Of our best wishes we could desire increase,
That thereby rose's aroma might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender might bear sweet his memory:
But you, contracted to your own bright eyes,
Feeding your lightest flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a profit whereas damage lies,
Yourself your foe, to your sweet self too cruel.
You that are now the world's fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within your own bud burying your content
And, tender churl, making waste in the grasping.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave bury.
China rose red, pink or white flowers play,
Green mountains never being go away.
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