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| When forty winters shall besiege thy brow, | 1 |
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| And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, |
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| Thy youth's proud livery so gazed on now, |
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| Will be a tatter'd weed of small worth held: |
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| Then being asked, where all thy beauty lies, | 5 |
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| Where all the treasure of thy lusty days; |
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| To say, within thine own deep sunken eyes, |
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| Were an all-eating shame, and thriftless praise. |
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| How much more praise deserv'd thy beauty's use, |
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| If thou couldst answer 'This fair child of mine | 10 |
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| Shall sum my count, and make my old excuse,' |
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| Proving his beauty by succession thine! |
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 This were to be new made when thou art old, |
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| And see thy blood warm when thou feel'st it cold. |
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