Then let not winter's ragged hand deface
     In thee thy summer, ere thou be distill'd:
     Make sweet some vial; treasure thou some place
     With beauty's treasure, ere it be self-kill'd.
     That use is not forbidden usury,
     Which happies those that pay the willing loan;
     That's for thyself to breed another thee,
     Or ten times happier, be it ten for one;
     Ten times thyself were happier than thou art,
     If ten of thine ten times refigured thee:
     Then what could death do, if thou shouldst depart,
     Leaving thee living in posterity?
     Be not self-will'd, for thou art much too fair
     To be death's conquest and make worms thine heir.