Sonnet 1
b'
From fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty\\u2019s 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\\u2019st thy light\\u2019s 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\\u2019s fresh ornament,
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content,
And, tender churl, mak\\u2019st waste in niggarding:
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world\\u2019s due, by the grave and thee.