard covered flesh, where late the chill wind sang.
On me thou see'st the mustache of such size
That clearly points like compass east and west;
Which by and by may very well surprise
When it in glory lies untrimmed, unpressed.
On me thou see'st the growing of beard fire,
Bright reddish hairs, when in the sun they lie:
A deathbed whereon en'vious hearts expire,
Wishing they had beards in which to sigh.
     This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy beard more strong,
     To grow that well which thou must wear quite long.

Admittedly, it's not his best sonnet, but that's perhaps only because, for once, even his genius was no match for such an elevated topic.