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From fairest creatures
we desire increase,

That thereby beauty's 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,

Feed'st thy light's 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 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.

