VI

    Then let not winter's ragged¹ hand deface, In thee thy summer, ere thou be distill'd： Make sweet some vial； treasure thou some place With beauty's treasure ere it be self-kill'd. That use is not forbidden usury², Which happies those that pay the willing loan； That's for thy self to breed another thee, Or ten times happier, be it ten for one； Ten times thy self were happier than thou art, If ten of thine ten times refigur'd thee： Then what could death do if thou shouldst depart, Leaving thee living in posterity³？ Be not self-will'd, for thou art much too fair To be death's conquest and make worms thine heir.