When fortie Winters shall beseige thy brow,
And digge deep trenches in thy beauties field,
Thy youthes proud liuery, so gaz’d on now,
Wil be a totter’d weed of smal worth held:
Then being askt, where all thy beautie lies,
Where all the treasure of thy lusty daies,
To say within thine owne deepe sunken eyes,
Were an all-eating shame, and thriftlesse praise.
How much more praise deseru’d thy beauties vse,
If thou couldst answere, this faire child of mine
Shall sum my count, and make my old excuse,
Proouing his beautie by succession thine.
This were to be new made when thou art ould,
And see thy blood warme when thou feel’st it could.
When forty winters shall besiege thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty’s field,
Thy youth’s proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tottered 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 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.
When forty winters shall beseige thy brow
And trench deepe furrowes in that louely feild
Thy youthes faire liuery so accounted now
Shall bee like rotten weeds of no worth held
Then beeing askt where all thy bewty lyes
Where all the lustre of thy youthfull dayes
To say within these hollow suncken eyes
Were an all-eaten truth, & worthlesse prayse
O how much better were thy bewtyes vse
If thou couldst say this pretty child of mine
Saues my account & makes my old excuse
Making his bewty by succession thine
This were to bee new borne when thou art old
And see thy bloud warme when thou feelst it cold