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William Shakespeare, 1564-1616 [1640], Poems: vvritten by Wil. Shake-speare. Gent (Printed... by Tho. Cotes, and are to be sold by Iohn Benson [etc.], London) [word count] [S11600].

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Loves crueltie. [Sonnet I / Sonnet II / Sonnet III]
From fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauties Rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heire might beare his memory:
But thou contracted to thine owne bright eyes,
Feedst thy lights flame with selfe substantiall fewell,
Making a famine where aboundance lies,
Thy selfe thy foe, to thy sweet selfe too cruell:
Thou that art now the worlds fresh ornament,
And only herauld to the gaudy spring,
Within thine owne bud buriest thy content,
And tender chorle makst wast in niggarding:
  Pitty the world, or else this glutton be,
  To eate the worlds due, by the grave and thee.
When fortie Winters shall beseige thy brow,
And digge deep trenches in thy beauties field,
Thy youthes proud livery so gaz'd on now,
Will be a totter'd weed of small worth held:
Then being askt, where all thy beautie lies,
Where all the treasure of thy lusty dayes;
To say within thine owne deepe sunken eyes,
Were an all-eating shame, and thriftlesse praise.
How much more praise deserv'd thy beauties use,
If thou couldst answere this faire child of mine
Shall sum my count, and make my old excuse.
Prooving his beautie by succession thine.
  This were to be new made when thou art old,
  And see thy blood warme when thou feel'st it cold.

-- --

Looke in thy glasse and tell the face thou vewest,
Now is the time that face should forme an other,
Whose fresh repaine if now thou not renewest,
Thou doo'st beguile the world, unblesse some mother.
For where is she so faire whose un-eard wombe
Disdaines the tillage of thy husbandry?
Or who is he so fond will be the tombe,
Of his selfe love to stop posteritie?
Thou art thy mothers glasse and she in thee
Calls backe the lovely Aprill of her prime,
So thou through windowes of thine age shalt see,
Dispight of wrinkles this thy goulded time.
But if thou live remember not to be,
Die single and thine Image dies with thee.
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William Shakespeare, 1564-1616 [1640], Poems: vvritten by Wil. Shake-speare. Gent (Printed... by Tho. Cotes, and are to be sold by Iohn Benson [etc.], London) [word count] [S11600].