When forty winters shall besiege thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty fields,
Thy youth’sproud livery so gaz’d on now,
Will be a tatter’d weed of small worth held:
Then being ask’d, were all the beauty lies,
Were all the treasure of thy lusty days;
To say whitin thine own deep sunken eyes,
Were an all-eating shame, and thriftless praise.
How much more praise deserv’d thy beauty’s use,
If thou could’s answer this fair child of mine
Shall sum my count, and make my old excuse
Proving his beauty by succession thine.
This were to be new made when thou are old,
And see thy blood warm when thou feel’st it cold.