quarta-feira, 3 de setembro de 2014

SONNET 4

Por William Shakespeare (1564-1616)

Unthrifty loveliness, why dost thou spend
Upon thy self 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 thy self alone,
Thou of thy self 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 tombed with thee,

Which, used, lives th' executor to be.

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