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