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THEN let not winter’s ragged hand deface, In thee thy summer, ere thou be distill’d: Make sweet some vial; treasure thou some place With beauty’s treasure ere it be self-kill’d. That use is not forbidden usury, Which happies those that pay the willing loan; That’s 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 refigur’d thee: Then what could death do if thou shouldst depart, Leaving thee living in posterity? Be not self-will’d, for thou art much too fair To be death’s conquest and make worms thine heir. |