O, that you were
your self! 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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thanks