O! that you were your self; but, love you are
Sonnet 13O! 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 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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I wish you'd last for ever, but you only possess those qualities in you for the duration of your lifetime. It'll end eventually, and you ought to prepare for it by handing on your likeness to someone else. In this way your beauty won't lose the lease on the tenancy it owns, and you could still be yourself, after your death: your child will be your likeness and carry on after you.
Who would let a wonderful house (such as your beauty) fall into disrepair, when a little care and housework would keep it shipshape? With this well-maintained house, you can defend yourself against the cold oblivion of Death – so who would neglect to do this?
Only someone insanely wasteful. Your father begat you: you should beget your son.
Who would let a wonderful house (such as your beauty) fall into disrepair, when a little care and housework would keep it shipshape? With this well-maintained house, you can defend yourself against the cold oblivion of Death – so who would neglect to do this?
Only someone insanely wasteful. Your father begat you: you should beget your son.