Is it for fear to wet a widow's eye
That thou consum'st thyself in single life?
Ah! If thou issuless shalt hap to die,
The world will wail thee, like a makeless wife;
The world will be thy window, and still weep
That thou no form of thee hast left behind,
When every private widow well may keep
By children's eyes her husband's shape in mind.
Look! what an untrift in 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 murd'rous shame commits.