William Shakespeare, Sonnet xiii
O that you were yourself! but, love, you are
No longer yours than you yourself here live:
Against this coming end you should prepare,
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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,
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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,
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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.