Look in thy glass and tell the face thou viewest,
Now is the time that face should form another,
Whose fresh repair if now thou not renewest,
Thou dost beguile the world, umbless some mother,
For where is she so fair whose unearíd womb
Disdains the tillage of thy husbandry?
Or who is he so fond will be the tomb,
Of his self-love to stop posterity?
Thou art thy motherís glass and she in thee
Calls back the lovely April of her prime
So thou through windows of tine age shalt see
Despite of wrinkles this thy golden time.
Bat if thou live rememberíd no to be,
Die single and thine Image dies with thee.