The Sonnets

When forty winters shall besiege thy brow,

And dig deep trenches in thy beautyʼs field,

Thy youthʼs proud livery so gazed on now,

Will be a tatterʼd 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 deservʼd thy beautyʼs 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 feelʼst it cold.