quarta-feira, 3 de setembro de 2014


Por William Shakespeare (1564-1616)

From fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:

But thou contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light's flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thy self thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel:

Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament,
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content,

And, tender churl, mak'st waste in niggarding:
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,

To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.

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