Оригинал сонета Шекспира №13

    O that you were your self! but, love, you are
    No longer yours than you yourself here live;
    Against this coming end you should prepare,
    And your sweet semblance to some other give:
    So should that beauty which you hold in lease
    Find no determination; then you were
    Your self again after yourself’s decease,
    When your sweet issue your sweet form should bear.
    Who lets so fair a house fall to decay,
    Which husbandry in honour might uphold
    Against the stormy gusts of winter’s day
    And barren rage of death’s eternal cold?
    O, none but unthrifts: dear my love, you know
    You had a father, let your son say so.