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SON. 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:
Thou that art now the world’s fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own blood buriest thy content
And, tender churl, mak’st waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or eise this glutton be,
To eat the world’s due, by the grave an thee.
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed’st thy lighfs flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet seif too cruel.
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