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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.