Shakespeare’s speaker watches a young friend’s beauty fading and insists there’s only one real answer: have a child. He argues that as fast as you decline, you can grow again in your offspring — the “fresh blood” you bestow in youth becomes yours to claim when you turn from youth yourself. For him, this is wisdom, beauty, and increase; without it, you’re left with folly, age, and a cold, gradual decay. His tone is urgent and tenderly scolding, full of admiration but also impatient. He says that if everyone thought like you, the world would simply stop, emptied in sixty years. Let those with nothing to offer — the “harsh, featureless, and rude” — die out barrenly. But you, whom nature richly gifted, she gave even more: she carved you as a seal, a stamp designed to make impressions. That’s why the final couplet feels like a command. You’re a rare copy, and you owe it to the world to print more. Letting that image die is, to him, a quiet tragedy.
Sonnet 11: As fast as thou shalt wane, so fast thou grow'st — Summary
As fast as thou shalt wane, so fast thou grow'st, In one of thine, from that which thou departest; And that fresh blood which youngly thou bestow'st, Thou mayst call thine when thou from youth convertest, Herein lives wisdom, beauty, and increase; Without this folly, age, and cold decay: If all were minded so, the times should cease And threescore year would make the world away. Let those whom nature hath not made for store, Harsh, featureless, and rude, barrenly perish: Look, whom she best endow'd, she gave thee more; Which bounteous gift thou shouldst in bounty cherish: She carv'd thee for her seal, and meant thereby, Thou shouldst print more, not let that copy die.