by: William Shakespeare
      HEN let not winter's ragged hand deface
      In thee thy summer ere thou be distilled:
      Make sweet some vial; treasure thou some place
      With beauty's treasure ere it be self-killed.
      That use is not forbidden usury
      Which happies those that pay the willing loan;
      That's for thyself to breed another thee,
      Or ten times happier be it ten for one.
      Ten times thyself were happier than thou art,
      If ten of thine ten times refigured thee:
      Then what could death do if thou shouldst depart,
      Leaving thee living in posterity?
      Be not self-willed, for thou art much too fair
      To be death's conquest and make worms thine heir.