Sonnet 9

Is it for fear to wet a widow’s eye

That thou consumest thyself in single life?

Ah, if thou issueless shalt hap to die,

The world will wail thee, like a makeless wife;

The world will be thy widow and still weep

That thou no form of thee hast left behind,

When every private widow well may keep

By children’s eyes her husband’s shape in mind.

Look, what an unthrift in the world doth spend

Shifts but his place, for still the world enjoys it;

But beauty’s waste hath in the world an end,

And kept unused the user so destroys it.

No love toward others in that bosom sits

That on himself such murderous shame commits.

Are you afraid others would weep when you’re gone?

Is that why you abide in selfishness?

But if you don’t give anything to anyone,

The grief will be greater, not less.

The world will be your widow, sorry and ashamed

That you could do nothing more with your life;

Whereas every loved one lost is dreamed

Of for ages, sowing peace in a world of strife.

Look—what a showoff spends on material things

At least survives in money to soil another’s hands.

But love doesn’t cling the way money clings,

And beauty, uncherished, exhausts itself in errands.

In your heart love really has no place

If on yourself you bring such disgrace.