Sonnet IV
Unthrifty loveliness, why dost thou spend
Upon thyself thy beauty’s legacy?
Nature’s bequest gives nothing, but
doth lend,
And being frank, she lends to those
are free.
Then, beauteous niggard, why dost
thou abuse
The bounteous largess given thee to
give?
Profitless usurer, 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 tomb’d with thee,
Which,
used, lives th’ executor to be.
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