雙語·莎士比亞十四行詩(shī)集 13

XIII

O, that you were your self! But, love, you are

No longer yours than you yourself here live;

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

When your sweet issue your sweet form should bear.

Who lets so fair a house fall to decay,

Which husbandry in honor might uphold

Against the stormy gusts of winter's day

And barren rage of death's eternal cold?

O, none but unthrifts, dear my love, you know.

You had a father; let your son say so.