Sonnet Xiii

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 death's eternal cold?
     O, none but unthrifts! Dear my love, you know
     You had a father: let your son say so.

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