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 tracted 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.

Thou that art now the world's fresh or,

And only herald to the gaudy spring,

Within thine own bud buriest thy tent,

And, tender churl, mak'st waste in niggarding.

Pity the world, or else this glutton be,

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