O that you
were your self, but love you are
No longer
yours, than you your self 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
Your self
again after your self'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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