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II.
When
forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
And dig deep
trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud
livery, so gazed 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 deserved 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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