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Sonnet 13

O 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.

 

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Last Updated: Tue, June 27, 2006
©2006 John Struloeff -- All Rights Reserved.