[William Shakespeare]
O, that you were yourself! But, love, you are
No longer yours than you yourself 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 d**h's eternal cold?
O, none but unthrifts! Dear my love, you know
You had a father: let your son say so