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XXII.
My
glass shall not persuade me I am old,
So long as
youth and thou are of one date;
But when in thee
time's furrows I behold,
Then look I death my days
should expiate.
For all that beauty that doth cover
thee
Is but the seemly raiment of my heart,
Which
in thy breast doth live, as thine in me:
How can I
then be elder than thou art?
O, therefore, love, be
of thyself so wary
As I, not for myself, but for thee
will;
Bearing thy heart, which I will keep so chary
As tender nurse her babe from faring ill.
Presume not
on thy heart when mine is slain;
Thou gavest me thine,
not to give back again.
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