By William Shakespeare 　　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, 　　Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. 　　Thout that are now the world's fresh ornament 　　And only herald to the gaudy spring, 　　Within thin