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.