When forty winters shall besiege thy brow
And dig deep trenches in thy beautys field,
Thy youths proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tattered weed, of small worth held.
Then being asked 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 beautys 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 feelst it cold.