The Sonnets

From fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beautys 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, Feedst thy lights 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 worlds fresh ornament, And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content, And tender churl makst waste in niggarding: Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the worlds due, by the grave and thee