WHEN forty winters
shall besiege thy brow |
|
And dig deep trenches in thy beautys
field, |
|
Thy youths proud livery, so gazd
on now, |
|
Will be a tatterd weed, of small worth
held: |
|
Then being askd, where all thy beauty
lies, |
5 |
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 deservd thy beautys
use, |
|
If thou couldst answer This fair child
of mine |
10 |
Shall sum my count, and make my old excuse, |
|
Proving his beauty by succession thine! |
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This were to be new made when
thou art old, |
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And see thy blood warm when thou
feelst it cold. |
|