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III.
Look
in thy glass, and tell the face thou viewest
Now is
the time that face should form another;
Whose fresh
repair if now thou not renewest,
Thou dost beguile
the world, unbless some mother.
For where is she so
fair whose unear'd womb
Disdains the tillage of thy
husbandry?
Or who is he so fond will be the tomb
Of his self-love, to stop posterity?
Thou art thy
mother's glass, and she in thee
Calls back the lovely
April of her prime:
So thou through windows of thine
age shall see
Despite of wrinkles this thy golden
time.
But if thou live, remember'd not to be,
Die
single, and thine image dies with thee.
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