The Sonnets

From fairest creatures we desire increase,

That thereby beautyʼs rose might never die,

But as the riper should by time decease,

His tender heir might bear his memory:

But thou contracted to thine own bright eyes,

Feedʼst thy lightʼs flame with self-substantial fuel,

Making a famine where abundance lies,

Thy self thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel:

Thou that art now the worldʼs fresh ornament,

And only herald to the gaudy spring,

Within thine own bud buriest thy content,

And tender churl makʼst waste in niggarding:

Pity the world, or else this glutton be,

To eat the worldʼs due, by the grave and thee.