Sonnet 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.

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