I

    From fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby¹ 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's flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thy self thy foe², to thy sweet self too cruel： Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament³, And only herald⁴ to the gaudy⁵ spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content, And tender churl⁶ mak'st waste in niggarding： Pity the world, or else this glutton⁷ be, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.