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𝘍𝘳𝘰𝘮 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, 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘦 𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘣𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘦𝘺𝘦𝘴, 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘥'𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘺 𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵'𝘴𝘵 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 ornament and only herald to the gaudy spring, within thine own bud buriest thy content and, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be, to eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. Is it for fear to wet a widow's eye that thou consumest thyself in single life? Ah! If thou issueless shalt hap to die. The world will wail thee, like a makeless wife; The be world will be thy widow and still weep that thou no form of thee hast left behind, when every private widow well may keep by children's eyes her husband's shape in mind. Look, what an unthrift in the world doth spend shifts but his place, for still the world enjoys it; But beauty's waste hath in the world an end, and kept unused, the user so destroys it. No love toward others in that bosom sits that on himself such murderous shame commits.
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𝘍𝘳𝘰𝘮 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, 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘦 𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘣𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘦𝘺𝘦𝘴, 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘥'𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘺 𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵'𝘴𝘵 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 ornament and only herald to the gaudy spring, within thine own bud buriest thy content and, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be, to eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. Is it for fear to wet a widow's eye that thou consumest thyself in single life? Ah! If thou issueless shalt hap to die. The world will wail thee, like a makeless wife; The be world will be thy widow and still weep that thou no form of thee hast left behind, when every private widow well may keep by children's eyes her husband's shape in mind. Look, what an unthrift in the world doth spend shifts but his place, for still the world enjoys it; But beauty's waste hath in the world an end, and kept unused, the user so destroys it. No love toward others in that bosom sits that on himself such murderous shame commits.
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