I.

From faireft creatures we defire increase,
That thereby beauty's rofe 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,
Feed'ft thy light's flame with felf-fubftantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,

Thyself thy foe, to thy fweet felf too cruel.

Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament

And only herald to the gaudy fpring,

Within thine own bud buriest thy content

And, tender churl, makeft wafte in niggarding.

Pity the world, or else this glutton be,

To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.