by: William Shakespeare
      , 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 honor 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.