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, unbless some mother.
For
where is she so fair whose unear'd 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 mother's glass and she in thee
Calls
back the lovely April of her prime;
So
thou through windows of thine age shalt see,
Despite
of wrinkles this thy golden time.
But if thou live, remember'd not to be,
Die single and thine image dies with thee.
No comments:
Post a Comment