O that you were your self, but love you areNo longer yours, than you your self here live,Against this coming end you should prepare,And your sweet semblance to some other give.

So should that beauty which you hold in leaseFind no determination, then you wereYour self again after your self's decease,When your sweet issue your sweet form should bear.

Who lets so fair a house fall to decay,Which husbandry in honour might uphold,Against the stormy gusts of winter's dayAnd barren rage of death's eternal cold?

O none but unthrifts, dear my love you know,You had a father, let your son say so.