Sonnet 1

From fairest creatures we desire increase,

That thereby 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,

Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.

Thou that art now the world’s fresh ornament

And only herald to the gaudy spring,

Within thine own bud buriest thy content

And, tender churl, mak’st waste in niggarding.

Pity the world, or else this glutton be,

To eat the world’s due, by the grave and thee.

What is beautiful we want to go on

Like roses never ceasing.

Generations go, have already gone,

But new arrive, just as pleasing.

Yet you, loving only your own bright eyes,

Think not of past or future,

And never let your beauty rise

To a nobler endeavor.

This world of ours’ new ornament,

A sign of the baroque spring,

You’re caught up all in self, content

Without a thought to giving.

Love, learn grace or selfishness

Will bury what was meant to bless.