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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 tattered 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 deserved thy beauty’s use,
If thou couldst answer “This fair child of min
Shall sum my count and make my old excuse,”
Proving his beauty by succession thine.
This were to be new made when thou art ol
And see thy blood warm when thou feel’st it cold.