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XIII.
O,
that you were yourself! but, love, you are
No longer
yours than you yourself here live:
Against this
coming end you should prepare,
And your sweet
semblance to some other give.
So should that beauty
which you hold in lease
Find no determination: then
you were
Yourself again after yourself's decease,
When your sweet issue your sweet form should bear.
Who lets so fair a house fall to decay,
Which
husbandry in honour might uphold
Against the stormy
gusts of winter's day
And barren rage of death's
eternal cold?
O, none but unthrifts! Dear my love,
you know
You had a father: let your son say so.
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