The Sonnets

Then let not winterʼs ragged hand deface,

In thee thy summer, ere thou be distillʼd:

Make sweet some vial; treasure thou some place

With beautyʼs treasure ere it be self-killʼd.

That use is not forbidden usury,

Which happies those that pay the willing loan;

Thatʼs for thy self to breed another thee,

Or ten times happier, be it ten for one;

Ten times thy self were happier than thou art,

If ten of thine ten times refigurʼd thee:

Then what could death do if thou shouldst depart,

Leaving thee living in posterity?

Be not self-willʼd, for thou art much too fair

To be deathʼs conquest and make worms thine heir.