Shakespeare's Sonnets

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Then let not winter's ragged hand deface, In thee thy summer, ere thou be distill'd: Make sweet some vial; treasure thou some placeWith 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 thy self to breed another thee, Or ten times happier, be it ten for one;Ten times thy self were happier than thou art, If ten of thine ten times refigur'd 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 fairTo be death's conquest and make worms thine heir.Music to hear, why hear'st thou music sadly?Sweets with sweets war not, joy delights in joy: Why lov'st thou that which thou receiv'st not gladly, Or else receiv'st with pleasure thine annoy?If the true concord of well-tuned sounds, By unions married, do offend thine ear, They do but sweetly chide thee, who confoundsIn singleness the parts that thou shouldst bear.Mark how one string, sweet husband to another, Strikes each in each by mutual ordering;Resembling sire and child and happy mother, Who, all in one, one pleasing note do sing: Whose speechless song being many, seeming one, Sings this to thee: 'Thou single wilt prove none.'Is it for fear to wet a widow's eye, That thou consum'st thy self in single life?Ah if thou issueless shalt hap to die, The world will wail thee like a makeless wife;The world will be thy widow and still weepThat thou no form of thee hast left behind, When every private widow well may keepBy children's eyes, her husband's shape in mind: Look what an unthrift in the world doth spendShifts but his place, for still the world enjoys it;But beauty's waste hath in the world an end, And kept unused the user so destroys it.No love toward others in that bosom sitsThat on himself such murd.