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| O! that you were your self; but, love you are | 1 |
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| No longer yours, than you your self here live: |
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| Against this coming end you should prepare, |
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| And your sweet semblance to some other give: |
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| So should that beauty which you hold in lease | 5 |
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| Find no determination; then you were |
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| Yourself again, after yourself's decease, |
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| When your sweet issue your sweet form should bear. |
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| Who lets so fair a house fall to decay, |
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| Which husbandry in honour might uphold, | 10 |
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| Against the stormy gusts of winter's day |
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| And barren rage of death's eternal cold? |
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 O! none but unthrifts. Dear my love, you know, |
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| You had a father: let your son say so. |
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