Sonnet XIII -- Sonnet 13

O that you were your self! but, love, you are
No longer yours than you yourself 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 lease
Find no determination: then you were
Your self again after yourself'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 day
And 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.
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Larry Gleason, reader
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