Sonnet 1
From
fairest
creatures
we
desire
increase,
That
thereby
beauty’s
rose
might
never
die,
But
as
the
riper
should
by
time
decease,
His
tender
heir
might
bear
his
memory:
But
thou,
contracted
to
thine
own
bright
eyes,
Feed’st
thy
light’st
flame
with
self-substantial
fuel,
Making
a
famine
where
abundance
lies,
Thyself
thy
foe,
to
thy
sweet
self
too
cruel.
Thou
that
art
now
the
world’s
fresh
ornament
And
only
herald
to
the
gaudy
spring,
Within
thine
own
bud
buriest
thy
content
And,
tender
churl,
makest
waste
in
niggarding.
Pity
the
world,
or
else
this
glutton
be,
To
eat
the
world’s
due,
by
the
grave
and
thee.
