Unthrifty loveliness, why doft thou spend
Upon thyself thy beauty's legacy?
Nature's bequeft gives nothing, but doth lend,
And being frank, fhe lends to those are free:
Then, beauteous niggard, why doft thou abuse
The bounteous largess given thee to give?
Profitless ufurer, why doft thou use
So great a fum of fums, yet canft not live?
For having traffic with thyself alone,
Thou of thyself thy sweet self doft deceive:
Then how, when Nature calls thee to be gone,
What acceptable audit canft thou leave?
Thy unused beauty must be tomb'd with thee,
Which, used, lives th' executor to be.
Those hours, that with gentle work did frame
The lovely gaze where every eye doth dwell,
Will play the tyrants to the very fame
And that unfair which fairly doth excel;
For never-refting time leads fummer on
To hideous winter, and confounds him there;
Sap check'd with froft, and lusty leaves quite gone,
Beauty o'erfnow'd and bareness every where:
Then, were not fummer's diftillation left,
A liquid prifoner pent in walls of glass,
Beauty's effect with beauty were bereft,
Nor it, nor no remembrance what it was:
But flowers diftill'd, though they with winter meet,
Leese but their fhow; their fubftance ftill lives
Then let not winter's ragged hand deface
In thee thy fummer, ere thou be distill'd:
Make sweet some vial; treasure thou fome place
With beauty's treasure, ere it be self-kill'd.
That ufe is not forbidden ufury,
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 pofterity?
Be not self-will'd, for thou art much too fair
To be death's conqueft and make worms thine heir.
Lo, in the orient when the gracious light
Lifts up his burning head, each under eye
Doth homage to his new-appearing fight,
Serving with looks his facred majefty;
And having climb'd the steep-up heavenly hill,
Resembling strong youth in his middle age,
Yet mortal looks adore his beauty ftill,
Attending on his golden pilgrimage;
But when from highmoft pitch, with weary car,
Like feeble age, he reeleth from the day,
The eyes, 'fore duteous, now converted are
From his low tract, and look another way:
So thou, thyfelf outgoing in thy noon,
Unlook'd on diest, unless thou get a son.
Mufic to hear, why hear'st thou music sadly?
Sweets with fweets war not, joy delights in joy:
Why loveft thou that which thou receiveft not gladly,
Or else receiveft with pleasure thine annoy?
If the true concord of well-tuned sounds,
By unions married, do offend thine ear,
They do but fweetly chide thee, who confounds
In fingleness the parts that thou shouldft bear.
Mark how one ftring, sweet husband to another,
Strikes each in each by mutual ordering ;
Refembling fire and child and happy mother,
Who, all in one, one pleasing note do fing:
Whose speechless song, being many, seeming one, Sings this to thee: "Thou single wilt
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