SONNET #1
  by: William Shakespeare
  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,
  Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
  Thout that are 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.
SONNET #2
  by: William Shakespeare
  WHEN forty winters shall besiege thy brow
  And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
  Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
  Will be a tottered weed of small worth held:
  Then being asked where all thy beauty lies,
  Where all the treasure of thy lusty days,
  To say within thine own deep-sunken eyes
  Were an all-eating shame and thriftless praise.
  How much more prasie deserved thy beauty's use
  If thou couldst answer, 'This fair child of mine
  Shall sum my count and make my old excuse,'
  Proving his beauty by succession thine.
  This were to be new made when thou art old
  And see thy blood warm when thou feel'st cold.
SONNET #3
  by: William Shakespeare
  LOOK in thy glass, and tell the face thou viewest
  Now is the time that face should form another,
  Whose fresh repair if now thou renewest,
  Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother.
  For where is she so fair whose uneared womb
  Disdains the tillage of thy husbandry?
  Or who is he so fond will be the tomb
  Of his self-love, to stop posterity?
  Thou art thy mother's glass, and she in thee
  Calls back the lovely April of her prime;
  So thou through windows of thine age shalt see,
  Despite of wrinkles, this thy golden time.
  But if thou live rememb'red not to be,
  Die single, and thine image dies with thee.
SONNET #4
  by: William Shakespeare
  UNTHRIFTY loveliness, why dost thou spend
  Upon thyself they beauty's legacy?
  Nature's bequest gives nothing but doth lend,
  And, being frank, she lends to those are free.
  Then, beateous niggard, why dost thou abuse
  The bounteous largess given thee to give?
  Profitless userer, why dost thou use
  So great a sum of sums, yet canst not live?
  For, having traffic with thyself alone,
  Thou of thyself thy sweet self dost deceive:
  Then how, when Nature calls thee to be gone,
  What acceptable audit canst thou leave?
  Thy unused beauty must be tombed with thee,
  Which, usèd, lives th' executor to be.
SONNET #5
  by: William Shakespeare
  THOSE hours that with gentle work did frame
  The lovely gaze where every eye doth dwell
  Will play the tyrants to the very same
  And that unfair which fairly doth excel;
  For never-resting time leads summer on
  To hideous winter and confounds him there,
  Sap checked with frost and lusty leaves quite gone,
  Beauty o'ersnowed and bareness everywhere.
thrift  Then, were not summer's distillation left
  A liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass,
  Beauty's effect with beauty were bereft,
  Nor it nor no remembrance what it was:
  But flowers distilled, though they with winter meet,
  Leese but there snow; their substance still lives sweet.
SONNET #6
  by: William Shakespeare
  THEN let not winter's ragged hand deface
  In thee thy summer ere thou be distilled:
  Make sweet some vial; treasure thou some place
  With beauty's treasure ere it be self-killed.
  That use is not forbidden usury
  Which happies those that pay the willing loan;
  That's for thyself to breed another thee,
  Or ten times happier be it ten for one.
  Ten times thyself were happier than thou art,
  If ten of thine ten times refigured thee:
  Then what could death do if thou shouldst depart,
  Leaving thee living in posterity?
  Be not self-willed, for thou art much too fair
  To be death's conquest and make worms thine heir.
SONNET #7
  by: William Shakespeare
  LO, in the orient when the gracious light
  Lifts up his burning head, each under eye
  Doth homage to his new-appearing sight,

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