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
Within thine own bud buriest thy content and, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding
Making a famine where abundance lies, thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament and only herald to the gaudy spring
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