1
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.
