Sunday, February 15, 2009

sonnet 1


by: William Shakespeare

      ROM 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,
      Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
      Thout that are 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.

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