2

When forty winters shall besiege thy brow,

And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,

Thy youth's proud livery, so gaz'd on now,

Will be a tatter'd weed of small worth held.

Then being ask'd 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.

William Shakespeare, Tragedies/Poems, IV