Page 1959 - Shakespeare - Vol. 4
P. 1959
13 IT
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 honour 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
Yon had a father: let your son say so.
