Is it for fear to wet a widow's eye,
        That thou consumest thy self in single life?
        Ah, if thou issue less shalt hap to die,
        The world  will wail thee like a mateless wife,
        The world  will be thy widow and still weep,
        That thou no form of thee hast left behind,
        When every private widow  well may keep,
        By childrens eyes- her husbands shape in mind:
        Look what an unthrift in the world  doth spend
        Shifts but his place, for still the world  enjoys it
        But beauty's waste hath in the world  an end,
        And kept unused-the user so destroys it:
        No love toward others in that bosom sits,
        That on himself such murderous shame commits.



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