Sonnet 6
Then let not winter's ragged hand defaceIn thee thy summer, ere thou be distill'd:Make sweet some vial; treasure thou some placeWith beauty's treasure, ere it be self-kill'd.That use is not forbidden usury,Which happies those that pay the willing loan;That's for thyself to breed another thee,Or ten times happier, be it ten for one;Ten times thyself were happier than thou art,If ten of thine ten times refigured thee:Then what could death do, if thou shouldst depart,Leaving thee living in posterity? Be not self-will'd, for thou art much too fair To be death's conquest and make worms thine heir.
Said it once, and I'll say it again;have a babe. Even better, have ten.Just work with me here—stop shaking your spear;maybe go on a date now and then.