From fairest creatures we desire ,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
4His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light's flame with ,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
8Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
And only herald to the spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy
12And, tender churl, .
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the , by the grave and thee.