Act I, Scene 13

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• Shakespeare. O, that you were yourself! but, love, you are
  No longer yours than you yourself here live: 170
  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
  Yourself again after yourself's decease, 175
  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? 180
  O, none but unthrifts! Dear my love, you know
  You had a father: let your son say so.