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I.FROM
fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby
beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper
should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear
his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright
eyes,
Feed'st thy light'st flame with
self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where
abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self
too cruel.
Thou that art now the world's fresh
ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender
churl, makest waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or
else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the
grave and thee.
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