Sonnet 13

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 your self ’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.

You had a father: let your son say so.

Oh, if you were only yourself, but love,

You won’t always be yours.

Before it all ends, go on and strive

To make your soul his or hers.

So then would the beauty, which you only lease,

Not remain stranded in yourself alone.

You’d still be yourself, beyond your decease,

A spirit in others after you’re gone.

Who lets a house of such wonder decay,

Which cared for in honor would easily stand,

Withstanding the gusts of the most windy day,

Fruitful in death, resting on heartland?

You have had a lover—this you well know—

So let some beloved of yours also say so.