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VI.
Then
let not winter's ragged hand deface
In thee thy
summer, ere thou be distill'd:
Make sweet some vial;
treasure thou some place
With beauty's treasure, ere
it be self-kill'd.
That use is not forbidden usury,
Which happies those that pay the willing loan;
That's
for thyself to breed another thee,
Or ten times
happier, be it ten for one;
Ten times thyself were
happier than thou art,
If ten of thine ten times
refigured thee:
Then what could death do, if thou
shouldst depart,
Leaving thee living in posterity?
Be not self-will'd, for thou art much too fair
To be
death's conquest and make worms thine heir.
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