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| 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 yourself'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. |
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