The poem
Then let not winter's ragged hand deface In thee thy summer ere thou be distilled. Make sweet some vial; treasure thou some place With beauty's treasure ere it be self-killed. 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 thy self 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-willed, for thou art much too fair To be death's conquest and make worms thine heir.