When
forty winters shall besiege thy brow,
And
dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy
youth's proud livery so gazed on now,
Will
be a tatter'd weed of small worth held:
Then
being asked, where all thy beauty lies,
Where
all the treasure of thy lusty days;
To
say, within 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 couldst 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 art
old,
And see thy blood warm when thou feel'st
it cold.
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