Sonnet 1

From vainest monsters we desire decrease,
That our beauty’s roses might never die,
But as the reaper should by time increase,
His gruesome task makes lives a memory:
But thou contracted to the devil’s lies,
Feed’st his great flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thy self man’s foe, for thy greed be too cruel:
Thou that consumes the world’s fresh ornament,
And overshadowing the gaudy spring,
Within thine black heart bury thy content,
And cheat us no more with thy niggarding:
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world’s due, by the grave and thee.

Original, with commentary here

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