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Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
hou that art now the world's fresh ornament
and only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
and, tender churl, mak'st waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.

II.

T. T.

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For where is she so fair whose unear'd womb
Disdains the tillage of thy husbandry?
Or who is he so fond will be the tomb
Of his self-love, to stop posterity?
Thou art thy rother's glass, and she in thee
Calls back the lovely April of her prime;
So thou through windows of thine age shalt see,
Despite of wrinkles, this thy golden time.
But if thou live, remember'd not to be,
Die single, and thine image dies with thee.

IV.

12

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Unthrifty loveliness, why dost thou spend
Upon thyself thy beauty's legacy?
Nature's bequest gives nothing, but doth lend,
And being frank, she lends to those are free:
Then, beauteous niggard, why dost thou abuse
The bounteous largess given thee to give?
Profitless usurer, why dost thou use
So great a sum of sums, yet canst not live?
For having traffic with thyself alone,
Thou of thyself thy sweet self dost deceive:
Then how, when Nature calls thee to be gone,
6 What acceptable audit canst thou leave?

When forty winters shall besiege thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
hy youth's proud livery, so gaz'd on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
'hen being ask'd where all thy beauty lies,
Where all the treasure of thy lusty days,
'o say, within thine own deep-sunken eyes,
Vere an all-eating shame and thriftless praise.
low much more praise deserv'd thy beauty's

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f thou couldst answer, "This fair child of mine hall sum my count, and make my old excuse,' roving his beauty by succession thine! 12 This were to be new made when thou art old, And see thy blood warm when thou feel'st it cold.

III.

ook in thy glass, and tell the face thou viewest ow is the time that face should form another; Vhose fresh repair if now thou not renewest, hou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother,

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Thy unus'd beauty must be tomb'd with thee,
Which used, lives th' executor to be.

V.

Those hours, that with gentle work did frame
The lovely gaze where every eye doth dwell,
Will play the tyrants to the very same
And that unfair which fairly doth excel;
For never-resting time leads summer on
To hideous winter, and confounds him there;
Sap check'd with frost, and lusty leaves quite
gone,

Beauty o'ersnow'd and bareness every where:
Then, were not summer's distillation left,
A liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass,
Beauty's effect with beauty were bereft,
Nor it, nor no remembrance what it was:
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But flowers distill'd, though they with winter meet,

IX.

Is it for fear to wet a widow's eye

Leese but their show; their substance still That thou consum'st thyself in single life? lives sweet.

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Lol in the orient when the gracious light
Lifts up his burning head, each under eye
Doth homage to his new-appearing sight,
Serving with looks his sacred majesty;
And having climb'd the steep-up heavenly hill,
Resembling strong youth in his middle age,
Yet mortal looks adore his beauty still,
Attending on his golden pilgrimage;
But when from highmost pitch, with weary car,
Like feeble age, he reeleth from the day,
The eyes, 'fore duteous, now converted are
From his low tract, and look another way:
So thou, thyself outgoing in thy noon,
Unlook'd on diest, unless thou get a son.

VIII.

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Ah! if thou issueless shalt hap to die,
The world will wail thee, like a makeless wife,
The world will be thy widow, and still weep
That thou no form of thee hast left behind,
When every private widow well may keep
By children's eyes her husband's shape in mind
Look! what an unthrift in the world doth spe
Shifts but his place, for still the world enjoys
But beauty's waste hath in the world an end
And kept unus'd, the user so destroys it.

No love toward others in that bosom sits That on himself such murderous shame co mits.

X.

For shame! deny that thou bear'st love to any
Who for thyself art so unprovident.
Grant, if thou wilt, thou art belov'd of many,
But that thou none lov'st is most evident;
For thou art so possess'd with murderous hat
That 'gainst thyself thou stick'st not to co-
spire,

Seeking that beauteous roof to ruinate
Which to repair should be thy chief desire.
Ol change thy thought, that I may change =
mind:

Shall hate be fairer lodg'd than gentle love?
Be, as thy presence is, gracious and kind,
Or to thyself at least kind-hearted prove:

Make thee another self, for love of me, That beauty still may live in thine or the XI.

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XII.

When I do count the clock that tells the time, nd see the brave day sunk in hideous night; When I behold the violet past prime,

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nd sable curls, all silver'd o'er with white; When lofty trees I see barren of leaves, Which erst from heat did canopy the herd, nd summer's green all girded up in sheaves, Sorne on the bier with white and bristly beard, hen of thy beauty do I question make, hat thou among the wastes of time must go, ince sweets and beauties do themselves forsake nd die as fast as they see others grow; 12 And nothing 'gainst Time's scythe can make defence

Save breed, to brave him when he takes thee hence.

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When I perceive that men as plants increase, 5 Cheered and check'd e'en by the self-same sky, Vaunt in their youthful sap, at height decrease, And wear their brave state out of memory; Then the conceit of this inconstant stay

Sets you most rich in youth before my sight, Where wasteful Time debateth with Decay, II To change your day of youth to sullied night; And, all in war with Time for love of you, As he takes from you, I engraft you new.

XVI.

But wherefore do not you a mightier way
Make war upon this bloody tyrant, Time?
And fortify yourself in your decay

With means more blessed than my barren rime?

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Making a couplement of proud compare, 6 With sun and moon, with earth and sea's rich gems,

Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance, or nature's changing course un-
trimm'd;

But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st,
Nor shall death brag thou wander'st in his
shade,

When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st; 12
So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

XIX.

Devouring Time, blunt thou the lion's paws,
And make the earth devour her own sweet brood;
Pluck the keen teeth from the fierce tiger's jaws,
And burn the long-liv'd phoenix in her blood;
Make glad and sorry seasons as thou fleets,
And do whate'er thou wilt, swift-footed Time, 6
To the wide world and all her fading sweets;
But I forbid thee one most heinous crime:
O! carve not with thy hours my love's fair brow,
Nor draw no lines there with thine antique pen;
Him in thy course untainted do allow
For beauty's pattern to succeeding men.
Yet, do thy worst, old Time: despite thy
wrong,

My love shall in my verse ever live young.

XX.

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With April's first-born flowers, and all things

rare

That heaven's air in this huge rondure hems.
O! let me, true in love, but truly write,
And then believe me, my love is as fair
As any mother's child, though not so bright
As those gold candles fix'd in heaven's air: 12
Let them say more that like of hear-say well
I will not praise that purpose not to sell.

XXII.

My glass shall not persuade me I am old,
So long as youth and thou are of one date;
But when in thee time's furrows I behold,
Then look I death my days should expiate.
For all that beauty that doth cover thee
Is but the seemly raiment of my heart,
Which in thy breast doth live, as thine in me:
How can I then, be elder than thou art?
O! therefore, love, be of thyself so wary
As I, not for myself, but for thee will;
Bearing thy heart, which I will keep so chary
As tender nurse her babe from faring ill.

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Lord of my love, to whom in vassalage
Thy merit hath my duty strongly knit,
To thee I send this written ambassage,
To witness duty, not to show my wit:
Duty so great, which wit so poor as mine
May make seem bare, in wanting words to show
it,

But that I hope some good conceit of thine
In thy soul's thought, all naked, will bestow it;
Till whatsoever star that guides my moving
Points on me graciously with fair aspect,
And puts apparel on my tatter'd loving,
To show me worthy of thy sweet respect:

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Then may I dare to boast how I do love thee; Till then not show my head where thou mayst prove me.

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For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings

That then I scorn to change my state with kings.

XXX.

When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
I summon up remembrance of things past,
I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,
And with old woes new wail my dear times'
waste:

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Then can I drown an eye, unus'd to flow,
For precious friends hid in death's dateless night,
And weep afresh love's long since cancell'd woe,
And moan the expense of many a vanish'd sight:

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