S o n n e t 13
O, that you were yourself! but, love, you are
No longer yours than you youself 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.