by: William Shakespeare
      NTHRIFTY loveliness, why dost thou spend
      Upon thyself they beauty's legacy?
      Nature's bequest gives nothing but doth lend,
      And, being frank, she lends to those are free.
      Then, beateous niggard, why dost thou abuse
      The bounteous largess given thee to give?
      Profitless userer, why dost thou use
      So great a sum of sums, yet canst not live?
      For, having traffic with thyself alone,
      Thou of thyself thy sweet self dost deceive:
      Then how, when Nature calls thee to be gone,
      What acceptable audit canst thou leave?
      Thy unused beauty must be tombed with thee,
      Which, us├Ęd, lives th' executor to be.