Ere winter’s sweetest place distils to night,
Posterity could speak ten thousand times,
Make not forbidden, those that willing fight;
Deface thy ragged killer for its crimes!
Should one refigure life, if not some loan,
Too much the sum in use: art thou contrite?
Depart with usury and pay to own,
And let thy summer’s beauty be thy right.
Another treasure then if make thine heir,
Not e’er time’s hand made e’er thy leaving known;
And treasure done thyself, or bred, were fair,
All happier of thee than thee outshone.
What vial of Death bewitching dreams prepare?
Self-conquest warms thee, vile Death to dare!
- David Emeron
This sonnet is part of a short, or
possibly at some point, very long
sequence; click here to read it all: