From faiest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decrease,
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 crul,
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament,
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest by content,
And, tender churl, mak'st waste in niggarding,
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To est the world, by the grave and thee.