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:

    But thou contracted to thine own bright eyes,

    Feed'st thy light's flame with self-substantial fuel,

    Making a famine where abundance lies,

    Thy self thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel:

    Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament,

    And only herald to the gaudy spring,

    Within thine own bud buriest thy content,

    And tender churl mak'st waste in niggarding:

    Pity the world, or else this glutton be,

    To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.

    --William Shakespeare--
    Love Sonnet 1
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